We were resilient, as most children tend to be, and while we awaited their return, my Uncle Santiago took Mieyo and me everywhere with him—to milk his cows, ride his horses, feed the pigs, gather wood in the mountains, and hunt deer. I started to enjoy living with my grandparents again in Estancia. With my friend Mocoso, who came over when his mother Juanoveva visited Grandma, I spent the whole day roaming the village. We crossed fields, played in trees, tracked coyotes, built mud forts in ditch banks, and watched giant frogs crush our dirt village; we spent days in the barn teasing spiders out of webs, trapping mice, climbing up in the loft and making towns out of gunnysacks and tool crates; spying out of wood cracks at people who visited Grandma. When Mocoso wasn’t around, I went over to the high school and hung out with Grandpa, who was a janitor. I followed him everywhere through the halls, pushing the dust mop; later we went to irrigate a farmer’s bean fields; and I walked home with him in the dusk.
Then, suddenly, Grandpa died. Except for my immediate family, I had loved him the most. When my parents left, it was Grandpa who kept life stable as possible for us. He was always reassuring me that things would turn out fine. Grandpa ordered my father and Uncle Carlos to stop arguing, and they did. Grandpa had often come over to La Casita and brought us candy, food, or other surprises. He was a gentle man, and my mother trusted him.
Before I could come to terms with Grandpa’s unexpected death, Mieyo and I were taken to St. Anthony’s Boys’ Home in Albuquerque. Martina stayed in Estancia to help Grandma. It was June 1959.
At seven years old, I could never accept that my parents had abandoned us. What a shock! Thinking we were going to join them, Mieyo and I were driven instead to an orphanage and dropped off. Nuns escorted us up a flight of stairs into a dark, creaky third-floor dorm with kids in cots lined up on each side of the long room. I was scared and confused, weeping and clinging to Mieyo, begging to be taken back to my grandparents’ in Estancia because my parents were coming to get us. No matter how hard the nuns tried to explain, not a day passed that I didn’t expect my parents to come.
We were not coddled or given any special treatment at the orphanage, nor did anyone tell us anything about our parents. In the snap of a finger I found myself in a different world, among hundreds of strangers, with each minute planned out for me. The first few months, we slept on the condemned third floor. It rained almost every night, and the roof was leaking everywhere, soaking the bedsheets hanging between the bunks. Thunder roared and lightning revealed me weeping on my bunk at night. Mieyo would come and cradle me, and I clung to him as if we were one person.
At 4:30 A.M. we marched in columns to the chapel for mass on the second floor. After mass we went downstairs to the groundfloor dining room for breakfast. After eating, the older kids scattered out to do their chores and then go to school, and at noon we had lunch. The younger kids went to the playroom most of the morning, then napped or played on the playground. After supper the older kids did evening chores and us young kids got to watch TV for an hour; then we washed up and got ready for bed at 6:30 P.M. Six months after our arrival, new dorms had been completed and we moved into them. Groups were divided into age groups. I was in the 200s, the five-, six-, and seven-year-olds; Mieyo was in the 300s, the group of eight-, nine-, and ten-year-olds. I saw him in the dining room and at mass, but after that he went with older kids to do different chores and sit in different classrooms.
I’d always looked up to Mieyo, since he knew how to read people. At the orphanage he soon had the keys to the soda storeroom and the pantry, stocked with fresh-baked sweet rolls; he had a milk can full of marbles; he had the best clothes; and he worked as a barn boy, which gave him a lot more freedom to come and go as he wished. He knew the answers to things. He had comforted me when Mom and Dad fought.
When I asked the nuns if my parents were coming back, I was told the matter was in God’s hands and children shouldn’t ask such questions. God knew what he was doing. I should consider myself blessed, because God had something special in store for me. I felt lost and confused around grown-ups. They never told the truth. They were always hiding something that would eventually hurt me. I stayed in the field, away from them, playing with other boys—in the wind or on the teeter-totter with Big Noodle, dizzying myself on the merry-go-round with Peanut Head, shooting marbles or spinning tops with Coo-Coo Clock. Those blissful afternoons made me forget my circumstances. I was the happiest when I was by myself playing in the dirt under an elm tree. I’d notice big rigs and cars on I-40 in the distance, running parallel to the back boundary fence, and wonder if any of them might be carrying my parents. I felt a painful longing for Estancia. In the back of my mind, I always hoped that my parents would come for Mieyo and me.
