A couple of days before going home for the summer at the end of the spring quarter of my junior year, I received a message that my brother had called and to call him right away, collect. I figured Roberto was calling me about the letter I sent him. "It has been the best year in college so far," I had written. "I am now an American citizen and got straight-As in my classes. Please tell the rest of our family." When I returned his call from the pay phone booth on the first floor of Walsh, Roberto accepted the call and told me how proud he was of my grades and citizenship. But I could tell by the sad tone of his voice that something was wrong.
"What's the matter? You sound down." I pressed my back against the glass door to secure it shut. "Is Papa all right?"
"Yes, Panchito. He's fine." His voice cracked. "The house in Bonetti Ranch burned down. No one got hurt, thank God, but almost everything is gone."
I did not want to believe it, I lightly hit my head several times against the black pay phone casing. "How, when?" I asked.
"It happened a few of weeks ago. We—"
"Why didn't you tell me then?"
"We didn't want you to worry during finals."
I should have guessed. "I'm sorry. I'm not angry at you, Toto."
"I know, I understand."
He went on to tell me how the fire began. The electrical wiring in our barrack was faulty, which explained why the fuses blew out frequently. The wires heated up and caused a short circuit, which started the fire. Anticipating my next question, he added, "Mamá, Trampita, Torito, Rorra, and Rubén stayed with us for a few days until we found a rental house in town for them to stay. It's a bit too small for everyone, so you'll be staying with us during the summer."
After our conversation, I went to the Mission Church, knelt down, and prayed before the painting of St. Francis at the Cross. I felt depressed. This wasn't the first time our family had suffered from a fire.
Many years before, in September, the week I was to begin the seventh grade, we moved as usual to the San Joaquin Valley to harvest grapes after spending the summer picking strawberries in Santa Maria for Ito, the Japanese sharecropper. We made our new home in an old two-story yellow house located about fifteen miles outside of Orosi, a small town near Fresno. It was the first house we had ever lived in. Mr. Patrini, the owner for whom we picked grapes, told us we could not use the second level because the floors were unstable. The first floor had two rooms and a kitchen with a kerosene stove, which sat on a small table underneath a window that had plastic curtains. We bought kerosene for the stove from a gas station in town, using a five-gallon can. One day, the gas station attendant mistakenly filled the can with gasoline, which we poured into the kerosene stove. When my mother lit the range, it burst into flames, setting the wooden house on fire. Pieces of melted plastic fell to the floor, giving off dark smoke that smelled like burned rubber. Roberto picked up a dishpan full of soapy water and hurled it over the stove. It was like adding gasoline to the fire. The flames quickly spread on the floor, and by the time the firefighters came, the house had burned to the ground.
My mother had consoled me after I had lost my prized notepad in that fire. I used the small notepad to jot down words I needed to learn for school and memorized them while I worked in the fields so that I would not be too far behind when I started classes for the first time every year in November. She had reminded me to be thankful to God that none of us in the family was injured and pointed out that all was not lost because I had learned everything I had written in my notepad by heart.
When I returned to my dorm, I told Father Shanks about our house burning down and asked him to pray for my family.
A few days later, when I left for home, he gave me a sympathy note and one hundred dollars from Father William Perkins, vice president of Student Services. The note read; "Yon and your family are in my prayers."
Shortly after I arrived at my brother's house, he and I drove to see the rest of my family in our new rental home. It was a two-bedroom tract house built in the late 1940s on the west side of the city. When I walked in the door, they were as happy to see me as I was to see them. My mother looked tired but calm. She was wearing lipstick, which I had never seen her use before. "I am glad to see you." She gave me a hug.
"I am sorry the house burned down." I wasn't sure what else to say.
"Así es la vida, mijo," she said. Such is life, son. "Pero no hay mal que por bien no venga." But every dark cloud has a silver lining. She told me how it was more comfortable living there than in Bonetti Ranch. The house had a toilet and shower and the water was drinkable. "And the rent is only a little bit higher," she added.
"I'm glad, Mamá." I handed her the envelope that Father Perkins had given me. "It's a gift from the Jesuits."
She opened it. "Gracias a Dios!" she exclaimed. Her eyes welled up. "This will help us get a few more things we need. And with your summer earnings, we'll be okay."
Rubén and Rorra excitedly told me that they now could sleep longer in the mornings because they could walk to school instead of taking a bus. Torito talked about his freshman year in high school. "I wanted to take shop classes," he said, "but Mr. Penney, my counselor, told me I had to take college prep courses. 'You have to go to college,' he told me."
"Torito has a girlfriend," Rorra said.
My brother blushed and rolled his eyes.
"Show Panchito her picture," Rubén said. He and Rorra glanced at each other and giggled.
"Go on, mijo," my mother said. "Show it to him, Marcy is a very nice and beautiful girl."
Torito went to his room and brought back a small color photo of his girlfriend and handed it to me. She had a round face, brown skin, short jet black hair, and almond-shaped eyes.
"She's beautiful," I said, passing it back to him.
"Marcy is really smart," Roberto said. "She helps Torito with his homework."
I was surprised that Trampita did not tease Torito about Marcy's helping him with his schoolwork. He listened to our conversation but remained silent.
"How are things going?" I asked after a few minutes, directing my attention to him.
"Okay," he said, glancing at a smoke-damaged crucifix hanging on the wall that was salvaged from the fire.
"Just okay?"
"I like it here, but I miss Bonetti Ranch."
"Why?" Roberto asked.
"It's hard to explain. I've written a poem about it," he added.
"Read it to us," I said.
"No, I'll give it to you. You can read it later."
As Roberto and I were leaving, Trampita gave me his poem in a large manila envelope. That evening, before going to bed, I read it. The title was "Mi Casa No Longer Shames Me."
Mouth is wet
With seasons met
Recalling ...
Living in barracks
Of war's pretense
Trophies of ruins,
Old and worn
To house the scorned
For being born
Poor.
***
After school we were the first
Off the bus.
My friends asked where I lived.
Ashamed I would say:
"That one." Then I would get off
At a house that was
Not my own;
White like snow,
Grass like jade,
And walked home ashamed and confused;
Feeling used.
***
I recall that house
Ashamed I was
Of where I lived.
I never told my mamá
For I could not understand
This feeling I knew
Was not right
That I should feel ashamed
Of the warmth she gave,
Of the home she made.
***
We finally moved to town.
It was after that night
That I came home
And found our house
Burning down.
The sky was red
With flames it spat,
Flashing lights, fire trucks,
Faces made of stone.
All hope gone,
Destroyed by the flames
Of mighty feat.
Eyes watering, flooding our sighs
Already so familiar with pain,
Wondering why our tears did not
Extinguish those flames.
My soul died again and again.
I've visited that place again
Many times.
Still, families live there.
New faces, familiar sounds,
Familiar souls.
Yes! I recall that house.
The casa that no longer
Shames me.
The next morning I drove to Bonetti Ranch and visited the place where our barrack once stood. Only bits of broken glass and scorched metal and twisted wire and ashes remained. The large pepper tree that had provided shade was also damaged. Its charred branches hung down, mourning the loss of a good friend. I remained there for a long time remembering our old barrack, which provided us with shelter for so many years, protecting us from cold, wind, and rain, and from an outside world that at times was confusing and unfriendly.