It was a small church where Filipino farm workers were packing their suitcases and bundles. I found out later that Filipino immigrants used their churches as rest houses while they were waiting for work. There were two large trucks outside. I went to one of them and sat on the running board, holding my hands over my heart for fear it would beat too fast. The lights in the church went out and the workers came into the street. The driver of the truck in which I was sitting pointed a strong flashlight at me.
“Hey, you, are you looking for a job?” he asked.
“Yes, sir,” I said.
“Get in the truck,” he said, jumping into the cab. “Let’s go, Flo!” he shouted to the other driver.
I was still trembling with excitement. But I was glad to get out of Seattle—to anywhere else in America. I did not care where so long as it was in America. I found a corner and sat down heavily. The drivers shouted to each other. Then we were off to work.
It was already midnight and the lights in the city of Seattle were beginning to fade. I could see the reflections on the bright lake in Bremerton. I was reminded of Baguio. Then some of the men began singing. The driver and two men were arguing over money. A boy in the other truck was playing a violin. We were on the highway to Yakima Valley.
* * *
—
After a day and a night of driving we arrived in a little town called Moxee City. The apple trees were heavy with fruit and the branches drooped to the ground. It was late afternoon when we passed through the town; the hard light of the sun punctuated the ugliness of the buildings. I was struck dumb by its isolation and the dry air that hung oppressively over the place. The heart-shaped valley was walled by high treeless mountains, and the hot breeze that blew in from a distant sea was injurious to the apple trees.
The leader of our crew was called Cornelio Paez; but most of the oldtimers suspected that it was not his real name. There was something shifty about him, and his so-called bookkeeper, a pockmarked man we simply called Pinoy (which is a term generally applied to all Filipino immigrant workers), had a strange trick of squinting sideways when he looked at you. There seemed to be an old animosity between Paez and his bookkeeper.
But we were drawn together because the white people of Yakima Valley were suspicious of us. Years before, in the town of Toppenish, two Filipino apple pickers had been found murdered on the road to Sunnyside. At that time, there was ruthless persecution of the Filipinos throughout the Pacific Coast, instigated by orchardists who feared the unity of white and Filipino workers. A small farmer in Wapato who had tried to protect his Filipino workers had had his house burned. So however much we distrusted each other under Paez, we knew that beyond the walls of our bunkhouse were our real enemies, waiting to drive us out of Yakima Valley.
I had become acquainted with an oldtimer who had had considerable experience in the United States. His name was Julio, and it seemed that he was hiding from some trouble in Chicago. At night, when the men gambled in the kitchen, I would stand silently behind him and watch him cheat the other players. He was very deft, and his eyes were sharp and trained. Sometimes when there was no game, Julio would teach me tricks.
Mr. Malraux, our employer, had three daughters who used to work with us after school hours. He was a Frenchman who had gone to Moxee City when it consisted of only a few houses. At that time the valley was still a haven for Indians, but they had been gradually driven out when farming had been started on a large scale. Malraux had married an American woman in Spokane and begun farming; the girls came one by one, helping him on the farm as they grew. When I arrived in Moxee City they were already in their teens.
The oldest girl was called Estelle; she had just finished high school. She had a delightful disposition and her industry was something that men talked about with approval. The other girls, Maria and Diane, were still too young to be going about so freely; but whenever Estelle came to our bunkhouse they were always with her.
It was now the end of summer and there was a bright moon in the sky. Not far from Moxee City was a wide grassland where cottontails and jack rabbits roamed at night. Estelle used to drive her father’s old car and would pick up some of us at the bunkhouse; then we would go hunting with their dogs and a few antiquated shotguns.
When we came back from hunting we would go to the Malraux house with some of the men who had musical instruments. We would sit on the lawn for hours singing American songs. But when they started singing Philippine songs their voices were so sad, so full of yesterday and the haunting presence of familiar seas, as if they had reached the end of creation, that life seemed ended and no bright spark was left in the world.
But one afternoon toward the end of the season, Paez went to the bank to get our paychecks and did not come back. The pockmarked bookkeeper was furious.
“I’ll get him this time!” he said, running up and down the house. “He did that last year in California and I didn’t get a cent. I know where to find the bastard!”
Julio grabbed him by the neck. “You’d better tell me where to find him if you know what is good for you,” he said angrily, pushing the frightened bookkeeper toward the stove.
“Let me alone!” he shouted.
Julio hit him between the eyes, and the bookkeeper struggled violently. Julio hit him again. The bookkeeper rolled on the floor like a baby. Julio picked him up and threw him outside the house. I thought he was dead, but his legs began to move. Then he opened his eyes and got up quickly, staggering like a drunken stevedore toward the highway. Julio came out of the house with brass knuckles, but the bookkeeper was already disappearing behind the apple orchard. Julio came back and began hitting the door of the kitchen with all his force, in futile anger.