TWO
My parents never did come, and at thirteen years old I found myself behind bars for the first time, in a detention center for boys. The bars weren’t there to keep us in so much as to remind us that we weren’t really wanted anywhere else. I must have run away from the orphanage a dozen times, and each time an aunt or an uncle would take me back. The last time, however, instead of calling Saint Anthony’s, as they had in the past, they notified the police, who took me to the detention center. When we arrived, my Aunt Charlotte, my mother’s sister, was there. The receptionist slid the official papers to her and asked her to sign them, “Here and here,” relinquishing custody. I knew she didn’t know what the words relinquishing custody meant, but I felt her relief at getting rid of me when she hurriedly put pen to paper and signed. Perhaps she was ashamed to do what in her heart she knew wasn’t right, because she walked away without even a good-bye.
I sat on the bench until a tall lean man came out and greeted me.
“Hello, I’m Nestor.” He was tall and thin, soft-spoken, in a brown sports jacket and brown slacks, with black hair meticulously combed and parted on one side. “Let’s get some information on you, son. Remember, you’re not here because you did something wrong. It’s only because you don’t have a home.”
“How long do I have to stay?”
“Until we contact your father and arrange for you to live with him.”
I celled with six other Chicanos. The fluorescent lighting made the apprehension in their faces obvious, but they concealed their curiosity about who I was, where I came from, and what I was here for with a hard-faced indifference. I wasn’t prepared for their stony silence. Estancia kids like Mocoso had a kindheartedness that invited spontaneous participation in play or idle talk. Even the kids at the orphanage generously included you in games and asked you to play; they hadn’t lost hope. These boys worried about revealing any information that others might take as a weakness or use against them. Suspicion helped them to survive, as did denying their feelings, especially fear. At night, a heaviness lay over the cells; the kids, perhaps sensing their lives falling apart, were distressed and withdrawn.
Hardly anyone blinked the next morning when a kid in the dining room leaped across one of the long stainless-steel tables with a fork and stabbed another kid in the neck. Even as blood ran through the wounded kid’s fingers and down his arm, his eyes announced that it didn’t hurt, it was nothing, he had no feelings. Everyone looked, but after the two kids had been removed by guards, the rest went on eating their oatmeal. I was too alarmed to eat, unsettled by the victim’s nonchalance. If I stayed here long enough, I too would be trained to feel nothing. After being stripped of everything, all these kids had left was pride—a pride that was distorted, maimed, twisted, and turned against them, a defiant pride that did not allow them to admit that they were human beings and had been hurt.
They reminded me of my brother, Mieyo. After Mother’s sudden departure he’d become inaccessible and distant. He had started on a process of change, often beating me up for nothing. I let him because I didn’t want him leaving me; he was all I had left. One thing for sure: He wasn’t the same brother I’d once had. Instead of his usual candor and curiosity, he became cagey and manipulative. I think he learned to dis
like himself. He did things at the orphanage that all kids do—pilfer food from the kitchen cart, cheat in class, fudge at marbles—but he didn’t get caught. Determined not to be a victim, he’d lie, deceive, and steal. But having spent six years in the orphanage, he was afraid of the outside world and decided against running away. He stayed at the orphanage, while I landed in the detention center.
He was right, of course; it was worse outside the orphanage. But wherever we were, I believed in my naive way that he was figuring a way to rescue me, because he knew how to do stuff like that—he could lie with such pious sincerity anybody would believe him, and he always knew how to get what he wanted. I pictured him pulling off my escape and embracing me after I was free. I knew he’d be waiting one day at the front office, a nod of the head to welcome me back.
During the day, at the D-Home, we mostly lounged in cells, playing dominoes, checkers, chess, or cards; some kids went into the mat room to box and work out on the speed and body bags, while others went outside to stroll or relax in the sun against the fence or play basketball. I joined those against the fence and we talked about girls or our barrios, falling to the ground in between and pumping off push-ups and sit-ups. I was from the orphanage, which drew their sympathy. The fact that I was alone in the world had some significance to them. It took real guts to be out in the world at thirteen. We’d lie on our backs staring up at the clouds and talk without looking at each other. It was better not to look into each other’s eyes.
