America Is in the Heart

by Carlos Bulosan

  “There should be a law against the importation of labor,” I said. “It should be included in the interstate laws.”

  “The time will come,” José said.

  “Without it the workers will always be at the mercy of the employers.”

  “You are absolutely right, Carl,” José said. “But we have a good president in Washington, so we will probably win some of our demands—if we use enough pressure.”

  I was not satisfied, but there was some hope. I went to the Mexican district and gathered together some of the Mexicans who had quit the fields that day. José, who spoke fluent Spanish, came and explained to them the importance of the strike. They were enthusiastic. A runner was sent to the fields to stop the Mexicans who were still working, and he came back to tell us that only fifty remained.

  But we wanted an all-out strike, although we doubted that it would be possible. That night, when José and I were in the back room of a restaurant, preparing a leaflet to be circulated, five white men came suddenly into the room. I started to run to the door, but it was too late. Two big men, one wearing dark glasses, carried off José. The other man suddenly turned around and shot out the light bulbs.

  I was kicked into the back seat of a big car. José was in the front seat, between the driver and the man with dark glasses. When the car started to move, I looked down and saw Millar bleeding on the floor. He looked up at me with frightened eyes, pleading, wanting to tell me that he had nothing to do with our arrest. I turned the other way, aching to hit him in the face.

  I looked through the window hoping to find some escape. I was sure that if the car turned a corner, I could jump out. If I succeeded in jumping out—could I escape their guns? My heart almost stopped beating. It was better to die trying to escape than to wait for death.

  But when the car came to a deserted country road, I knew that flight was impossible. I lost all hope. I glanced quickly at the wide, clear fields, catching a fleeting glimpse of the sky. Looking swiftly to the east, I saw the big moon and below it, soon to move away, a mass of clouds that looked like a mountain of cotton balls. Suddenly I remembered that as a child I used to watch snow-white clouds sailing in the bright summer skies of Mangusmana. The memory of my village made my mind whirl, longing for flight and freedom again.

  I was helpless now. I watched my companions: they seemed to have given up all hope. There was only death at the end of the road. The white men were silent. Millar touched my legs when we passed in the shadows of trees. The driver turned off the road and crossed a wide beet field, heading for the woods not far away.

  * * *

  —

  We entered the woods and in five minutes the car stopped. One of the men in front jumped out and came to our door.

  “You have the rope, Jake?”

  “Yeah!”

  The man on my right got out and pulled me violently after him, hitting me on the jaw. I fell on my knees but got up at once, trembling with rage. If only I had a gun! Or a knife! I could cut these bastards into little pieces! Blood came out of my mouth. I raised my hand to wipe it off, but my attacker hit me again. I staggered, fell on my face, and rolled on the grass.

  “Up! Goddamn you! Up!”

  Painfully I crawled to my feet, knelt on the grass, and got up slowly. I saw them kicking Millar in the grass. When they were through with him, they tore off José’s clothes and tied him to a tree. One of them went to the car and came back with a can of tar and a sack of feathers. The man with the dark glasses ripped the sack open and white feathers fell out and sailed in the thin light that filtered between the trees.

  Then I saw them pouring the tar on José’s body. One of them lit a match and burned the delicate hair between his legs.

  “Jesus, he’s a well-hung son-of-a-bitch!”

  “Yeah!”

  “No wonder whores stick to them!”

  “The other monkey ain’t so hot!”

  They looked in my direction. The man with the dark glasses started beating Millar. Then he came to me and kicked my left knee so violently that I fell on the grass, blinded with pain. Hardening my body, I wished I were strong enough to reach him. He spat in my face and left.

  Another man, the one called Jake, tied me to a tree. Then he started beating me with his fists. Why were these men so brutal, so sadistic? A tooth fell out of my mouth, and blood trickled down my shirt. The man called Lester grabbed my testicles with his left hand and smashed them with his right fist. The pain was so swift and searing that it was as if there were no pain at all. There was only a stabbing heat that leaped into my head and stayed there for a moment.

  “Shall we burn this yellow belly?”

  “He’s gone.”

  “I’d like a souvenir.”

  “Scalp him!”

  “What about the other bastard?”

  “He’s gone, too.”

  They left me. One of them went to the car and took out a bottle of whisky. They started drinking, passing the bottle from hand to hand. Once in a while, when a bottle was emptied, one of them would come over and beat me. When they were drunk enough, I feared that they would burn José. Millar crawled painfully over to where I was lying.

  “Knife in my left shoe,” he whispered.

  “Quiet.” I rolled over and reached for the knife. Now I could cut the ropes that tied my legs. My hands were free! Then I was ready to run! I handed the knife back and whispered to Millar to roll away. I crawled in the grass slowly; when I reached the edge of the woods, I got up and tried to run. But I had almost no use of my left leg, so that most of the time I hopped through the beet fields like a kangaroo.

  The night was clear and quiet. I was afraid they would see me. I heard their voices on the wind. Once a flashlight beamed from the edge of the woods. I lay flat on my stomach and watched it disappear among the trees. Then I got up and staggered toward San Jose.

