“You have been on a bender,” he said.
“Where am I?”
“San Francisco. I was told you were here, so I stayed on, hoping to bump into you. I still have the paper and I need a good writer. Drink this milk and eat these sandwiches. We will go back to Los Angeles together.”
I told Ganzo that I was ready. We rushed to the station. In the bus, warm with the thought of seeing my brother again, I told Ganzo humorous stories of my childhood in Mangusmana.
“You should write those stories,” he said.
“I will, Ganzo,” I said.
“Why not practice on my paper?”
It seemed a brilliant idea. “Why not?”
“You shouldn’t get drunk again,” he said almost paternally. “You are the only one left in our crowd. Now, those stories. When you arrive in Los Angeles, get a job and start writing again.”
“It will be the last pull, Ganzo,” I said. “I have tried it several times. If I fail again, it will be horrible. I could become the most vicious Filipino criminal in America.”
“That is why you must not fail this time, Carl,” he said. “You’ve got to succeed for all our sakes.”
“I’m afraid,” I said.
And I was really afraid. . . .
CHAPTER XLVI
I tried to find a job in Los Angeles, but the only thing I could get was manual labor too heavy for me. I even had the temerity to apply at the offices of the large daily newspapers. I knew without doubt that I could not get a job from them, but I thought I would try. I helped Ganzo put out an edition of his paper and went to San Pedro, where the fish canneries were just opening for the season. On my second day of work, when I was walking along the waterfront, I met Nick on his way to one of the canneries. I did not know that he had left Portland when he had been discharged from the union.
One day standing in the slight rain, waiting for the cannery to open, I wrote a short, reminiscent story entitled “The Laughter of my Father.” I stuck it in my hat and forgot all about it; when I came upon it nearly two years afterward, I found the literary opportunity for which I had been working so hard. But in San Pedro, when Ganzo came back from his monthly tour around California for advertisements, I wrote for his newspaper without a byline. I was not paid for my work, but it was something I knew. The variety of my writings in Ganzo’s paper was to become a valuable asset in later years.
I found out that Nick was trying a new territory, now that he was through with the canneries in Alaska. One night he invited me to go to a house not far from my hotel, and in the living room, discussing in whispers, were several cannery workers: Japanese, Mexicans, Filipinos, and white Americans. The woman of the house, a big Yugoslav, was possessed of a dynamic personality. She dominated the group, but her gentleness was unmistakable. Sometimes her husband, a longshoreman, came late at night and joined our discussion.
I felt something growing inside me again. There was the same thing in each of them that possessed me: their common faith in the working man. I sat with them and listened eagerly. Sometimes I participated in the discussions. Then it came to me that we were all fighting against one enemy: Fascism. It was in every word and gesture, every thought.
My brother Macario was also awakening to a new decade’s demands. When I went to Los Angeles to see him, I met strange people in his room. They talked wisely and sometimes exuberantly. But always they were honest, eager, gentle. They were ordinary laborers, but none of them was conscious of the kind of work the other did. It seemed to me that they were bound by a common understanding that shone in the room.
I was slowly becoming a part of their thoughts and hopes. Here at last was the configuration of my labors and aspirations. In San Pedro, among the cannery workers, the old men started attending our meetings. They spoke out their minds in broken English, but always with sincerity and passion. I was amazed to find that they were politically informed. Then it came to me how absolutely necessary it was to acquaint the Filipinos with the state of the nation.
* * *
—
When the fishing season in San Pedro was over, I left for a small agricultural town called Nipomo. I worked with a crew of pea pickers. I found a new release. The land had always been important to me. I felt my old peasant heritage returning with fresh nourishment. I knew that my future was linked with these tillers of the soil, from whose common source I had sprung.
I started a little workers’ school and invited the pea pickers. They were shy at first, but as the days went by, they became more natural and then bold. They were interested in American history. I quoted from memory, remembering the hundreds of books that I had read in the hospital. I traced the growth of democracy in the United States, illustrating the achievements of each epoch with the contributions of its dominant personality.
Then the old men who spoke little English began to participate in the discussions. When I pointed out that the advance of democracy was related to the working man’s struggle for better wages and living conditions, I felt a warm feeling of humanity growing inside me. It was easy for them to understand me, and I understood their bold, broken thoughts. I understood the simplicity of their hearts, the eagerness of their faces.
I left Nipomo before the season was over, giving my place to a young man who was the most alert among them. I knew that he would finish my pioneering work among the pea pickers. I went to Betteravia, a town fifteen miles away. In this little town, nestling like dried mushrooms, were Filipino and Mexican sugar beet workers. I worked with them and started another class. But unlike the Filipinos in Nipomo, these men were religious and wanted their discussions salted with biblical parables.
I went to Santa Maria and bought a Bible. I started my lectures on American history, but always went back to the Bible for historical analogies. I talked about the flight of Moses and his tribe; the sorrows of Ruth among an alien people; the enduring patience of a grand old man named Job. As I spoke to them, and beyond them, I thought of an earlier time in Binalonan when my brother Macario was explaining the message of Moses in the Old Testament. Now, here among common laborers, I understood the full significance of Moses’s flight from the enemy of his people.
