Reaching Out (10 page)

Surprised, I responded, "I always look down when I walk. I guess it's a habit."

"Well, break that habit. Walk erect and with your chin up, like Don Quixote." He looked straight ahead. "With a name like yours, you should be proud of your Spanish heritage."

"I am proud of my Mexican heritage."

"Good, as you should be," he said, glancing at me and smiling. I kept my head up as we continued walking.

"Are you a member of Sodality?" he asked as we entered the Mission Gardens.

"Sodality? No, I'm not." I wondered why he asked. The only thing I knew about Sodality was that it was a Catholic student organization.

"Many of the leaders on campus, including several class officers, are members of it. Father John Shanks is the moderator. He teaches philosophy. You should go talk to him about applying for it. I'll give him a call to let him know you'll be contacting him."

I was not enthusiastic, because I worried about how much time such involvement would take. However, I agreed to do it out of respect for Father O'Neill.

The next day I received a note through the campus mail from Father Shanks asking me to see him that evening. He was the resident priest for the first floor of Walsh Hall, which was right next to McLaughlin Hall, where Smokey and I lived. When I arrived to his room, number 101, he invited me in, introduced himself, and asked me to sit on a sofa facing his desk, which was scattered with papers and books. Behind his desk was a small grid window that looked out onto the street. His long black cassock fit tightly around his stout and short body. He sat facing me, lit a cigarette, smiled, and said: "Father O'Neill tells me that you are a good candidate for Sodality. Are you interested?" He spoke rapidly and energetically.

"I am, but I'm not sure what it all means."

"Well, let me explain it to you," he said. "Then you can decide whether or not you wish to be considered for candidacy." He took a puff and continued. "Sodality of Our Lady is not only a religious organization but also a way of life. What do I mean by this? Essentially, the keynote of Sodality life is a constant striving for 'more.' It requires a full response to the call of Christ issued through the Gospels. Sodalists are leaders, not followers." He emphasized these last words. "They want not just to live a Christian life, but to live it to its fullest extent. Unlike the rich young man of the New Testament,
Sodalists will say yes to whatever Christ asks of them." He paused, took off his round wire-rimmed glasses, and wiped his eyes and brow with a handkerchief. He then lit another cigarette and asked, "Are you a leader or a follower?"

His question took me by surprise and made me uncomfortable. After a long pause, I responded, "I'm not sure. In high school I organized a Christmas food drive for needy families and ran for student body president and won, but I haven't been involved with extracurricular activities here."

"Why not?"

"I haven't had time."

"Did you have time in high school?"

"Not, really," ! said. "I worked doing janitorial work."

"So why did you coordinate the food drive and run for president if you didn't have time?"

I thought about his question for a moment. "I organized the food drive because I wanted to help poor Mexican families in Santa Maria who lived in migrant labor camps, like the one where my family lives. And I ran for student body president because I wanted the kids of those migrant families and others like them to be represented in student government. Also," I added, "a good friend of mine encouraged me to run."

"Let me repeat the question; are you a leader or a follower?"

I did not know what to say. Why was he giving me a hard time?

"Let me tell you what I think a leader is," he said, after patiently waiting for an answer and not getting one. "A leader is one who sees a need to be filled, enlists the aid of others, and sets about filling it in the best way he can find, without compromising his integrity. Most important, a leader has a strong sense of personal responsibility. He assumes responsibility and gives something of himself to solving a problem. Followers, on the other hand, are those who are willing to perform this or that task without becoming personally engaged in it. They attend meetings but see no necessity to contribute; they carry out assignments but never take the initiative; they try to lead good lives but never realize their responsibility as 'my brother's keeper' in the broader perspective of the Mystical Body of Christ." He paused.

Oh, no—he's going to ask the same question again,
I thought. He must have noticed my uneasiness, because he smiled and said, "I sometimes ask questions to make students think. I don't necessarily expect them to answer me. That's what we philosophers do—ask questions."

I felt relieved.

"Are you still interested in joining? This question I do expect you to answer," he said chuckling.

"Yes, Father, I am very interested." This would give me a chance to practice my faith and deepen it. I unclasped my sweaty hands and wiped them on my lap.

"I am glad. Now, let me ask you, what career are you seeking?"

"I'd like to be a teacher," I responded right away. Ever since I was in the sixth grade I had wanted to be a teacher because of my sixth grade instructor, Mr. Lema. Although he did not speak Spanish and I did not speak English well, we understood each other and became friends. Mr. Lema was caring and generous. During the lunch hour, he had tutored me in English and I had helped him pronounce the names of Spanish cities in California. When I told him that I liked music, especially Mexican ballads, he offered to teach me how to play the trumpet, my favorite musical instrument. The day I was to have my first lesson, my family moved to another migrant labor camp and I never saw Mr. Lema again; however, I never forgot him. I wanted to be a teacher just like him.

"Excellent," he said. "We select only those who are determined to fulfill the highest aspirations of their hearts. This program combines spiritual and apostolic formation with leadership training to prepare you to make a stronger impact on society. As a teacher, you will certainly have the opportunity to make a difference."

At this point I was certain I wanted to join the organization. Father Shanks continued, "If you are accepted, you'll be asked to serve on one of several cells. Each cell focuses on some aspect of apostolic activity. For example, the Tutoring Cell sends students over to East San Jose each evening, Monday through Thursday, to assist promising high school and junior high school students who are struggling with their
studies and need encouragement. The Amigos Anonymous Cell cooperates with the university as part of a national organization that sends college students to some of the poorer areas of Mexico to work among the people for a summer."

