Breaking Through (12 page)

"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.

Many of my classmates knew I was Mexican and those who did not found out when I participated in Junior Scandals, an annual event sponsored by the junior class. Marvin Bell, our junior class president, who sat next to me in Miss Kellog's class, asked me to be part of it that year. "Frankie, how about doing something for Junior Scandals?" he said enthusiastically as we walked into class.

"What is it?" I asked.

"Okay, class, let's get settled," Miss Kellog said, directing her attention to Marvin and me.

"Here, read this," he whispered. He handed me a copy of
The Breeze,
the school newspaper, and pointed to the article on the front page.

I glanced at the article. It read "Junior Scandals Slated for March Showing." I folded it and placed it underneath my desk. At the end of class, Marvin again insisted.

"You gotta help our class, man. Don't chicken out." He gave me a slight shove and added, "I am counting on you."

I read the article during study hall.

 

Attention student body! "Tenth Anniversary," this year's Junior Scandals, will be presented Friday, March
4,
beginning at
8:00
p.m.
in the boys' gym. Pantomimes, dancing, singing, the familiar chorus line, and a boys' fashion show will be a few of the acts. Marvin Bell, junior class president, will preside over the scandals as master of ceremonies. Be sure not to miss this year's presentation of Junior Scandals, as this will be the finest Scandals ever presented.

 

I looked up the word
scandal
in my dictionary. I did not like the sound of it.

"Why would our class want to put on a shameful show?" I asked Marvin the next day after class.

"It's not shameful," he said. "It's entertaining."

"Like what?" I asked.

"Didn't you read the article? Some of the guys are dressing up as girls and modeling," he said, laughing. "You could join them."

"That's crazy! Why would guys want to dress up as girls?"

"You don't get it, man. It's all for fun."

"Can I do something that's not disrespectful ... I mean, that's not funny?"

"Sure, you can do whatever you want," he said, giving me an odd look. "Everyone who's participating will meet in the boys gym next Monday, right after school. Be there or be square!"

Before I got a chance to respond, he said, "See you later, alligator," and rushed off. I had a hard time making up my mind about performing in front of a crowd. What if they made fun of my accent? Then I remembered making a lot of friends in the eighth grade when I sang an Elvis Presley song. I wanted to be a part of my class, so I decided to participate. Trampita offered to help me clean the gas company on Friday so that I could finish work in time to make the performance at eight o'clock. Now I had to think of a skit. I did not have much time. By Sunday early evening I was still struggling for an idea. I asked Roberto to help me.

"Why don't you do Elvis Presley, like in El Camino?" he said.

Just as Roberto said Elvis Presley, Papá walked in. He had been cutting wood for Bonetti on a power saw in the shed. "Who's El Vez?" he asked, dusting off his pants. "I never heard of him.

"He's an American singer."

"
Que
El Vez
ni que
El Vez. Jorge Negrete!" he said sharply, stating his preference for the Mexican star. He
turned on the radio and searched for a Mexican station. "Mi Tierra" by Pedro Infante came on. As a child I loved listening to him and Jorge Negrete. Papá and Roberto often whistled their songs when we worked in the fields. Suddenly a strange and strong emotion took over me: I felt homesick. Roberto must have read my mind because he said, "Why don't you sing a Mexican song?"

"I was thinking the same thing. What song should I sing?"

"'Cielito Lindo,'" Roberto said. "You've always liked that song."

"That's it," I said. "I know it by heart and I don't have to worry about my accent!" Papá's eyes watered. He smiled and lowered the volume on the radio. All three of us sat at the kitchen table in silence and listened to music.

On Monday after school I headed for the gym. Many of my classmates were already there checking in. Marvin announced that Mr. Ward Kinkade, my counselor, and Mr. Wesley Hodges, my P.E. coach, would be supervising the performance, and Bobbie Sue Winters and Glenna Burns were coordinating the event.

"Okay, you guys, break up into groups according to your skits and tell us what your skit is going to be," Bobbie Sue shouted. Her high-pitched voice echoed throughout the gym. Mr. Kinkade and Mr. Hodges leaned against the wall, arms folded and whispering to each other. The large crowd separated into small groups. I stood alone
underneath the basketball hoop, listening and waiting for my turn.

Greg Kudron, who was closest to Bobbie Sue, reported first. "We're going to dress up as girls and model," he said, pointing behind him to a large group of guys who wore football jerseys. The gym filled with laughter. I felt uneasy. Once the noise faded, Judy Treankler, one of the most popular girls in our class, stepped forward and introduced her skit.

"We're the chorus line," she said, pushing her hair back with her right hand. The nine girls in her group kicked up their right legs in unison. The boys gyrated, whistled, and screamed. When I saw Mr. Kinkade and Mr. Hodges laughing, I laughed too.

The different groups and individuals continued to report on their skits one by one. George Harshbarger and his trio and I were the last two. George played the banjo and Jim Hodges and Roger Brown played the guitar. I had seen them perform at several school dances.

"Go ahead, Frankie," George said.

"No, you go next," I responded, feeling tense.

"Thanks," he said. Jim and Roger followed behind him, strumming their guitars. "We're going to sing a few folk songs," he said, picking his banjo.

