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Authors: Francisco Jiménez

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BOOK: Breaking Through
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"I know," I said apologetically. "But I am working on it."

"Good. Now, let's see here," he said, looking at my schedule. "Let's substitute typing for wood shop and put you in an algebra class." He handed me the revised schedule and added, "You're set."

"Thank you very much," I said, shaking his hand. I walked out of his office feeling less nervous about school and more excited than ever.

The following day, when I got to my first P.E. class, I was surprised to see my teacher dressed in red shorts.
Men don't wear shorts,
I said to myself. He also wore a white T-shirt and white tennis shoes. He was short and slim and had a crewcut. Around his neck hung a whistle, which he used to get our attention instead of calling us by name. He emphasized our being on time and suiting up. Suiting up meant having to buy a uniform just like his and wearing it for P.E. every day. I hated having to wear shorts as much as I had disliked having to wear suspenders when I was in elementary school. But I had no choice. If we did not suit up right, we would lose points, which hurt our grade.

The coach walked us to the locker room, assigned us
a locker for our gym clothes, and showed us the shower room. He informed us that at the end of every class period we had to take a shower. Everyone moaned except me. I was excited. Roberto had told me about how great it was to take showers at school. He even brought his own soap. I decided to bring my own soap too. This part made up for having to wear shorts.

My last period in the morning was typing. The classroom was off a dark hall, on the south side of the school. Small, framed windows covered the wall facing Main Street School and on the opposite wall hung long and narrow blackboards. There were several rows of tables with typewriters, spaced out every three feet.

In contrast to my P.E. coach, the typing teacher was well dressed. He had on a blue suit with wide lapels and a white and blue striped tie, and he wore a gold ring on the little finger of his right hand. He paced up and down in front of the classroom, explaining what he expected of us. "In this class you're not only going to learn to type," he said, "you're also going to learn to be fast and accurate. Your grade will be based on speed and accuracy. I would suggest you practice typing at home or come here after school."
How am I going to practice?
I thought.
We don't have a typewriter at home, and I have to work after school.
I went through my other classes worrying about typing class.

I liked my social studies and algebra classes in the afternoon. My social studies teacher, Mrs. Dorothy Taylor, was a small, thin woman with short, curly hair and light blue eyes. She used a lot of make-up. After telling us about the class, she showed us a black-and-white film about a teenager who argues with his father. The boy wants to go out with his friends on a school night, but his father does not let him. The father picks up his son's books, shoves them at him, and tells him to go to his room and study. The son throws the books on the floor, runs to his room, and slams the door shut. Mrs. Taylor moved around the room quickly, like a mosquito, encouraging us to talk about the film. The class thought the son was wrong for throwing the books, but they agreed that it was okay for him to argue with his father. I thought it was strange, because at home we were taught that it was disrespectful to argue with our parents, especially our father. If we disagreed with Papá, we kept our opinions to ourselves. I did not say anything in class, but I thought a lot about it.

I went to algebra, my last-period class, feeling confident because I had always done well in math. My teacher, Mr. Ivan Coe, was a tall, wiry man. His small brown eyes darted around the room and he took quick, short steps like a duck. He told us he had an excellent memory and proved it by taking roll and then calling each one of us by name without looking at his roll sheet. He then asked us to give him double-digit numbers up to twenty to multiply in his head. He shot back the answers instantly, never making a mistake. Like our typing teacher, Mr. Coe said he would grade us on speed and accuracy. He promised to give us pop quizzes once a week and to return the results the following day. As an example, he gave us a fifteen-minute math exam and had us correct it in class. I did well. After his class, I decided to write down double-digit multiplication tables on postcards and memorize them while I worked. I wanted to be as good as Mr. Coe.

If the Shoe Fits

The class in which I thought it would be the easiest to get a good grade, P.E., turned out to be one of the hardest. I was preparing for the physical fitness test at the end of the quarter, doing push-ups, sit-ups, and chin-ups, and climbing ropes, running sprints, and lifting weights. I was doing fine, until the day it happened.

I was running a few minutes late that morning. When I got to the locker room, my classmates were already getting dressed in their gym clothes. I was in such a hurry that the foul smell of dirty socks and sweaty T-shirts did not bother me. I rushed to my locker, elbowing my way through, and began opening the combination lock with one hand and unbuttoning my shirt with the other. I unhooked the lock, flung the door open, quickly grabbed my gym clothes, and discovered my tennis shoes were missing. I checked inside again. Nothing. I put on my shorts and T-shirt and ran
outside and lined up with the rest of my class. The coach blew his whistle. "You're late," he shouted, looking me up and down. "Why aren't you wearing your tennis shoes?"

"I couldn't find them, Coach," I responded, holding back my tears. "They're gone from my locker."

"Well, you'd better find them. It'll cost you five points each time you don't suit up completely."

At the end of the period, I checked in my locker again and looked all around the locker room. I was out of luck. I did not even enjoy taking a shower that day or going to classes. When I got home that evening after work, I told Papá and Mamá about it. "Maybe you didn't put them back in the locker," Mamá said.

"No, I am sure I did."

"Maybe you didn't and someone picked them up," Roberto said. "Did you check in the lost and found?"

"Yes, I checked everywhere."

"Well, if you can't find them, we'll have to buy you a new pair," Mamá said.

"But it won't be until the end of next week, when Roberto gets paid," Papá added, biting his lower lip.

My heart sank.
There goes my grade,
I thought. I went outside, stood underneath the pepper tree next to the outhouse, and cried silently.

I did not suit up for P.E. for the next few days. Then one evening, when Roberto and I got home from work, Trampita and Torito ran up to me. Trampita was snickering and hiding something behind his back. "Look what we got!" he exclaimed, dangling a pair of worn and soiled tennis shoes in front of me. "We found them in the dump," Torito said proudly.

I excitedly tried them on, turning my head away from them to avoid the foul smell. "They're too big," I said, disappointed.

"Try them with two pairs of socks," Mamá said. "They'll fit better."

I went to the dresser and pulled out the thickest pair of socks I could find and put them on. I slipped on the tennis shoes and paced around the kitchen. "They're still a bit loose. But they feel better," I said. Trampita's and Torito's eyes lit up.

I soaked an old rag in a pot of hot water and scrubbed them. The steam made them smell worse, and when I finished, they were more gray than white. I placed them outside on the stairs overnight to dry and air out. The next morning, at P.E., I lined up for roll call fully dressed and happy not to lose five more points.

A few days later, my feet began to itch. I told the coach and he said I might have athlete's foot. I thought it was a compliment until I found out what it really meant. I took off the two layers of socks and I noticed I had cracked, blistered, and peeling areas between the toes. This lasted a long time, even after I got a new pair of tennis shoes. I ended up getting a C in P.E. at mid-semester.

A Promotion

During the fall, Papá's depression got worse. Work in the fields was scarce, and when he finally found a job thinning lettuce, he lasted only a few days because of his back pain. He wore a wide belt for support, and when he could no longer stoop over, he worked on his knees until his back gave out completely. The pay from Roberto's part-time janitorial job and our earnings working in the fields on weekends were not enough to get us through. Roberto got paid twice a month, and every other week Mamá had to cut back on groceries. Once in a while Papá did some light work for Bonetti, the owner of the ranch, to help pay the rent, but as time passed we fell further and further behind on the monthly payments. "It's a disgrace not paying the rent on time," Papá said one evening as he opened our empty metal box. "It's a shame!" He banged his fist on the kitchen table. A glass flew off, hit the floor,
and broke. Trampita and Torito got scared and ran out of the house.

"Calm down,
viejo,
" Mamá said. Looking worried, she dried her hands on her apron and placed them on Papá's shoulders.

"How can I?" he said, shrugging her hands away. "This life is for the dogs. No, it's worse. Dogs can at least seek out their food. I can't even do that." He slowly got up from the table and hobbled to his room. Mamá gave us a pained look, shook her head, and followed him, trying to console him.

"I have to get an extra job," Roberto said, slumping in his chair and lowering his head. "I don't know what else to do."

"Can't you get Papá a job where you work?" I asked. "I could help you both after school."

"I've already tried. Mr. Sims told me they already have a full-time janitor and me."

