America Is in the Heart

by Carlos Bulosan

  “Give this ticket to the night clerk and he will give you a place to sleep,” he said kindly. “Now you can go to the café downstairs and show this ticket. You will get something to eat. You can get two meals a day with it.”

  “Thank you, sir,” I said, going down the stairs in a hurry.

  The place was full of unemployed men, standing by the wall and waiting their turn. The men at the tables and the counter were eating hungrily, wiping their mouths and beards with dirty handkerchiefs. I found a chair and sat down, forcing the scorched soup into my mouth. I wanted to eat it all, but my stomach roared. I put plenty of salt and pepper to kill the taste. It was another way of saving food that I had inherited from the peasants of Luzon who, because meat was almost impossible to preserve properly, spread strong vinegar and sprinkled salt over it.

  I gave the ticket to the clerk when night came. He gave me a blanket and took me to a large hall where he chalked a space on the floor.

  “This is your bed,” he said.

  “Yes, sir,” I said, spreading the blanket on the floor. When he was gone, I saw my number on the wall.

  I could not sleep because of the musty smell of my blanket and the stench of the unwashed bodies of the men. They snored noisily. I put my hands on my nose and mouth, turning over on my stomach. I was the first to awaken. I rolled up my blanket and gave my number to the clerk. He gave back my ticket and told me to eat in the café under the building. I went downstairs so that the daytime man could sleep in my place by the wall.

  The men were not allowed to bring women, but they could easily sidetrack the old night clerk. The women sneaked into the building in men’s clothes. They were not prostitutes, but homeless women on the road. Once, on my second night, a prostitute came into the hall with the other women and tried to solicit business, but she was brutally knocked down by a man and dragged into the washroom. I saw her again the next morning staggering like a drunken sailor on the sidewalk across from the building. I felt impelled to guide her through the busy city, for she reminded me of a woman I had once seen in Binalonan who had lost her mind.

  I was terrified in this building of lost men. I tried to exclude myself from them, to shut myself off into a room of my own, away from their obscenities. But one daybreak, when I was suffering from stomach pains because of the food I had eaten that afternoon, I heard an old man creeping slowly toward me. I thought he was looking for his place on the floor, but when he reached me and started caressing my legs, I sprang to my feet and flung him away. I ran desperately in the dark, stumbling over the sleeping men, and down the stairway and into the street, where the sudden rush of fresh air brought tears to my eyes.

  I went to the freight yards and waited for a train to California. I jumped into an empty boxcar and found there two Filipino cannery workers who had lost their money on the boat to Seattle. The train was slow, but the night was cool. The wind was soothing and the sky was clear. I was asleep when we passed through Eugene, but in my sleep I breathed the air freshened by its trees.

  When I woke up my companions were gone. I crept to the door and opened it. I looked up and saw the sky burning with millions of stars. It was as bright as a clear summer day. The moon was large and brilliant, but its light was mild. I wanted to shout with joy, but could not open my mouth, so awestruck I was by the moonlight. I looked into the bright night sky. I looked without saying a word. I heard the metallic cry of the freight train, and I knew that heaven could not be far from the earth.

  * * *

  —

  I got off the train in Klamath Falls. I was eating in a small restaurant when two policemen entered and grabbed me. It was so sudden and so unexpected that the spoon in my hand went flying across the room. A million things rushed into my mind at once: Were Pete and Myra killed by Poco? Did Frank commit a crime somewhere and implicate me? Had my brother Amado robbed a bank? I did not know what to say. I obediently followed my captors to the jailhouse.

  I was hiding two dollars in my shoes when one of the policemen came into the cell. I knew from experience that money was important and the men in my world hungered and died for it. I watched him stand boldly before me, his strong legs spread wide apart, his hands on his hips, showing the menacing gun.

  “Where did you come from?” he asked.

  I played dumb, pantomiming that I did not speak the language.

  “Are you Filipino?” He was trying another angle.