  * * *

  —

  I stopped when I came to the lighted areas to avoid suspicion. I turned away from the business district and headed for the Oriental section. A police car came by. I turned in at a side door and opened it. I found myself in a little room, with dolls on the bed and a portable radio on a small table. On the dresser was the picture of a woman who might have been twenty-five. Someone was in the bathroom for I could hear a noise there. I was reaching for the doorknob when a white woman came out.

  She stopped short in surprise, letting the towel fall from her hands.

  “Please don’t be afraid,” I said. “Some men are after me.”

  She came forward. “Have you killed somebody?”

  “No.”

  “Did you steal some money?”

  “No. I—well, I—work with the unions.”

  She ran to a little room and brought me a clean shirt. She brought a basin of warm water and began washing my face gently. Then she took me to the kitchen, where she prepared something for me to eat. I watched her. She might inform the police. Could I trust her?

  “When did you eat last?” she asked.

  “I don’t remember,” I said.

  “Poor boy.” She got up. “Eat everything and go to sleep.”

  I almost cried. What was the matter with this land? Just a moment ago I was being beaten by white men. But here was another white person, a woman, giving me food and a place to rest. And her warmth! I sat on the couch and started talking. I wanted to explain what happened to me.

  “Poor boy.” There was kindness in her face, some urge to reach me, to understand what I was telling her. And sometimes when she was touched by my description, I could feel her kind hand on my face. There was tenderness in her touch.

  “Thank you so much,” I said.

  “Go to sleep now.” She switched off the lights and went to her bed. I watched her in the darkness of the room, because by now I was used to darkness. I could see in the dark almost as clear
ly as in a room flooded with lights. “Good night,” she said.

  I lay quietly on the couch; then tears began to come to my eyes. What would happen to José and Millar? Had I the right to run away? Had I? The fight must go on, José used to say. All right. I would go on with the fight. I would show them. The silence outside was deepening. Not far away, in a nearby farmhouse, I could hear a rooster crowing.

  The woman was still awake. She sat up. She heard me crying. She got up and came to my couch.

  “What is your name?” she asked.

  “Carl,” I said. “Remember me only as Carl, that’s all.”

  “Mine is Marian,” she said. “Go to sleep now.”

  She woke me early in the morning. I was surprised to find that she had packed her things.

  “Wait for me here,” she said. “I’ll get my car.”

  In five minutes she was back. I carried the suitcases into the car. She sat at the wheel and put the key in the lock. Then she looked back to the town, as though she were committing it to memory. I knew her look because I had done the same thing a hundred times. It was a farewell look—forever. The car started to move.

  “We’ll go to Los Angeles,” she said.

  I looked out of the window. The sun was rising.

  CHAPTER XXIX

  When we were a few miles from San Jose, Marian began talking. I discovered that she had lived in Oregon as a child. The town was Tigard, she said, where the ground was covered with snow all winter.

  “I washed dishes in Portland while I was going to college,” she said.

  “I have also washed dishes—all over California.” I knew that there were girl dishwashers in Portland. Most of them were employed in little restaurants, but they were poorly paid. I looked at Marian’s hands: it was obvious that she had done manual work. Her hands were rough; the fingers were stubby and flattened at the top. My heart ached, for this woman was like my little sisters in Binalonan. I turned away from her, remembering how I had walked familiar roads with my mother.

  “I went to Reed College for two years,” Marian went on, “hoping to escape from the narrowing island that was Tigard. When summer came, I picked hops with Mexican families. But some gypsies came to the fields too. When winter came I went to Portland, and there I met a man. I thought it was love, you know. We women always think that it is love, although we may feel that perhaps it is not. We are more emotional, I suppose. I lived with him for a while, working and planning for the future. Then I found out that he was married, had three children, and was a gambler. It was the beginning of my life of bitterness.”

  She stopped and offered me a cigarette. I told her that I did not smoke.

  She continued: “I tried to make a new life. Without illusions, I went on my way. I worked here and there, living a new life, beginning to be strong inside again. I even thought of going back to college. I wanted to teach, you know. Then I met another man who took me to Los Angeles, and there he died in an automobile accident. My whole world died with him, and I died too.”

  I saw tears falling from her eyes. She blinked them away. I looked straight ahead, feeling an ache inside me. Now she was crying.

  “I wanted to go to school, too,” I said. “But that was a long time ago. In the Philippines.”

  “You are still young,” she said. “There is plenty of time.”

  “I don’t know.”

  “I’ll help you. I’ll work for you. You will have no obligations. What I would like is to have someone to care for, and it should be you who are young. I would be happier if I had something to care for—even if it were only a dog or a cat. But it doesn’t really matter which it is: a dog or a cat. What matters is the affection, the relationship, between you and the object. Even a radio becomes almost human, and the voice that comes from it is something close to you, and then there grows a bond between you. For a long time now I’ve wanted to care for someone. And you are the one. Please don’t make me unhappy. . . .”

