Always Running (25 page)

I wrote the three plays we performed. One involved a dramatic verse monologue of a Chicana about to be arrested by the cops. Another involved a one-act about being proud of our culture. But the most controversial one dealt with getting Lomas and Sangra to stop fighting each other.

This play began with someone from Sangra crossing out Lomas on a huge, piece of white paper pasted on a wall. Then the action moved toward a point when the dudes from both neighborhoods go at each other. The upshot is as the two barrios fight, local government officials are on the side determining the site of a new mall or where the next freeway will go while making plans to uproot the very land the dudes were killing each other for.

“Who wants to play the dude crossing out Lomas?” I asked. Nobody raised their hands.

“What’s the matter, it’s only a play.”

“Hey, Louie, we ain’t about to cross out the Hills,” Chuy said. “I know what you’re trying to say, but somebody might get hurt.”

I decided to play this part; I had to stand by my play.

We presented the productions at a joint cultural event sponsored by ToHMAS, MASO and HUNTOS. That day, a large grouping of dudes from Lomas came by and sat in the back. They acknowledged me, but I had to go through with the play.

When we finished, a few dudes stormed out yelling “Lomas Rifa.”

But for those who stayed, we discussed ending the warfare between the barrios. Then Esme’s portrayal of the Chicana getting beaten by the cops, in rhymed verse, helped keep the spirits high.

The wheels of progress turned too slowly. While we kept up with ToHMAS activities, the school could not keep up with all the students’ needs. Red tape and outright opposition stalled Project Student. Then one night a group of white kids broke into the school and spray-painted the walls surrounding the Chicano Student Center with stuff such as:
Mexicans Go Home! Greasers Stink! Remember The Alamo!

Esme called a meeting to determine what should be done.

“We should draw up some demands,” Amelia suggested.

“That’s right. People are still prejudiced here,” said Flora.

“Well, what do we ask for? They’ve given us a lot so far—what can we get that we don’t have already?” Esme asked.

“I got an idea,” I said. “Chente over at Bienvenidos took me to the East L.A. schools. After the ‘Blowouts’ they got more Chicano teachers and even Chicano studies. This is what we need. We should demand a Chicano studies class and a Chicano teacher.”

“Maybe Mr. Pérez will teach it,” Amelia said.

“Or even Mrs. Baez—it’s a great idea. How many are for it?” Esme said. It was unanimous.

The next day we presented our plans to Mrs. Baez. I wrote up a statement with the heading:
We Demand Justice!
The statement called for the school to find the culprits who defaced the Chicano Student Center, for more Chicano teachers, and for a Chicano Studies class. But Mrs. Baez didn’t like it.

“Why? If we don’t do something the
gabachos
will try to roll back the little we’ve got,” I said.

“I think it’s too rash,” Mrs. Baez implored. “You don’t know the kind of trouble you can get into. I know Chente has introduced you to a lot of the East L.A. student leaders—but this is not Garfield High School! We are a minority in this school. We have to do things differently. We can’t just act like anybody should give us anything.”

“But the Chicanos in this school have been pushed around for too long,” Esme said. “We’re tired. Every time we try to better ourselves, we’re told to wait, to hold on, that things will get better. But it never does! We have to do something—we have to do it now.”

“I can’t support this,” Mrs. Baez said. “But you do what you feel you must.”

“We can’t do it without you,” Flora said. “And you know it.”

Then Flora walked out. Disappointment crossed over everyone’s faces. Defeat seemed to set in. But Flora’s actions gave me another idea: Why not have a school walkout like they did in East L.A.? Our demands would be for Chicano Studies, more Chicano teachers and the new classrooms, air conditioners and repairs needed as part of Project Student. It would be a walkout for our self-respect.

The word spread. Esme and the others made sure everyone talked to everyone else. Only the Chicanos were involved. I discussed with Chente what we planned to do. He wasn’t sure a walkout was a good idea, but he was willing to help us out. He ran off mimeographed copies of our demands.

The next day, everyone went to school like normal. At 10 a.m., the students were to walk out of their classrooms and assemble in front of the school.

“Do you think they’ll do it, Louie?” Esme asked, while on our way to classes that morning.

