I could hardly contain myself. It was Sunday, September third, the last day of work before school started. Tomorrow I would start my freshman year at Santa Maria High School on the first day of classes. I would not have to move to Fresno to pick grapes and cotton and miss school for two and a half months. My shoulders felt light even though I was tired.
“I have never seen you so happy, mijo,” Mamá said when we got home from work.
“He’s excited because he gets to ride to school with me,” Roberto said, slapping me on the back.
My brother was going into his junior year. He should have graduated last year, but, like me, he had failed first grade because he did not speak English well enough. He fell behind another year because he missed so much school. Every year, for nine years, he started school sometime in January, after the cotton season was over.
“He kept right up with me the whole day,” Roberto said. “I couldn’t believe it. What did you put in his tacos?”
“Same thing I put in yours,” she responded, chuckling. “Puros frijoles.”
“That explains it,” Roberto said laughing. “Beans will do it every time.”
That evening I tried reading a few more pages of Dr. Doolittle, but I could not focus. I put the book down and laid out on the bed the clothes I was going to wear for school: a new pair of tan corduroy pants, a white T-shirt, and a light brown sleeveless vest with black buttons. Roberto suggested that I wear blue jeans because most boys wore them in high school, but I did not want to wear the same type of pants I wore to work. I took a bath and scrubbed my hands with bleach to get rid of the strawberry stains. I whistled and sang, forgetting that my brothers had to take a bath too. “Are you stuck in there?” Roberto shouted, knocking on the shed door several times. I quickly stepped out of the tub, dried myself, and put on my underwear and pants. “It’s about time, Panchito,” my brother said as I walked past him. “Your hands look like prunes.”
The next morning I got up extra early to get ready for school. I wore my Saint Christopher medal outside my T-shirt to show it off. Papá walked by me without saying a word and went outside to warm up the DeSoto to go to work. He looked tired and sad. The dark circles under his eyes were darker than usual, and he had not bothered to shave. He hardly touched his breakfast. He grabbed his black lunch pail from the table, glanced at Roberto and me, and left. “What’s wrong with Papá?” I asked. “I haven’t seen him this sad all summer.”
“He’s in one of his bad moods, mijo,” Mamá said. “He’s gotten worse ever since our strawberry acres were ruined. You know that. He complained all night about his back and took several aspirins, but they didn’t seem to help. He’s also upset because you boys are not going to work with him. He hates working alone.”
“Sometimes I think he doesn’t like us to go to school,” I said.
“Oh, he does, Panchito,” Mamá said. “Why do you say that?”
“The other night when I was reading Dr. Doolittle, Papá asked me why I liked school so much. I told him I liked learning and wanted to be a teacher. And do you know what he said?”
“What?” Roberto asked.
“He said, ‘Don’t be stupid. Only rich people become teachers.’ He walked away before I had a chance to say anything. He made me really mad.”
“I am glad you didn’t say anything,” Roberto said. “When he’s in a bad mood, it’s better not to talk to him.”
“But maybe he was testing you,” Mamá said. “Sometimes he says things to make you think. You know how he is.”
“Well, he made me mad,” I repeated.
“Hey, we’d better get going. It’s getting late,” Roberto said, glancing at the clock. As my brother and I drove on South Broadway on our way to Santa Maria High School, I felt the same as I had when I started first grade: excited but nervous. I watched the reflection of Roberto’s 1953 green Buick on the storefront windows along the way. The car looked like a fish in a bowl. At times it appeared large and long, and at other times it looked small and scrunched. I recalled taking this same route in the Border Patrol car, the year before, to pick up Roberto. A lot of things happened to us in less than a year, I thought. I wonder what this year will be like.
Roberto parked the car in the student parking lot, behind the boys’ gym, next to the football field. The lot was filling up quickly with cars that looked like large insects. Some were lowered in the front and painted in bright metallic colors, like candy apple red, and had tucked and rolled upholstery in white or black. I followed other incoming freshmen into Wilson Gym, which smelled like dirty socks. I had never seen so many students. We filled the bleachers on both sides of the gym. A red and white banner with the school’s motto, “Enter to Learn, Go Forth to Serve,” hung from the ceiling. The principal gave us information about the school and our schedule of classes. He then introduced the student body president, who welcomed us and told us that our school mascot was a saint. He informed us that we would be known as the Class of 1962 of the Santa Maria High School Saints. I liked the sound of it, and I knew Mamá would too. We were also told that classes would officially start the following day and that we should meet with our counselor to discuss our class schedule.
After the meeting I asked for directions to the administration building and rushed to see my counselor, Mr. Kinkade. I ran across campus, noticing many old buildings with red tile roofs. They reminded me of some of the houses in Tlaquepaque, the small town in Mexico where I was born. Tile corridors with arches that looked onto a large courtyard with beautiful gardens connected the buildings in the oldest part of campus. My counselor’s office was in the old main administration building, next to the attendance office. I went through one of the long corridors to get to it.