"I would like ... I mean, if I were accepted, I would like to participate in the Amigos Anonymous Cell," I said. "I already tutor students at Bellarmine in Spanish."

"Fine, it sounds like a good match," he said. "Now, Father O'Neill spoke fondly of you and I know something about you based on our conversation, but I'd like to know a hit more about you and your background." Because he was a priest, I felt confident in telling him about my family and our migrant experience and the difficulties I was having paying for school and trying to help support my family.

"I see..." he said thoughtfully after I had finished. He looked up, closed his eyes for a second, and frowned. He then went to his desk and picked up a folder, flipped through it, and said, "You should apply to be a prefect for next year. It will pay for your room and board. Go by the office of the Dean of Students and pick up an application right away. The screening and selection will be done this coming spring."

"I will definitely apply. Thank you!"

Father Shanks tossed the folder back on his desk, sat back down, and said, "About Sodality ... Well, it seems to me that you are a good candidate for it, I will accept your candidacy, and sometime next year, in April, we'll do an
evaluation and decide whether or not you will be admitted. I anticipate no problem, however."

"Thank you, Father. I'll do my best to live up to your expectations." I felt proud that he had accepted me as a candidate.

He adjusted his glasses, smiled, and nodded.

The last day of classes before Christmas break, Father O'Neill again asked me to see him during his office hours. He appeared to be happier than usual. "I contacted Marian Hancock, a good friend of mine in Santa Maria, and asked her if she would give you a job during Christmas break." He went on to explain that I was to contact Margie Williams, Mrs. Hancock's personal secretary, when I got home. He gave me her address and telephone number and told me that I would be delivering Christmas presents to Mrs. Hancock's friends and employees.

"I cannot thank you enough for all you've done for me," I said.

"Oh, don't thank me. Thank God. He is watching over you." He reached into his desk drawer, pulled out an orange, and handed it to me. I did not think it was strange, because other students had told me that Father O'Neill gave them fruit or candy too whenever they visited his office. I thanked him and wished him a Merry Christmas. As I was leaving his office, he said, "Make sure you apply for the prefect job!"

On Saturday, December 14, I got a ride home with Dan McCoy, a classmate of mine who lived in Los Angeles. I was
excited to see my family and eager to tell them about my new job during the Christmas break. My hope was that my father would be feeling better and in one of his rare good moods, Dan dropped me off at my brother's house late that afternoon. Little Jackie ran up to meet me at the door and wrapped her tiny arms around my right leg. I picked her up, gave her a kiss, and tickled her. She giggled and tried to grab my nose. Roberto and Darlene laughed. They gave me a warm bug and then looked at each other. "Let's go play with your dolls," Darlene said, taking Jackie into her room and closing the door.

"Is something wrong?" I asked.

Roberto glanced at Jackie's room and whispered, "Our dad left." His lips quivered.

"What do you mean, he left?"

"He went back to Mexico a week ago."

I was stunned. I felt a pain in my chest and was speechless.
This can't be happening,
I thought. After a few seconds, I managed to ask, "Why didn't you tell me before?"

"We didn't want to worry you and interrupt your studies."

"How about Mamá, and Trampita, Rorra...?"

"They're taking it pretty hard, too. Let's go; they'll be glad to see you."

On our way to Bonetti Ranch, Roberto described my father's leaving. Two days after I had gone back to school, after the Thanksgiving holiday, my father had a nervous
breakdown and insisted on going back to Mexico. He packed his belongings in cardboard boxes and asked my brother to ship them by train to Tia Ghana, my father's older sister, who lived in Tlaquepaque, a small town near Guadalajara where I was born. My mother and Roberto tried to persuade him to stay, but he refused, saying that he did not want to burden our family anymore, that he was worthless. He felt it was a disgrace that he was unable to provide for our family. He then ordered my brother to drive him to the Greyhound Station and buy him a one-way ticket to Tlaquepaque. My brother pleaded with him not to leave, but my father would not take no for an answer. Roberto bought the ticket, gave him some money, and helped him board the bus. "It was so sad to see him go," Roberto said, clutching the steering wheel. "He was crying when he left."

"Maybe he'll get better there." I searched for something hopeful to say. "Tia Chana will care for him."

"He took your ROTC picture with him on the bus," Roberto said. I imagined seeing my father through the bus window, crying and waving goodbye.

As soon as I walked inside the house, I felt my father's absence. My mother looked tired and weary. Rorra and Rubén clung to my mother's side, and Torito and Trampita had sadness in their eyes. They were happy to see me, but not cheerful. "I can see in your face,
mijo,
that Roberto already-told you," my mother said, smoothing her soiled apron. I nodded, Rorra started crying.

"Papa left us! He won't come back."

"No,
mijita,
he'll come back. He went to live with your Tia Chana for a few days until he gets cured," my mother said. "He's very sick. Remember how skinny he was when he left? He needs help. He'll be back soon—just wait and see." My sister buried her face in my mother's lap and sobbed.

"He broke my heart," Torito said, tearing up. "I dream about him every night and see him in bed, smoking cigarettes. I can smell the smoke."

"I miss him a lot," Rubén said, clinging tighter to my mother's side.

Roberto composed himself and cleared his throat. "Mama's right. Papa will come back once he gets better."

"He will," I said, remembering Father O'Neill's words: Everything happens
for a reason. We
must
have faith and
trust
in God.

I looked over at Trampita, who was standing to the side, arms folded and shaking his head. He caught my eye. His dark eyes filled with tears.

"You'd better go home,
mijo.
Darlene is waiting for you," my mother said to Roberto.

After he left, my family and I had dinner, but none of us ate very much. We were mostly silent and kept trying not to glance at the empty place at the table where my father used to sit. