I became interested in politics in my U.S. history class during my junior year. Miss Kellog, the teacher, required our class to follow the 1960 presidential campaign. She talked about Vice President Richard Nixon and Senator John F. Kennedy as though she knew them personally. “It’s your responsibility as citizens to be informed about what’s happening in politics,” she said often. “Our democracy depends on it.” Few students shared her enthusiasm. I paid close attention because I was interested and because I wanted Miss Kellog and my classmates to think I was an American citizen.
One of her class assignments was for us to ask our parents their opinion on politics and the presidential campaign. Papá, who was in one of his bad moods, did not want to talk about it, but Mamá finally convinced him. “I don’t know much,” Papá said. “I didn’t go to school, but I can tell you that in Mexico the rich have all the power. They choose the president, not the people. They tell us we have a vote, but it means nothing.”
“But here it’s different,” I said. “This is a democracy.”
“That’s what they say, but I believe the rich rule here too,” he said. “And the rich don’t care about poor people.”
“How do you know?” I asked, forgetting that Papá did not like us to question him. He gave me a stern look.
“Because I’ve lived many years,” he responded in a harsh tone of voice. His lips were thin and pale. “I have seen it with my own eyes,” he added. He got up from the table and went into his room and slammed the door. Mamá looked at me and shook her head.
“Do you agree with him?” I asked.
“Not completely,” she responded, glancing at Papá’s room. “I think he’s right about the government in Mexico, but in this country . . .” She hesitated for a moment and then continued, “I heard on the radio that Kennedy will help poor people.”
“So you’re in favor of the Democratic Party,” I said.
“I am in favor of Kennedy. That’s all I know,” she said.
If he gets elected, he’ll help people like us, I thought. At that moment, I decided to be for Kennedy and the Democratic Party from then on.
The next day in class we continued talking about the two presidential candidates. Some students supported Nixon, others favored Kennedy. Miss Kellog did not take sides, but I figured she must have preferred Kennedy because her eyes sparkled whenever she talked about him. Besides, I could not imagine her not supporting the candidate who wanted to aid the poor. When I found out that Kennedy came from a wealthy family, I knew for sure that Papá was wrong about rich people, but I never said anything to him. I knew better.
The next class assignment was for us to watch the presidential debates on television, take notes, and discuss them in class. I missed all four of the debates because I had to work. I did not participate in class discussions, but I listened carefully, always rooting for Kennedy.
At the end of the semester, after the elections, we were to turn in a scrapbook with all the articles about the campaign published in the Santa Maria Times, the local newspaper. We did not get the paper at home, so at work every day I picked up the discarded newspaper from the day before, took it home, and piled it in the shed next to our barrack. I spent one Sunday evening putting the scrapbook together. I brought out the stack of papers and placed them on the kitchen table. Roberto sat next to me, helping me clip articles. Mamá ironed while she listened to the Spanish radio station. “You have enough paper there to plug every hole in all the barracks in Bonetti Ranch,” Mamá said, laughing. I explained what I was doing. “I am glad Kennedy won,” she said. “He gives us hope.”
“I am too,” I said, glancing at her and continuing to work. She smiled and turned off the radio. I reread some of the articles and read others for the first time. “I can’t believe this!” I exclaimed as I finished reading an editorial on the results of the presidential election.
“What?” Mamá asked, leaning over the ironing board.
“Did you know that some people didn’t vote for Kennedy because he is Catholic?” I said, raising my voice and slamming the paper on the table.
“Why are you surprised?” Roberto said, pushing back his chair and leaning back. “Some people don’t like Mexicans and wouldn’t vote for them either.” I knew he was thinking about Susan.
“But why?” I felt upset and angry. “Papá said we should respect everyone.”
“It’s true, mijo,” Mamá said, “but some people are blinded by the devil. He plants evil seeds in their hearts.”
Papá appeared in the doorway. “What’s all the fuss about?” he said, looking annoyed. He winced as he pulled out a chair and slowly sat next to Roberto.
“Panchito doesn’t understand why some people don’t like Mexicans,” Mamá said, walking over and massaging Papá’s shoulders.
“Or Catholics,” I quickly added.
“Because people are ignorant,” Papá said. “I am proud of being Catholic and Mexican and you must be too.”
“I am,” Roberto, said, “but some aren’t. The janitor at Main Street School who is Mexican told me that Panchito and I could pass for Americans because we’re light. ‘Don’t tell people you’re Mexican,’ he said. ‘You could easily pass for Americans.’”
“Qué lástima,” Mamá said.
“Yes, it’s a pity,” Roberto agreed.
“I never hide that I am Mexican,” I said. “I am proud of it too. Besides, even if I tried to hide it, I couldn’t; my accent gives me away. My friends tell me they can cut it with a knife.”
“A knife! You need a machete,” Roberto said. We all laughed.
It was late in the evening when I finally finished reading and pasting the last article. Everyone had gone to bed. I reread the editorial and thought of Susan and Peggy and became angry again. I felt like shredding it. I closed the scrapbook and went to bed. I had a hard time falling asleep.