Mr. Kinkade sat at his desk, which was piled with folders and papers. Behind him was a tall, dark brown bookcase full of thick binders and books. To his left was a window that looked out onto the courtyard. He was dressed in a gray suit and a light blue bow tie. His thick hair was peppered with white and combed back. After he introduced himself, he picked up a folder with my name on it and said, “I see you graduated from El Camino Junior High School. Have you thought of what you want to do after high school?” Before I had a chance to answer, he added, “We have excellent vocational programs in car mechanics, electronics, and wood shop. We also have a program for future farmers.”
“I’d like to be a teacher,” I responded, thinking about Mr. Lema, my sixth-grade teacher, who had helped me with English during the lunch hours when I was far behind in my class because I had missed so many weeks of school.
“Oh, I see,” he said, straightening up and leaning forward. “So you’re planning to go to college.”
“College?” I said.
“Yes, college,” he said, amused. “You need to go to college to be a teacher. It’s five years of study beyond high school. It can be expensive.”
Maybe that’s what Papá meant when he said only rich people became teachers, I thought.
“But,” he quickly added, “if you get excellent grades, you can get scholarships.”
“Scholarships?” I did not know what the word meant.
“It’s gift money given to students with excellent grades to attend college.”
I perked up. “So, if I get good grades, I can get free money to go to college?” I wanted to make sure I’d heard him right.
“That’s correct,” he said. He opened the folder and ran his index finger down the page. “I see you have good grades, especially in math, but your grades in English are not as good,” he said.
“I know,” I said apologetically. “But I am working on it.”
“Good. Now, let’s see here,” he said, looking at my schedule. “Let’s substitute typing for wood shop and put you in an algebra class.” He handed me the revised schedule and added, “You’re set.”
“Thank you very much,” I said, shaking his hand. I walked out of his office feeling less nervous about school and more excited than ever.
The following day, when I got to my first P.E. class, I was surprised to see my teacher dressed in red shorts. Men don’t wear shorts, I said to myself. He also wore a white T-shirt and white tennis shoes. He was short and slim and had a crewcut. Around his neck hung a whistle, which he used to get our attention instead of calling us by name. He emphasized our being on time and suiting up. Suiting up meant having to buy a uniform just like his and wearing it for P.E. every day. I hated having to wear shorts as much as I had disliked having to wear suspenders when I was in elementary school. But I had no choice. If we did not suit up right, we would lose points, which hurt our grade.
The coach walked us to the locker room, assigned us a locker for our gym clothes, and showed us the shower room. He informed us that at the end of every class period we had to take a shower. Everyone moaned except me. I was excited. Roberto had told me about how great it was to take showers at school. He even brought his own soap. I decided to bring my own soap too. This part made up for having to wear shorts.
My last period in the morning was typing. The classroom was off a dark hall, on the south side of the school. Small, framed windows covered the wall facing Main Street School and on the opposite wall hung long and narrow blackboards. There were several rows of tables with typewriters, spaced out every three feet.
In contrast to my P.E. coach, the typing teacher was well dressed. He had on a blue suit with wide lapels and a white and blue striped tie, and he wore a gold ring on the little finger of his right hand. He paced up and down in front of the classroom, explaining what he expected of us. “In this class you’re not only going to learn to type,” he said, “you’re also going to learn to be fast and accurate. Your grade will be based on speed and accuracy. I would suggest you practice typing at home or come here after school.” How am I going to practice? I thought. We don’t have a typewriter at home, and I have to work after school. I went through my other classes worrying about typing class.
I liked my social studies and algebra classes in the afternoon. My social studies teacher, Mrs. Dorothy Taylor, was a small, thin woman with short, curly hair and light blue eyes. She used a lot of make-up. After telling us about the class, she showed us a black-and-white film about a teenager who argues with his father. The boy wants to go out with his friends on a school night, but his father does not let him. The father picks up his son’s books, shoves them at him, and tells him to go to his room and study. The son throws the books on the floor, runs to his room, and slams the door shut. Mrs. Taylor moved around the room quickly, like a mosquito, encouraging us to talk about the film. The class thought the son was wrong for throwing the books, but they agreed that it was okay for him to argue with his father. I thought it was strange, because at home we were taught that it was disrespectful to argue with our parents, especially our father. If we disagreed with Papá, we kept our opinions to ourselves. I did not say anything in class, but I thought a lot about it.
I went to algebra, my last-period class, feeling confident because I had always done well in math. My teacher, Mr. Ivan Coe, was a tall, wiry man. His small brown eyes darted around the room and he took quick, short steps like a duck. He told us he had an excellent memory and proved it by taking roll and then calling each one of us by name without looking at his roll sheet. He then asked us to give him double-digit numbers up to twenty to multiply in his head. He shot back the answers instantly, never making a mistake. Like our typing teacher, Mr. Coe said he would grade us on speed and accuracy. He promised to give us pop quizzes once a week and to return the results the following day. As an example, he gave us a fifteen-minute math exam and had us correct it in class. I did well. After his class, I decided to write down double-digit multiplication tables on postcards and memorize them while I worked. I wanted to be as good as Mr. Coe.