“I don’t know. But we’ll soon find out.”

In my history class, I kept an eye on the clock. As soon as the hands struck the magical hour, I grabbed my books and then proceeded out the door.

“Rodríguez, where do you think you’re going?” Mrs. Tuttle said, the one we called Mrs. Turtle and who treated us like we were in kindergarten. “Young man, come back here this instant!”

But I kept on walking. In the hallways, a number of students emerged out of their classes. Not a lot, but more than I had imagined. Books were dropped in the hallways. When I made it to the front steps of the school there were already 80 to 100 students converging there. Esme and the other ToHMAS members had made crudely-painted signs and gave them to the students. I grabbed a handful of the demands from a bag and passed them out. Some of the students came up and grabbed stacks of the leaflets to help get them to other students.

In a matter of minutes, we had some 300 people on the front lawn. Teachers, and those students still in classes, stuck their heads out of classroom windows. Mrs. Baez received a phone call from Mr. Madison.

“Did you know this was going to happen?” Mr. Madison said.

“No, I didn’t know about a walkout. I discouraged them, however, from presenting their demands,” Mrs. Baez explained.

“And you refused to inform me about this?” Mr. Madison yelled. “You’re supposed to tell me what’s going on—that’s why we have you here.”

“Oh, I wasn’t aware of this,” Mrs. Baez said, her voice also rising in anger. “I thought I was to be here for the students, so they can have someone to talk to and represent their interests. I didn’t know I was supposed to be your eyes and ears.”

“Mrs. Baez, come into my office right now—we’re going to have to put a stop to this,” Mr. Madison said and hung up.

When Mrs. Baez showed, Mr. Madison stood up, getting ready to do some more yelling. But Mrs. Baez interrupted him.

“Mr. Madison, you can stop right there. I am a grown woman and a mother. I am not one of your high school students. I refuse to have you talk to me in this disrespectful and condescending tone.”

“Oh you too?” Mr. Madison said. “Everybody wants respect around here. What about respect for me and this institution! We have a school to run. I can’t have the school board find out about this—I can’t let some disgruntled students ruin it for everyone.”

“I would suggest that you pay attention to these disgruntled students and stop worrying about what the school board will do,” Mrs. Baez said. “You’ve promised these children some action. So far, all they’ve received is a lot of fine talk and smiling faces. I don’t support their tactics. But I believe the worst thing to do now is to sweep this under the rug. I won’t be a part of that.”

Mr. Madison looked stunned. His Home-School Coordinator had turned the tables on him. But he knew whatever he thought of her, she was still his link to the students.

“Okay, we’ll let them have their say.”

Mr. Madison sat down and made a phone call to the Dean of Students, Mr. Walsh.

“We’re calling an assembly,” Mr. Madison said. “I want those students back into the school. And then we’ll hear what they have to say. But we won’t begin to talk unless they’re inside the school building.”

Mr. Walsh came out to the lawn. The students had been chanting: We Want Chicano Studies! We Want Justice!
¡Ya Basta!

It took some doing, but Mr. Walsh convinced us to convene in the auditorium and discuss the issues.

“Bring in the whole school,” I yelled. “You can’t separate us. We want to speak to the whole school.”

At first they refused. But finally, when it looked like the students weren’t going to budge, Mr. Walsh agreed to let all the classes gather in the auditorium.

It was a session the likes of which Mark Keppel had never seen. Esme walked up to the stage and read out the demands. White students also stood up, some in tears, crying about why we were so angry.

“What have we done to you?” one blond-haired girl demanded to know.

Some Chicano students yelled back, about being neglected, treated like second-class citizens, about being denied access to school resources.

“This is not against whites,” I said. “It’s against a system that keeps us all under its thumb. By screwing us, the school is screwing you.”

“It’s your fault,” said Stan, the student body president. “You Mexicans just don’t want to get involved; you don’t want to get ahead.”

More yelling. More heated responses. It was difficult, but this had to happen. Everything had stayed bottled up for too long. Each group doing their own thing; complaining about the other group, but not reaching out. The tears, the yelling, the talk served as good medicine for all the students.