I had not seen this sort of brutality in the Philippines, but my first contact with it in America made me brave. My bravery was still nameless, and waiting to express itself. I was not shocked when I saw that my countrymen had become ruthless toward one another, and this sudden impact of cruelty made me insensate to pain and kindness, so that it took me a long time to wholly trust other men. As time went by I became as ruthless as the worst of them, and I became afraid that I would never feel like a human being again. Yet no matter what bestiality encompassed my life, I felt sure that somewhere, sometime, I would break free. This faith kept me from completely succumbing to the degradation into which many of my countrymen had fallen. It finally paved my way out of our small, harsh life, painfully but cleanly, into a world of strange intellectual adventures and self-fulfillment.
* * *
—
The apples were nearly picked when Paez disappeared with our money. We lost interest in our work. We sat on the lawn of the Malraux’s and sang. They came out of the house and joined us. The moonlight shimmered like a large diamond on the land around the farm. The men in the bunkhouse came with their violins and guitars. Julio grabbed Diane and started dancing with her; then the two younger girls were grabbed by other men.
It was while Estelle was singing that we heard a gun crack from the dirt road not far from the house. Malraux saw them first, saw the clubs and the iron bars in their hands, and yelled at us in warning. But it was too late. They had taken us by surprise.
I saw Malraux run into the house for his gun. I jumped to the nearest apple tree. I wanted a weapon—anything to hit back at these white men who had leaped upon us from the dark. Three or four guns banged all at once, and I turned to see Maria falling to the ground. A streak of red light flashed from the window into the crowd. Estelle was screaming and shouting to her father. Diane was already climbing the stairs, her long black hair shining in the moonlight.
I saw Julio motioning to me to follow him. Run away from our friends and companions? No! Goddamn you, Julio! I jumped into the thick of fight, dark with fury. Then I felt Julio’s hands pulling me away, screaming into my ears:
“Come on, you crazy punk! Come on before I kill you myself!”
He was hurting me. Blinded with anger and tears, I ran after him toward our bunkhouse. We stopped behind a pear tree when we saw that our house was burning. Julio whispered to me to follow him.
We groped our way through the pear trees and came out, after what seemed like hours of running, on a wide grass plain traversed by a roaring irrigation ditch. Once when we thought we were being followed, we jumped into the water and waited. The night was silent and the stars in the sky were as far away as home. Was there peace somewhere in the world? The silence was broken only by the rushing water and the startled cry of little birds that stirred in the night.
Julio led the way. We came to a dirt road that led to some farmhouses. We decided to stay away from it. We turned off the road and walked silently between the trees. Then we came to a wide desert land. We followed a narrow footpath and, to our surprise, came to the low, uninhabited, wide desert of the Rattlesnake Mountains. The stars were our only guide.
We walked on and on. Toward dawn, when a strong wind came, we jumped into the dunes and covered our heads with dry bushes until it had passed by. We were no longer afraid of pursuit. We were in another land, on another planet. The desert was wide and flat. There were rabbits in the bushes, and once we came upon a herd of small deer. We ran after them with a burning bush, but they just stood nonchalantly and waited for us. When we were near enough for them to recognize our scent, they turned about and galloped down the sand dunes.
When morning came we were still in the desert. We walked until about noon. Then we came to a narrow grassland. We stood on a rise and looked around to see the edge of the desert. Julio started running crazily and jumping into the air. I ran after him. At last we came to the beginning of a wide plain.
The town of Toppenish was behind us now, and the cool wind from the valley swept the plain. We rested under a tree. Julio was different from other oldtimers; he did not talk much. I felt that he had many stories within him, and I longed to know America through him. His patience and nameless kindness had led me away from Moxee City into a new life.
After a while we crossed the plain again, hiding behind the trees whenever we saw anyone approaching us. I was too exhausted to continue when we reached Zillah, where some children stoned us. We hid in an orange grove and rested. At sunset we started again. When we were nearing the town of Granger, I heard the sudden tumult of the Yakima River. Julio started running again, and I followed him. Suddenly we saw the clear, cool water of the river. We sat in the tall grass, cooling our tired bodies beside the bright stream.
I was the first to enter the water. I washed my shirt and spread it to dry on the grass. Sunnyside was not far off. I could hear the loud whistle of trains running seaward.
“This is the beginning of your life in America,” Julio said. “We’ll take a freight train from Sunnyside and go to nowhere.”
“I would like to go to California,” I said. “I have two brothers there—but I don’t know if I could find them.”
“All roads go to California and all travelers wind up in Los Angeles,” Julio said. “But not this traveler. I have lived there too long. I know that state too damn well. . . .”
“What do you mean?” I asked.
Suddenly he became sad and said: “It is hard to be a Filipino in California.”
Not comprehending what he meant, I began to dream of going to California. Then we started for Sunnyside, listening eagerly to the train whistle piercing the summer sky. It was nearly ten in the evening when we reached Sunnyside. We circled the town, and then we saw the trains—every car bursting with fruit—screaming fiercely and chugging like beetles up and down the tracks. The voices of the trainmen came clearly through the night.
We stopped in the shadow of a water tower. Julio disappeared for a moment and came back.
“Our train leaves in an hour,” he said. “I’ll go around for something to eat. Wait for me here.”
