I returned to Santa Clara in the fall to begin my third year in college. I had spent the summer in Santa Maria living with my family, missing my father, but keeping busy by working full-time for the Southern Counties Gas Company doing odd jobs: cleaning the yard, helping in the warehouse, and painting gas meters in various locations, from Lompoc in the south to Paso Robles in the north. On weekends I worked with my brother doing janitorial work for the Santa Maria Window Cleaners. Unlike my two previous years, I began my junior year without having to borrow money to attend school. I applied for and got a prefect job, which paid for my room and board, and received scholarships from Santa Clara that covered tuition. I continued working on campus as a research assistant and reader for Dr. Hardman de Bautista and as a language lab monitor.
I moved into Walsh Hall, room 102, which was adjacent to Father John Shanks's residence. My new roommate, James Clark, was a graduate student preparing to become a high school teacher. He was small and thin and had a narrow face, short brown hair parted to the side, and a sweet, high-pitched voice. He was meticulously clean and neat. Nothing of his was ever out of place. Every day he went to bed at eleven and got up at six a.m. On Sunday mornings he often went home, right after eight o'clock Mass, to visit his family in Healdsburg. Like Smokey, he was a sports fanatic. He regularly listened to baseball games on the radio and commented on every player. When a fielder made an error, James shouted at him and wigwagged his arms, making him look like a fragile windmill. As prefects, he and I shared duties, enforcing dorm rules, but we did not socialize together. We saw each other in the evenings and sometimes on weekends, but hardly ever when sports games were broadcast on the radio.
Besides having a different roommate and an additional job that year, I entered my junior year under a new class schedule called the Santa Clara Plan, which was a switch from the semester system to a modified quarter system. Juniors and seniors took only three five-unit classes. This new plan made it easier for me to concentrate on fewer subjects at a time and to get more involved in Sodality.
As a member of Sodality, I decided to participate in the Amigos Anonymous Cell, which was one of three cells I could join in the organization. I helped prepare college students to work in the poorer areas of Mexico during the summer by tutoring them in the Spanish language and culture. Periodically, Sodalists broke into smaller cells to discuss vanous contemporary issues. I attended a cell meeting on the topic of interfaith marriages one Wednesday afternoon. The discussion had already started when I entered the meeting room. There were about eleven students in the group, most of them male seniors, sitting around a worn wooden rectangular table. I pulled out a chair and sat behind a student who was sitting at one end of the table. As usual, I kept quiet and listened. I did not feel comfortable speaking in groups, especially in English. Students calmly discussed the pros and cons of marrying someone from a different religious faith. There was general agreement that it would be preferable to marry someone who had the same religious beliefs.
The relaxed discussion turned into a heated debate about interracial marriages and prejudice, which brought painful memories. Roberto's girlfriend in high school had not been allowed by her parents to date him because he was Mexican. I remembered the sorrow and humiliation in his face when he first told me about it.
"There's discrimination in our society," one student argued, "I am glad President Johnson signed the Civil Rights Act, outlawing discrimination."
"Laws can't end discrimination," another student countered.
"Of course not, but laws can control harmful acts."
"Not always—look at what happened to Michael Schwerner this past summer. He was killed by the Ku Klux Klan because he got involved in the civil rights movement. He was helping Mississippi blacks to register to vote. Besides, what is lawful is not always right. For example, slavery was legal in our country for many years. Was it right?"
"Are you saying that the Civil Rights Act is not a good thing?"
"No, what I am saying is that we sometimes make bad laws."
He turned red, looked down, cleared his throat, and said, "I don't have any prejudices, but it bothers me a lot when we do things for fun and people get upset." He went on to describe how some college students had chased down a couple of Mexican high school kids and jokingly threatened to cut off their long hair. They were accused of being prejudiced. "They were just having a good time," he added.
I could not believe my ears. I glanced around. Some students frowned; others raised their eyebrows and shook their heads.
Joe, a tall and gangly senior, stood up and said, "Let's be honest here. I don't think any of US thinks it's a good idea to have interracial marriages. I wouldn't want my sister or daughter to marry a Mexican..."
I telt as if I had been kicked in the stomach. I tuned out immediately. I tightened my lips, stood up, and stormed out of the room. Halfway down the halt, I heard Joe running behind me, yelling, "Frank, Frank, wait. I'm sorry." I stopped and faced him. "I am very sorry," he said frantically. "I didn't know you were Mexican."
"You should feel sorry for yourself." I glared at him. "You're the one who has the problem." I raised my voice and repeated, "You should feel sorry for yourself." He looked stunned and confused. I turned around and walked off.
For a long time after that, I wondered how many others felt the way he did but hid those feelings from me because they knew I was Mexican.