As usual, at the end of the school day, Roberto and I met in the parking lot and headed for Main Street Elementary School. We drove down Broadway, passing students who filled the sidewalks like colorful ants in a parade. A few couples strolled holding hands, talking, and laughing. As we turned the corner onto Main Street, Roberto made a sharp turn and parked next to an old, beat-up yellow van that had Santa Maria Window Cleaners signs on it's panels. "I've seen that guy before," Roberto said, pointing
to a man who had just finished washing the outside windows of Kress, the five-and-dime store. The man tucked the squeegee and chamois in his back pant pocket, picked up the bucket and brush, and headed toward the van. He was a short, stocky man dressed in khaki pants and a short-sleeved shirt, half tucked in.

"Hi," my brother said nervously as the man loaded the equipment in the back of the truck. "My name is Roberto."

"I am Mike Nevel," the man said in a deep, raspy voice.

"I was wondering ... do you need any help?" Roberto asked.

The man spat on the curb and adjusted his soiled pants. "You mean, am I hiring?"

"Yes," Roberto replied.

"I could use someone on a part-time basis. Do you have any experience?"

"Oh, it's not for me," Roberto responded. "It's for my dad. He needs a job."

"Has he done janitorial work?"

"No, but he is a good worker," Roberto said proudly.

"Well, I'll have to meet him and talk to him."

"He doesn't speak English," I said. "Only Spanish."

"Can't use him. In this business I need someone who can speak English and with experience. What about you?" he said, pointing at Roberto.

"My brother already has a job," I said. "I have experience. I've been helping him clean Main Street School."

"You're too young, son," he said looking me up and down and chuckling. He then turned to Roberto and continued: "So you have experience at Main Street School..."

"I am a janitor there, part-time," Roberto said. "What about weekends? Do you work there on weekends?"

"No, just on weekdays."

"What about working for me on weekends? I can pay you $1.25 an hour."

"Sure," Roberto responded immediately.

"What about me?" I asked. "I can work with him."

"You can help if you want, but I can't pay you." When he saw our long faces, he quickly added, "Okay, if he works out, I'll pay him. But only if he works out."

"I'll work out," I said confidently.

For the next four weekends, Roberto and I worked with Mike Nevel, cleaning offices and washing windows. The first day, Mike worked closely with us, showing us what to clean and observing how well we worked. Roberto showed me how to use the twenty-inch floor-scrubbing machine. I had a hard time learning to control it. Luckily, the machine had a rubber strip around it's base and every time I bumped into a baseboard, the machine bounced back, giving me a slight jolt in protest. Eventually Mike Nevel let Roberto and me do the work by ourselves. Every Saturday and Sunday, my brother and I drove to Mike
Nevel's house on West Donovan to pick up the keys and the truck.

One Saturday evening when we returned the van, Mike Nevel invited us in. He introduced us to his wife, a friendly, petite woman who also had a raspy voice. Roberto and I sat on a large couch across from Mike, who sat on a reclining chair. His wife sat on a matching sofa chair next to him and smoked a cigarette.

"How are things going?" Mike asked, lighting a half-smoked cigar.

"Fine," we responded at the same time. Roberto reached into his pocket and took out a ring full of keys and handed them to Mike.

"No, you keep them," Mike said. "I have an extra set." Roberto and I looked at each other and smiled. Mike brought his reclining chair to a sitting position, took a puff, and said to me: "I am getting too old and tired of working evenings during the week. How would you like to take over for me? I'll pay you a buck an hour."

"Sure!" I blurted out excitedly.

"You'll be cleaning a few of the same places you and Roberto have been cleaning on weekends: the gas company, the savings and loan, and Betty's Fabrics every day and Twitchel and Twitchel, a lawyers' office, once a week, on Wednesdays. You won't have to strip and wax the floors or wash the windows. You'll continue doing that on weekends."

Roberto and I thanked him and went home excited.
Papá will be proud of us,
I thought.

Papá was happy when Roberto and I told him about my new job, but his good mood did not last long. That Saturday night he got angry with Roberto and me because we came home from the movies past midnight. "Don't think just because you give me your paychecks that you can do whatever you want," he said firmly.

BOOK: Breaking Through
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