"Like the Kingston Trio," someone yelled out from the back of the crowd.

"Exactly," George responded.

"You're next, Frankie," Bobbie Sue said.

I stepped forward, took a deep breath, and said, "I am going to sing 'Cielito Lindo,' a Mexican song." I glanced at Mr. Kinkade. He nodded and applauded. I heard a few cheers from the crowd. I felt more at ease.

"Good job. It's going to be the best Junior Scandals ever!" Bobbie Sue said. "Tell your friends to buy tickets. They're now on sale in the student activities room. The price is seventy-five cents for students and one dollar for adults."

"What are you going to do for music?" George asked as we headed out of the gym.

"I haven't figured that out yet," I said.

"Do you play the guitar?"

"No, I wish I did."

"Maybe I can play for you," he said.

"Would you?" I exclaimed. "Do you know 'Cielito Lindo'?" I asked.

"No, but I can come up with the chords if you sing it," he said.

We went in the cafeteria and sat at an empty table. I hummed it while George listened carefully, trying to follow me. We went over it until he could play it all the way through. He gave me some hints on how to project my voice, and before we left, we agreed to meet a few times after school to practice together.

The school gym was packed the night of the event. A
makeshift stage was set up at the south end of the basketball court, closest to the boys locker room, where we dressed and waited to perform. The girls got ready in their locker room, located on the north end. Tension and excitement filled the air. Some boys buzzed around the locker room like sleepless flies, banging on the metal lockers and walls; others shadowboxed. George and his trio huddled in the corner, tuning their instruments. I paced the floor holding my wide-brimmed Mexican hat against my chest to protect it from being crushed. As the cheers and applause at the end of each act got louder, I became more and more nervous. I was next. "You're up, Frankie," Marvin shouted. I put on my hat, wiped my sweaty hands on my pants, and lightly kissed my Saint Christopher medal. George followed behind me, strumming his guitar. As I walked up to the stage, my legs wobbled. I grabbed the microphone with both hands and glanced at the crowd. I was petrified.

"Are you ready?" George said.

I opened my mouth, but no words came out. My mouth felt as though it was stuffed with cotton. Then I heard Roberto holler from the back of the bleachers, "
No te rajes,
Panchito!" As his words of support echoed throughout the gym, Papá's face flashed in my mind. I slowly released the microphone, took a deep breath, tilted my hat, and said, "Okay, I am ready." The words to "Cielito Lindo" flowed like a stream. Halfway through the song,
several people in the audience sang along to the refrain, "
Ay, ay, ay, ay, canta y no llores,
" and at the end they cheered and applauded. George and I bowed and left. Marvin then went to the microphone and asked all of the participants to join him onstage. We all got a standing ovation. After the audience had left, we cleared the stage, played rock 'n' roll, and danced the Chicken, the Mash Potato, the Twist, the Stroll, and many other dances. On the way home that evening and for days after, I kept hearing "Cielito Lindo" in my mind.

As a result of Junior Scandals, Paul Takagi became my new best friend. We met the day after the event, right before lunch. I was in the hallway putting my books in my locker, when he came up to me. He had short, straight, jet-black hair with an elevated wave at the front. His clothes were loose-fitting. "Hi, Frankie. I heard you sing Friday night," he said. "My name is Paul."

"Hi," I responded, picking up my lunch bag and closing the locker.

"'Cielito Lindo is one of my favorite songs," he said, adjusting his thick, black-rimmed glasses behind his large ears. He pronounced the name in perfect Spanish.

"How do you know it?" I asked.

"My father taught it to me. I can play it on the piano," he said proudly.

"Does your father speak Spanish?"

"Yes, he learned it in Mexico when he was a missionary there. He's now a church minister here in Santa Maria." His playful look and gangly manner reminded me of Miguelito, my friend in elementary school.

"Want to have lunch together?" I asked.

"If you don't mind sharing your lunch with me," he said.

"You can have my hot peppers," I said, laughing.

"Get out of here!" he said, poking me slightly with his long, slender fingers.

Paul and I ate our lunch and talked about everything, as though we had known each other for a long time. When we found out we were taking the same courses, we decided to study together. Every day after school we drove straight to the public library in my 1950 green Ford, which Papá bought from a neighbor after the DeSoto fell apart. We did our chemistry and Algebra II homework. When we disagreed in our answers, Paul was usually right. His mind was as sharp as Papá's. He solved problems and explained them step by step, in simple words. When we worked together I lost track of time. Paul had to remind me that we had to leave a little before five o'clock. I dropped him off at home on my way to work at the gas company.

The day before Easter vacation, Paul and I were having our lunch in the cafeteria when Linda Spain, one of our
classmates, walked up to our table and asked us to sign her petition to run for student body secretary. We both signed it.

"Thanks, guys," she said, smiling, and raced to the next table to get more signatures.

"Why don't you run for president?" Paul said, placing his pen back in his shirt pocket.

"Are you serious?" I responded. "I don't have time. Why don't you?"

"I've been thinking of running for student body treasurer," Paul said.

"Good! I'll vote for you," I said enthusiastically. "With your mind for numbers we'll never lose a penny."

"Get out of here!" he responded, laughing. He slid over closer to me and added, "I am serious."