I waited for him to come back for several hours. The train left. Then I began to worry. I went to town and walked in the shadows, looking into the darkened windows of wooden houses. Julio had disappeared like a wind.
I returned to our rendezvous and waited all night. Early the next morning another train was ready to go; I ran behind the boxcars and climbed inside one. When the train began to move, I opened the door and looked sadly toward Sunnyside. Julio was there somewhere, friendless and alone in a strange town.
“Good-bye, Julio,” I said. “And thanks for everything, Julio. I hope I will meet you again somewhere in America.”
Then the train screamed and the thought of Julio hurt me. I stood peering outside and listening to the monotonous chugging of the engine. I knew that I could never be unkind to any Filipino, because Julio had left me a token of friendship, a seed of trust, that ached to grow to fruition as I rushed toward another city.
CHAPTER XV
Like a thundering river the train rushed toward Pasco, crossing wide, level lands, and passing through badlands, plateaus, and rill-marked hills. At Grandview, a prairie town whose sharp winds cut through the valleys and swept the plains, a dozen men jumped on and several of them came to my car. Two looked like professional hoboes, but the others were young men in search of work. I did not notice that there was a girl among them until we reached Kennewick, when the railroad detectives came to the boxes and scattered us among the trees. When they were gone and we had run back to the car, I learned that she was with her brother, who was younger than she. They were on their way to California where an uncle was waiting for them.
The sun went down slowly and sudden darkness came over the land. I sat back in my corner and tried to sleep, brushing off the obscene conversations of the men around me. Then in the middle of the night, isolated in a corner of the box, I was awakened by the young girl’s whimpering. She was desperately struggling with someone in the dark, breathing as though she were being choked to death. Then I heard her fall heavily on the floor, and she began to sob hopelessly. Her assailant dragged her to my corner. I could hear the man fumbling at her. He was tearing hungrily at her clothes. I strained my eyes in the dark to see what was happening. After a while the girl did not struggle any more. She turned lifelessly toward me, and in the dark I could hear her agony.
With a sudden revulsion, I got up and felt for the man. But someone struck me on the head, and I rolled on the floor. There was silence for a long time; then as I returned to consciousness, I heard the stifled sobbing of the girl again. Another man approached her. . . .
When the train stopped many of the men in our car jumped out. The girl crawled about in the dark searching for her brother.
“Bill—Bill, honey, where are you?” she whispered.
But the boy had disappeared in the night. Afraid and alone, she leaned against the wall and cried brokenly. I got up from my corner and looked out. We were in Hood, on the Columbia River. It was still dark, but I could hear the rushing water and, somewhere on the other side of the town, the sharp whistle of another train. The girl spread some newspapers on the floor and lay down to sleep. I struck a match and watched her face affectionately. She looked a little like my younger sister, Francisca. There was a sudden rush of warm feeling in me, yearning to comfort her with the words I knew. This ravished girl and this lonely night, in a freight train bound for an unknown city. . . . I could not hold back the tears that came to my eyes.
When we reached Portland it was already after midnight. The girl walked with me in the streets.
“Where are you going?” she asked me.
“I am looking for an address,” I said, trying to make her understand my broken English. “But the houses are too dark.”
“Do you have a friend here?” But she did not wait for an answer. “Let’s go back to the station,” she suggested.
We found a train about ready to leave for California. A few men came into the car where the girl and I were sitting. Then a woman came in with her husband,
who was carrying a baby. There was a Negro boy with a harmonica; he kept playing for hours, stopping only to say “Salem!” “Eugene!” “Klamath Falls!” when we passed through those places.
The girl leaned on me and went to sleep, her breath warming my face. I dozed off and did not waken until the following morning. The girl was gone, but the newspapers on which she had lain were still warm. Everybody was gone except the Negro boy with the harmonica. He was still playing. I kept staring at him because it was the first time I had ever seen a black person.
“Where are you going, boy?” he asked.
“California, sir,” I said.
He laughed, “Sir?”
“Yes, sir,” I said again.
“Boy, you are far from California!” He laughed aloud, taking up the harmonica again.
I opened the door and looked out. The train was still moving. When the train stopped at the station, the Negro began to laugh again.
“Boy, boy, boy!” he screamed. “This is Reno, Nevada!”
I went to the door again and looked out. Then I saw the startling sign:
RENO, THE BIGGEST SMALL CITY IN THE WORLD!
The girl had left three strands of her brown hair on my shoulder. I picked them up and wrapped them in a piece of newspaper. I do not know why I did it, but felt somehow that I would meet her again. Innocent-looking she was, and forlorn, and I felt that there was a bond between us, a bond of fear and a common loneliness.
When the Negro told me what train to take to California, I thanked him and left, hoping I would encounter him again. The cars were full of hoboes and drifting men, who sat on the floor eating stale bread and drinking cold coffee. The wide desert land was shimmering with heat, and except for a bit of brush here and there, it reminded me of my escape with Julio across the Rattlesnake Mountains.
America Is in the Heart Page 14