Low-Blow was one of the guys in my cell, a big muscled Chicano whose fighting abilities were renowned. He took me under his wing. Strutting down the halls or in the rec room, he told me, “Never talk to guards. If anybody looks at you wrong, tries to touch you, mess him up. What’s a wrong look?” he asked and answered his own question. “It’s when they stare at you like you owe money. Like you did ’em wrong and they’re holding a grudge against you. The way starved dogs look at each other over a piece of meat and none of ’em wanna share.” During chores one day, Low-Blow decked a guy and was put in isolation. With my partner gone, I had to assume an attitude of fearlessness, walk the walk, even though I desperately wanted Mieyo to come. I waited as the days blurred into boring weeks, planning that when my father and brother and I finally got together, I’d work at a gas station or as a laborer and make money. Without Mother or Martina it wouldn’t be the same, but at least I’d have Mieyo and my father. As the warm, sunny days passed, I kept myself busy, hoping for the best. I made my bunk every morning and swept the cell, and when Low-Blow came out, he bunked next to me and we both mopped the halls, washed windows, and exercised. It wasn’t that bad, except during the night when I worried about my brother and father, fearing something might have happened to them. I prayed to God to help them, as the halls echoed with the ominous reports of the guard’s boots as he checked to see if we were all in our bunks and counted. I felt sorry for the kids in for murder, grand theft auto, or drug possession, because they were headed for Springer, a prison for teenagers. Low-Blow was going there for assault with a deadly weapon, and even though he said he wasn’t afraid, I knew he was.
With no word from my brother or my father, the director decided it was time for me to go to school. Since the detention center had no educational facility, I was enrolled at Harrison Junior High. It was still dark and cold when he unlocked the main door one morning and led me out into the cold dawn to the street curb. He told me to wait for a woman to pick me up and offered a brief pep talk about doing my best and the virtues of education. After he left, I was afraid but excited. Snuggled in my jacket, under the streetlamp, I waited for my ride. I could hear the crickets and frogs on the ditch bank across the street. I glanced at every car and truck passing, but the drivers kept moving. I jumped, trying to catch a moth fluttering above me, and when a stray dog came over from the ditch, I gave it my peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwich from my sack lunch. It followed me to the ditch, where I threw mud clods at the water. Here I was, with no restraints, legally free, for the first time in a long while. No cops, nuns, aunts, or uncles looking for me to tell me what I’d done wrong. It felt great being on the ditch as the sun was rising, but just as I was wondering whether I should head for the orphanage to find my brother, a lady drove up under the streetlamp and waved to me. I went toward her running, eager to warm my hands and feet by the car heater. The dog followed, but since I couldn’t take it, I gave it my other sandwich, which it gobbled up before we had even turned and pulled away onto the street.
School wasn’t anything like I expected. Within a week I faked being sick in order to stay out. The real reason was I was ashamed, not only of my old patched clothes but also because I didn’t know anything the teachers were talking about. I couldn’t talk to the kids because they were so much smarter than I was. They were the kind of kids my mother pointed to, saying I should be like them. I already half believed that I was a sinner and they were not; at least the nuns had told me so. And because of all the trouble in my family, having no parents, the alcoholism and fights, I also believed there was something basically wrong with me. I didn’t think anyone else had the kind of problems I had. So it seemed that everything that happened to me justified their view.
I was trying to redeem myself, but my stint at Harrison only seemed to complicate and confuse my efforts. I was more interested in my cell life and my homeboys and what we talked about—doing time, stealing stuff, recalling things that people had done to us and what we were going to do to pay them back. My homeboys wanted me to get addresses of the girls from school, but I was too shy. They didn’t understand how crazy it was. After Mrs. Sanchez let me out, I’d get lost in the riotous commotion of buses and parents dropping off kids. Freedom intimidated me. The ease with which the other kids laughed and roughhoused intimidated me. They’d group behind the gym and I’d be by myself, staring at the dusty track and football field. I dreaded going back into class when the bell rang because I’d have to sit in the back and hope the teacher didn’t call my name. I hated every hour, restraining my impulse to flee from the classroom. When I was going through the cafeteria line, unable to make up my mind about what I wanted because there was too much to choose from, kids behind me said things to embarrass me and smirked at my social awkwardness. They wouldn’t dare if they were back at the D-Home, because I’d bust them up, but I couldn’t do anything to them here.