Even some hard-nosed dudes got up to say something; some of them had never spoken out in public before. Near the end, I stepped on the stage and made a speech.

“Chicanos only want what you want,” I said. “We walk these halls together and yet we don’t know anything about each other. We’re scared of each other, we’re ignorant of each other, and then we’re surprised when people get up like this with so much hatred. It’s for a reason. There’s nothing wrong with
us!
We’re not just making this up. Something drastic has to change, or there’s going to be even more anger. More than you can imagine.”

The result: Mr. Madison approved a new course, a class on Chicano history and culture, and he offered to provide a Chicano teacher for the class. Finally, he said the school would put some meat behind Project Student; it became a school-backed initiative to present to the school board.

Esme and I hugged again. We had only just begun.

Shorty’s eyes fell; her voice cracked and tears blurred her vision.

“He’s dead, mama,” she said.

“¿Quién?”
Mama asked.
“¿Quién se murió?”

“Fernando—he killed himself last night!”

14-year-old Fernando Luna had been one of Shorty’s best friends. He was a member of the Lomas Dukes, the younger set the United Sisters usually partied with. He called himself Gallo, which means rooster. His older brother was Lencho, who was more involved in the affairs of the Hills than Fernando would ever be. Fernando was one of those guys who tried hard to belong, to be as crazy and committed as anyone. But none of us were aware how lonely he was in midst of the crowd.

His mother, Toncha, was active in the Bienvenidos Food Coop. But as a single mother, on welfare, with five boys to raise, Toncha’s hands were full—and I’m sure through no fault of her own, Fernando’s needs weren’t always met.

Shorty had been seeing a few of Fernando’s homeys, like Bosco and Conejo. And although she confided with Fernando many of her problems, they never became intimate. She saw him as a good friend; somebody she could talk to. Now it comes out: Fernando liked my sister very much.

The night before, Fernando had phoned late to talk with Shorty. Usually she was full of stories, jokes and concerns. But Shorty was in bed and tired; she gently suggested he call her back the next day.

“Or let’s talk in school,” she said. “We can get together at lunch.”

“Sure, okay,” Fernando responded; there was nothing unusual in his tone.

The next day, Toncha discovered Fernando’s body swinging from a pole in the closet.

“It’s not enough to accuse, to wail and spit on the face of all oppression—this can be ignored,” Skin said. “It takes a scientific approach to uncover the source of exploitation, to unravel society’s delicate and intricate tapestry, stitched with the skin of our mothers, the bones of our ancestors, the blood of all who toil.”

“This is why we can demand—with full moral authority—what has been stolen from us,” Ofelia said.

“And this they cannot ignore,” Skin added.

Another session with the collective, most of it held in an eloquent and educated Spanish I could not speak myself, yet I grasped everything being said.

The group aimed to train a corps of leaders. Unlike others in the Chicano Movement who strove to enter the American capitalist system, it prepared for a fundamental reorganization of society.

“It’s also time you understood whites aren’t the enemy,” Chente said. “Take that ‘tradition,’ all that energy expended against each other—what a waste!”

Others with their own answers also converged on the barrio. Born-again Christians, many of whom were ex-cons and ex-junkies, preached salvation; I attended some of their testimonials. Democrats, Republicans, libertarians and nationalists also plied their wares. Some wanted our minds, some wanted our souls—some wanted warm bodies for polling booths.

But the collective didn’t depend on powers of belief or stale promises. They were social scientists, all the time probing and summarizing.

“You don’t have to be a genius to figure out what’s in front of you,” Chente said. “Yet this is the hardest thing to do precisely because what we see is not always expressing what’s beneath it.”

“But all we know is
this
life,” I questioned. “You can’t change that!”

“Luis, change is what we’re all about,” Chente offered. “Change is constant, stagnation is relative. But change follows laws of development, a process that, if appreciated, sets the conditions by which people make their own history.”

“What we’re here to do is transform the way people have been accustomed to living,” Sergio said. “The first step is removing the shackles on our minds.”

The collective explained how workers of all colors and nationalities, linked by hunger and the same system of exploitation, have no country; their interests as a class respect no borders. To me, this was an unconquerable idea.