“All these persecutions happened a long time ago in an ancient land,” I told them. “But they are significant to us because we are undergoing similar persecutions. We who came to the United States as immigrants are Americans too. All of us were immigrants—all the way down the line. We are Americans all who have toiled for this land, who have made it rich and free. But we must not demand from America, because she is still our unfinished dream. Instead we must sacrifice for her: let her grow into bright maturity through our labors. If necessary we must give up our lives that she might grow unencumbered.”
Their eyes glowed with a new faith. They nodded with deep reverence. This was what I had been looking for in America! To make my own kind understand this vast land from our own experiences. When I was sure that I had implanted the seed of my message, I gave my place to a Mexican. I felt that I had done my job well in Betteravia.
I went to Pescadero, among the brown hills of Central California. I went from town to town, forming workers’ classes and working in the fields. I knew that I was also educating myself. I was learning from the men. I was rediscovering myself in their lives. They had been exiled from me for years. But now we were together again. I felt my faith extending toward a future that shone with a new hope.
* * *
—
When I went to Monterey I again found José. I had been separated from him for a whole year, and I was eager to know what he was doing. He took me to a little wooden house not far from the sea. When I sat on a bench to look at the pile of political magazines on a table, José disappeared for a moment and came back with a bottle of wine. He gave me a glass and started telling me about his work.
“I have been teaching the history of unionism,” he said.
> “It’s strange!” I exclaimed.
“You have been doing the same, Carl?” he asked.
“Yes,” I said. “But we are not alone. Your brother Nick is doing it too. And my brother Macario, in his own way, among the city workers. It seems so long ago that we started the education of our people.”
“You remember that night in Oxnard? And in San Jose? I thought I would never live to see you again.”
“The revolution is not far off,” I said, laughing. “I will live to see it.”
“Then the real work will begin!” José shouted.
I was sure now that we were at last beginning to play our own role in the turbulent drama of history. I did not understand it then, did not realize that this was the one and only common thread that bound us together, white and black and brown, in America. I felt a great surge of happiness inside me!
I jumped to my feet and walked around to stop the tears of joy that were appearing at the edges of my eyes. Our awakening was spontaneous: it grew from our experiences and our responses to them. A long time ago in Los Angeles, when we had been less articulate, my brother Macario had spoken of America in the hearts of men. Now I understood what he meant, for it was this small yet vast heart of mine that had kept me steering toward the stars.
I had not noticed that several men and women had come into the house. Some of the men were hanging electric bulbs in the yard. When everybody had arrived, a Mexican girl distributed the gifts. Where had I seen this fraternity before? Was it in Mangusmana among the peasants?
I saw a Chinese farmer coming toward me with a sack of rice. He dumped it laughingly in front of me and said:
“You! You! You!”
I laughed, too, because I knew that it was for me. I touched his rough hand.
“Thank you,” I said.
He laughed and the sincere ring of his laughter filled the house. Then he turned around and disappeared in the crowd. I went outside and two Filipinos followed me. I walked down the block and stopped under a pepper tree. A Mexican came running to me with a jug of wine. He uncorked it. I took it from him.
“Good vino, no?” he said.
“First class,” I shouted in the wind.
“It’s first class vino, all right,” he said, tilting the jug above his mouth.
I took it from him again. Then the orchestra in the yard began to play. The men and women started dancing. I could see the glow of their shiny heads in the pale light.
The Mexican was listening eagerly to the music. “Vamos—dance!” he said suddenly.
I ran toward the house, the half-filled jug gurgling under my arm. The Mexican was running beside me and slapping the cobwebs of drunkenness from his face.
CHAPTER XLVII
One Sunday afternoon as I sat in a bar, the radio suddenly blared into my consciousness:
JAPAN BOMBS PEARL HARBOR!
My first thought was for my brother Macario. I ran to his hotel, past the people in the lobby, and up to his room. Joe Tauro was there, listening attentively to my brother’s portable radio.
“It has come, Carlos!” he shouted.
Macario came out of the bathroom and stood behind Joe. I stood facing them, our thoughts running back to the Philippines. Suddenly Joe slumped to the floor and burst into tears, beating the chair with his fists. My brother lifted him to his feet and motioned to me to follow them. We went out of the hotel and walked aimlessly in the streets. Somewhere on Broadway Street we came upon José, who had just arrived from Monterey with his son.
“The end has come, Carl,” he said sorrowfully.
I could not say anything: it was impossible to think now. I took his son’s hand and walked on with them, thinking of the time when I was a little boy and Macario had come home from Lingayen for a visit. I had been José’s son’s age then, and the day had been like this one; I had walked comfortably between my father and Macario toward our house. I looked at the boy with sadness.
I thought, “Will another war wreck your life? Will you be another lost person on the earth?”
Silently we walked to Joe’s apartment, on Sunset Boulevard, where he lived alone. Joe went into the kitchen and came out with a quart bottle of bourbon. He and my brother did not drink, but the time had come for them to try it. José drank a whole glass: soon he started shouting drunkenly and kicking at his wooden leg. Joe jumped to his feet and ripped off the wall a portrait of our national hero and began slashing it savagely with a knife.
My brother was sitting stupidly on the couch. He was trying to drink like José. Why were we confused by the war? Was there nothing we could do? I realized that we had been but little boys when we had left the Philippines, and what childhood memories we cherished were enhanced by the frustration and bitterness of our life in America.
I felt deeply sad that my brother Luciano was dead. He was a good soldier: he could have fought in defense of his country. But where was my brother Leon? He should know about war because he had fought in Europe. I had not heard from him since he had left our village. My father was also a soldier—but he, too, was dead. And my mother! What would happen to her and my two sisters? Suddenly I felt an acute remorse. Why hadn’t I written to them when there was plenty of time?
I drank and remembered other years. When evening came more friends dropped in at Joe’s apartment, and we talked excitedly, remembered childhood names, got drunk, and shouted angry words at each other without provocation. The war rekindled our loneliness with a queer poignancy.
I left first, wanting fresh air. They followed me, falling on the hedges along the dark passageway and rolling down the cement pavement. Macario and José were holding each other, singing the Internationale and weeping like two children. Around the next block, on Temple Street, a Mexican night club was in full swing. I followed my companions down the dark stairway and we spread out in the cocktail room.
A semi-nude girl entertainer was singing White Christmas, but she stopped suddenly and crumpled to the floor. Another entertainer appeared from somewhere, straightened up the microphone and began dancing, peeling off her scanty garments one after the other until she leaped into the middle of the dance floor completely nude. The drunken men screamed, throwing coins, hats and shoes at her. Then a man extricated himself from the crowd and, staggering toward her, grabbed her in his arms and swung her about in drunken ecstasy.
I saw it too late. Three men sprang from their tables and jumped on the man holding the entertainer. There was an uproar, men pushing chairs and tables, women running and screaming. I grabbed José and pulled him beneath the table. I saw my brother struggling toward the stairway. He ducked under a table and crept slowly to the door. I saw him climbing up the cement steps like a baby too weak to use his legs. He was swallowed by the darkness in the street.
I heard sirens screaming, coming toward the place; then, when I was about to run to the door, I saw a special police patrol rush into the bar. The disorder was stopped immediately. Tables and chairs were smashed. But the bottles were untouched. The manager came forward and explained to the peace officers that he would not press charges against anyone.
I left, beckoning to José to follow me to the restaurant across the street. My brother Amado, who had disappeared a year before, was sitting at a table with Conrado Torres. I did not know that Conrado was in town either, because he had returned to Seattle when Mary had left our apartment.
“The delegates arrived today,” José said to me.
“What delegates?” I asked.
“Don’t you remember our conversation in Monterey?” José said.
I sat on a stool, remembering. Then it came to me: I had suggested to José a conference of labor and social leaders in Los Angeles. Inspired by my educational experiment among the agricultural workers, I had considered the possibility of co-ordinating our work and of creating a flexible educational system for Filipino laborers in California.
“They are all damned,” he said.
Amado reached for his necktie. “Don’t talk like that in front of a gentleman!” he shouted, shaking Conrado vigorously.
“Who is a gentleman in this stinking whorehouse?” Conrado asked, slapping away Amado’s hand.
They punched each other in the face. They got up and pulled themselves into a narrow corner. The men moved away. Conrado grabbed my brother around the neck, but Amado wound his leg around Conrado, and they crashed to the floor. Suddenly two girls came in and sat at a table. Conrado and Amado looked up tentatively, stopped punching each other, jumped to their feet and joined the girls.
“Beer!” Conrado shouted.
“You are cute,” one of the girls said.
My brother started laughing with the other girl. I was angry. I hated all of them, and I despised their weaknesses. I could not understand what was happening to them. Was the war breaking them? I wanted to run away from them. I looked at José sadly and left the restaurant.
“Please, God, make me strong,” I said to myself.
* * *
—
But the confusion that created havoc in the lives of my friends lasted only a few days. We rushed to the recruiting offices when they were opened, and volunteered for service. We were refused, since we were classified as aliens in the National Selective Service Act. Our fight to become naturalized American citizens some years before, which had been opposed by the officials of the Philippine government in Washington, now became important and significant. I felt a personal bitterness toward a past Philippine Commissioner to the United States, whose arrogance when I had presented the subject of citizenship to him revealed his incompetence and opportunism, for he later readily collaborated with the Japanese enemy during the occupation.
When Binalonan was crushed by a special tank detachment that rushed from Tayug toward Manila, I went to the nearest recruiting office. As I stood in line waiting for my turn, I thought of a one-legged American Revolutionary patriot of whom I had read. But Filipinos were not being accepted. I ran to José’s room and told him to contact the remnants of the delegates.
America Is in the Heart Page 34