When Mrs. Sanchez asked why I wasn’t bringing my school-books, I told her I’d forgotten. She seemed to understand what I was really feeling, so she led me one morning to the gym and told Coach Tracy who I was and where I lived. He was a good guy—outgoing, square-jawed, buzz-cut, and tough as a marine drill sergeant.
Later that day, when I was behind the gym during lunch, sitting on the dirt eating my sandwich, someone called me. When I turned, it was Coach Tracy. He squatted on his toes and slapped my knee, smiling. “You oughta be out there playing football for us! Just look at those shoulders and arms!” I felt embarrassed. “Come on out this afternoon,” he continued. “I’ll be waiting for you.” He looked at my bologna sandwich and said, “Don’t blame you, not eating in the cafeteria. Food’ll make you gag. Meet me in the locker room after classes.”
I asked him, “What about Mrs. Sanchez? I’ll get in trouble if I’m not there.”
He patted my shoulder. “I talked to her and the director. I’ll take you back after practice.” He was the nicest man I ever met, I thought, as he walked away, slightly hunched in the shoulders, wearing gray khakis and black-and-white Converse sneakers, his body hard and rugged.
He assigned me my own locker, piled my arms with pants and jersey, shoulder pads, helmet, cleats, and mouthpiece, and after I dressed I trailed the team out to the field in a slow trot. Coach slapped me on the butt and clapped his hands, rousing me to do my best. I felt thankful but uncomfortable with his considerable kindness, but once on the field, my discomfiture evaporated as I tackled and crushed my teammates into the grass. Coach kept smacking my pads, saying to the others, “You see t
hat! That’s how I want you to hit! Get over here, Rudy, on all fours—Jimmy, show them how it’s done.” I got down, and when Coach blew the whistle I hit Rudy so hard he went backwards and groaned over on his belly. I’d forearmed his face mask and given him a bloody nose. “That’s how you linemen should be hitting!”
I felt proud of myself because the rest of the guys were looking at me impressed, and some were saying, “Wow, we’re going to win some games now,” their admiration mixed with trepidation. They studied me with the curiosity of someone viewing a strange oddity. Who is he? Where did he come from? And while I felt satisfied with myself and equal to them on the field, the difference between us became apparent in the locker room, where they put on nice clothes, watches, rings, new shoes. I lied when they asked where I lived and if I needed a ride home, telling them my mother was picking me up and I lived close by. They talked about going to movies on dates with girlfriends, and they tried to be friendly, inviting me to hang out with them, to go for sodas and burgers after practice, but I didn’t have any money. On the insides of their lockers they had family photos, cars they were fixing up with their dads and friends, team pennants, posters of rock heroes. I kept to myself, being quiet as I could so as not to invite questions or attention.
Primarily to please the coach and Mrs. Sanchez, I started playing the part of a student by bringing my books. I’d sit in the last row of each class and look at the pictures, to which I added illustrations of my own: a mustache to the moon, penciled flowers on Nebraska cornfields, a sinister grin and an eye patch on George Washington. I hadn’t told anybody that I couldn’t read and that looking at the words and math problems made me feel dumb. For a while, though, I was the talk of school. I may have been a dummy in class but I was a hero on the field. I was a good football player, which made girls flirt with me and guys look to me as a leader. I was invited to parties, over to kids’ houses, swimming, but since I couldn’t go or explain why I couldn’t go, I lied that I had things to do, places to go, and generally gave them the impression that my life was full of activities. I must have looked like a fool; my poverty and aloneness in life was apparent. People don’t like liars, and after a while they quit inviting me. But what was I going to do, invite them to the D-Home to meet the guards and watch TV with the rest of my homeboys behind bars in a cell? I’m sure they would’ve enjoyed getting patted down, and escorted to a cell, filled with a bunch of guys who saw them as the enemy. I was ashamed to admit that I was a ward of the state, a piece of property with official papers attached. At any time, I could be swept up by the state, put in handcuffs, and given over to a stranger. I was at the mercy of state officials—state-clothed, housed, and fed, a number on a case file in an office. I was going to wake up here, go to sleep here, eat and live here.
A Place to Stand Page 3