  * * *

  —

  We arrived in Salinas in the late afternoon. Marian sent me to a hotel. She told me that she had relatives in town whom she wanted to see. I sat in my room and told the clerk to send a bellboy. I was hungry and I wanted something to eat. I did not want to be seen. I paced endlessly, waiting for Marian. I tried to contact Mariano, who had come to Salinas with Ganzo.

  I waited for Marian until one o’clock in the morning. When I woke up at seven, I saw her smiling near my bed. She had brought some peaches and a bottle of milk. She was very tired and sleepy.

  “Where have you been?” I asked, and there was excitement in my voice.

  “With friends,” she said, trying to be gay. “I’m sorry if I have worried you. But you must get used to it, Carl. Now I need a few hours of sleep.”

  I sat around watching her. She woke up a little after noon and told me that we would proceed to Los Angeles.

  “I would like you to go to school there,” she said. She was very gay. She kept tossing her brown hair back to the nape of her neck. She hummed a sweet tune that was new to me.

  I began telling her about my life, from my Island village up to that time. She looked at me with surprise when I said something incredible. She opened the window of the car on her side and strong, fresh air flooded in, blowing her hair upon my face. I smelled the sweetness of her, like delicious wine.

  I was not afraid any more. I felt free now, and inspired, and my defenses were down. I was weakening. This Marian: she was small, quiet, and lovely with long brown hair. Her hair—where had I seen it before? The girl on the freight train! Could it be the same person? I glanced at Marian’s face. I was not sure—it was so long ago. She was sweet and near. But I could not touch her. Even when she was close to me, even when all her thoughts were leaning toward me and her heart was in my heart.

  We stopped in San Luis Obispo. Marian left me in a chop suey house. I walked to the house where Pascual had lived, in the Chinese district. I knocked on the door and Ganzo opened it. He was silent and mysterious. I did not understand why.

  “I thought you were in Sacramento,” he said.

  “I didn’t go there.”

  He reached for a bottle of wine and poured some into a large glass. I knew that something was bothering him.

  “How is the work in San Luis Obispo?” I asked.

  “They are coming closer,” he said weakly. “I don’t think we will succeed. We are outnumbered.”

  I noticed that his hands were not steady.

  “We will be crushed to the last man,” he said. “But we will show them that we are not afraid. I guess that’s it: heroism of the spirit.”

  “We have it, all right,” I said.

  Ganzo got up to reach for the bottle and suddenly crashed to the floor. I rushed to pick him up. Then I saw the horrible lacerations on his back! He, too, had been beaten! He looked helplessly at me.

  “Gazamen has been caught,” he whispered. “Try to do something, Carl.”

  * * *

  —

  I could not do anything for Gazamen. I stayed with Ganzo until the following morning. I was drinking coffee when I heard Marian’s horn. How she knew where I was, I have never found out. I told Ganzo that I was leaving for Los Angeles.

  “Are you quitting?” he asked.

  “No. But I would like to have a few days of rest.”

  “Don’t desert us, Carl. No matter what becomes of you. No matter where you are. Good-bye!”

  I ran to the car feeling like a traitor. Marian was silent for a long time while we were among the hills and the wide fields, the verdant valleys and forests. It was only when we were entering Santa Barbara that she began to talk.

  We stopped on Cañon Perdido Street, where Marian told me to wait. But when she drove off, I walked to the Chinese district. There I met Florencio Garcia, a busboy in a local hotel, who took me to his room over a gar
age. In the narrow space between his bed and a pile of books, Garcia sat down and started reading his manuscripts to me. He was writing, he said, but could not sell his stories. He jumped to his feet when he wanted to emphasize some point, stabbing the air with his fists.

  “I’ll be the greatest Filipino novelist in my time!” he screamed, his hungry eyes popping in their sockets.

  “You will, Florencio,” I said.

  “I’ll not be a busboy for long. I’ll show them!”

  His urge to write was spurred by hate. I recalled another lonely Filipino writer who had committed suicide, and I felt sorry for Florencio. I knew that he would destroy himself like Estevan, who had jumped from the window of his hotel when starvation had reached his mind. When I made a motion to leave, Florencio started to cry.

  “Don’t leave me, Carl!” he wept. “I’m lonely. I have not found a human being for twelve years. Don’t ever leave me, my friend!”

  I walked down the creaking stairs, looking up at his window when I reached the ground. I saw his ugly face, breaking into tears. I walked back to Cañon Perdido Street and slapped my own face so that I would not cry.

  Marian was waiting for me. “Hello, Carl,” she said, leaning over to touch my face. Then she started the car, driving faster and faster as we sped toward Los Angeles.

  It was only when we reached Santa Monica that my tension died. I got out in the business district of Los Angeles and told Marian to meet me at a downtown hotel. She was gone for three days. I stayed in my room most of the time. I tried to contact Macario, but failed. I knew that Amado was in Phoenix with the lawyer.

  I communicated with Conrado in Seattle about the progress of the work there. He wrote that there had been a clash between the union and the company. I felt helpless and torn. I stayed in my room without food, thinking, fighting against myself, and waiting for Marian. When she appeared, singing and laughing, I was disarmed. I could not run away from her.