  “Yes.”

  Crack!

  It was that quick and simple. His right fist landed on my jaw, felling me instantly. Seeing his shoes approaching, I quickly rolled over on my stomach and jumped to my feet; then retreating to a corner of the cell, I put up my hands to cover my face.

  “You goddamn bastard!”

  He hit me again.

  I fell on the floor. I rolled over, face down, covering my head with my hands. He kicked me twice in rapid succession, rocking my body and plunging me into a dark ocean that drowned me in sleep. . . . Then from far away, I heard voices.

  “Is the son-of-a-bitch dead?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Did you find any money on him?”

  “Only two dollars in his shoes.”

  “We could have a round of bourbon on it.”

  “We might be able to bypass another brown monkey in town.”

  “Yeah!”

  They left. I heard them laughing outside, their car gliding softly down the street. I opened my eyes. It was dark! It could not be night. It was only a moment ago that I had been eating in a restaurant, and it had been bright morning. Slowly rising to a sitting position, I raised my right hand to my forehead. I was aware of the acrid smell of blood, but could not feel anything. I looked at my hand. It was smashed! I rubbed my face with my left hand, feeling the lacerations where the man’s fist had struck. I tore a piece off my shirt and wrapped my hand in it, blowing upon it to ease the pain.

  The next morning the policemen dragged me from my cell. Their breaths were strong with whisky. I knew they were through with me. They told me to walk to the border of California, while they followed me in their car. When I stopped to remove the pebbles from my shoes, they drove the car a little faster so that the bumper kept hitting me. My feet were bleeding when I reached California soil.

  They came out of the car. The policeman who had terrorized me the previous night struck me sharply across the face, laughing when he saw the blood coming out of my nose.

  “That will teach you not to come to this town again,” he shouted.

  I fell on my knees. I heard them laughing. There was a sadistic note in their voices. Was it possible that these men enjoyed cruelty? The brutality in the gambling houses was over money; it was over women among Filipinos. But the brutality of these policemen—what was it?

  I started walking across a wide forest land toward the coast highway, some two hundred miles away. It seemed an endless journey. After two days and three nights, I came to a railroad town and caught a freight train for San Francisco. I sat on top of an empty boxcar and watched the beautiful land passing by. I saw places where I thought I would someday like to build a home.

  * * *

  —

  My hand was swollen when I arrived in San Francisco. The city was windswept at night, but in the daytime the sun was tropic hot. The streetcars were clanging everywhere and the people were walking up and down the streets. It was like Seattle—the streets going upward and downward, the dark alleys curving suddenly to Chinatown, and the women coming into the light on their short, sturdy legs.

  I took a freight train that carried me to Guadalupe, a small Oriental town off the coast highway. The streets were lined with gambling houses. It was Sunday and the Filipino farm workers were riotously spending their wages. I found an empty shack under the bridge that connected Guadalupe and Oceano’s rich farm land. I nursed my wounds in this shack. At night I went to the
gambling houses. I could not work yet. So I begged from the lucky gamblers. Then I met a man who claimed that he had come from Binalonan. His name was Cortez, and he had a crew of farm workers in Santa Maria. When I was well enough to work I joined his crew.

  It was autumn, the season for planting cauliflower. I went to the field at six in the morning and worked until six in the afternoon. It was tiresome, back-breaking work. I followed a wagon that carried cauliflower seedlings. The driver stopped now and then to drop a handful of the seedlings between the long furrows. I picked up the seedlings with one hand and dug into the ground with the other; then, putting a seedling into the hole, I moved on and dug another hole. I could hardly move when six o’clock came. I climbed into the wagon that took me slowly to the town.

  The bunkhouse was made of old pieces of wood, and was crowded with men. There was no sewage disposal. When I ate swarms of flies fought over my plate. My bed was a makeshift tent under a huge water tank, away from the bunkhouse. I slept on a dirty cot: the blanket was never washed. The dining room was a pigsty. The cook had a harelip and his eyes were always bloodshot and watery.

  I became acquainted with Benigno, one of the men in the camp. He was big and husky, but a sinus infection in early life had ruined his voice. One Sunday night, when I was already asleep, he came to my tent and woke me up.

  “There is fun going on in the bunkhouse,” he said.

  “I am tired,” I said.

  “Come on.” He flung the blanket away from me and jerked me out of the cot. “Come on!”

  I followed Benigno into the bunkhouse where thirty workers were quartered. Their cots were arranged in two rows, fifteen in each row, running from wall to wall. There was only a foot of free space between them. I noticed four men holding up some bedsheets around a cot. A fifth man was standing by, holding a basin of water. A hand came out of the sheets and took the basin. Benigno winked suggestively to me.

  A young Filipino, half-dressed, came out of the sheets. Then an old man entered the wall of sheets, and the man who was holding the basin ran to the stove in the far end of the bunkhouse and poured warm water from a pot, then returned to the place where he was standing, waiting for the mysterious hand to reach for the basin. I looked around at the other men: they were sitting on their cots playing cards and musical instruments; writing letters; reading movie magazines. Others were smoking and staring into space; some were walking up and down, looking toward the wall of sheets when the basin of water disappeared. I knew at once that I had to run away. Was it possible that they were not horrified?

  I was backing to the door when Benigno and two other men grabbed me. I struggled desperately. I knew what they would do to me. They carried me toward the wall of sheets, and the men who were holding them made way for me. I trembled violently, because what I saw was a naked Mexican woman waiting to receive me. The men pinned me down on the cot, face upward, while Benigno hurriedly fumbled for my belt. The woman bent over me, running her hands over my warming face. The men released me, withdrawing sheepishly from the wall of sheets. Then, as though from far away, I felt the tempestuous flow of blood in my veins.

  It was like spring in an unknown land. There were roses everywhere, opening to a kind sun. I heard the sudden beating of waves upon rocks, the gentle fall of rain among palm leaves. Was this eternity? Was this the source of creation? Then I heard a thunderclap—and suddenly the sound and stench of humanity permeated the air, crushing the dream. And I heard the woman saying:

  “There, now. It’s all over.”

  I leaped to my feet, hiding myself from her.

  “Did you like it?” she said.

  I plunged through the wall of sheets and started running between the cots to the door. Benigno and the other men laughed, shouting my name. I could still hear their voices when I entered my tent, trembling with a nameless shame. . . .

  CHAPTER XXI

  When the cauliflower season was over my crew moved to Nipomo to work in the lettuce fields. I went to Lompoc and found the town infested by small-time gangsters and penny racketeers. My brother Amado was still with Alfredo, but they had given up bootlegging. Now they were partners in gambling, cheating the Filipino farm workers of their hard-earned money. I could not live with them.

  I found a crew of lettuce workers on J Street and joined them. It was cold in Lompoc, for the winter wind was beginning to invade the valley from Surf. The lettuce heads were heavy with frost. I worked with thick cotton gloves and a short knife. When the lettuce season was over the winter peas came next. I squatted between the long rows of peas and picked with both hands, putting the pods in a large petroleum can that I dragged with me. When the can was full I poured the pods into a sack, then returned to my place between the long rows of unpicked peas.

  Then the pea season was over in Lompoc, although farther down the valley some farmers were in need of workers to pick Seattle peas. I went to town and found that Amado and Alfredo had given up their gambling establishment, a large green table at the back of a Mexican poolroom. Amado told me that he wanted to go into the restaurant business, so he borrowed my money to start it. But as soon as he had my money he entered a dice game and lost all of it in a few throws. I was not angry. I felt that it was my obligation to help him. I still believed in certain codes that I had brought with me from the Philippines.

  I learned that the Filipino dishwasher in a local restaurant called the Opal Café had died of poisonous mushrooms which he had picked somewhere in the valley. I took his place. I knew that I must help my brother. The place was notorious for its Saturday night crowd. Some two hundred school boys and girls came for refreshments and sandwiches after the dance at the public auditorium. Because they came only when the cook was gone, I did all the work in the kitchen. It was a job that took me seventeen hours to finish.

  It was a new experience. When I was rushing the orders some of the boys brought their girls into the dark side of the kitchen and made love to them. I saw them and I was shocked by their wanton behavior. I cursed them under my breath, preparing their sandwiches and spitting on the bread when my understanding of their morality became confused, and a personal issue. They were always drunk, and careless with foul words, shoving a bottle of whisky into my mouth, and laughing when the choking tears came out of my eyes.

  After work, at daybreak, I put slices of ham or chicken in a box and covered it with newspapers, as though it were garbage ready for the big can in the alley. While the manager was eating, I went to my room through the back door, picking up the box of sandwiches on my way. Up in the room, sitting morosely on my bed, was my brother, waiting for the food. He was going to pieces fast, because he had started drinking, too; and a chasm was opening between us, widening each time he committed a crime.

  I was transferred to the bakery department of the Opal Café, at fourteen dollars a week, an increase of four dollars from my former salary. Men of influence came now and then to the back room where I was scrubbing pans, and cast malicious glances at me. Once a local businessman came into the back room with a bottle of whisky. He sarcastically said to me:

  “Mr. Opal tells me that you are reading books. Is it true?”

  “Yes, sir.” But realizing that my tone had a challenging note in it, I said immediately: “Well, sir, there is nothing else to do after working hours. I hate to go to the Mexican quarters because, as you know, gambling and prostitution are going on there all the time. And I’m a little tired of the phonograph in my room, playing the same records over and over. I find escape in books, and also discovery of a world I had not known before. . . .”

  I had not been looking at him, because my words came in a rush.

  “Well, you bring it upon yourself,” he said tonelessly. “I mean prostitution and gambling.”

  “I don’t know what you really mean,” I said. “But the gambling and the prostitution are operated by three of this town’s most respectable citizens. As a matter of fact,
I can tell you their names—”

  “Watch your yellow tongue, googoo!” he shouted at me, hurling the half-filled bottle in his hands.

  I ducked too late, and the bottle hit the back of my head. I fell on the floor on all fours. When I saw him rushing at me with an empty pan, I jumped to my feet and grabbed a butcher knife which was lying on a table and met him. Slowly he backed away, escaped through the door to the dining room, and came back with the manager.

  “What is this?” Mr. Opal asked.

  “This barbarian wants to murder me,” the man said.

  Something snapped inside of me, and my whole vision darkened. I lunged at the man with the knife in my hand, wanting to murder him. He ran behind Mr. Opal, shouting to the waitresses in the dining room to call for the police.

  “You are fired!” he shouted, crossing his hands in front of his face, as though he could ward me off with them.

  You are fired! How many times did I hear these words? Why did they pursue me down the years, across oceans and continents? A nameless anger filled me, and before I knew it I was screaming:

  “I’ll kill you, you white men!”

  There was a crash, as though lightning had struck the building. Then silence. I looked up. I was hiding in the alley where I had hidden my box of sandwiches many times before. I groped my way in the dark, feeling the warm blood on my face.

  * * *

  —

  I had struck at the white world, at last; and I felt free. Was my complete freedom to be fought for violently? Was murder necessary? And hate? God forbid! My distrust of white men grew, and drove me blindly into the midst of my own people; together we hid cynically behind our mounting fears, hating the broad white universe at our door. A movement of the hand, and it was there—yet it could not be touched, could not be attained ever. I tried to find a justification for my sudden rebellion—why it was so sudden, and black, and hateful. Was it possible that, coming to America with certain illusions of equality, I had slowly succumbed to the hypnotic effects of racial fear?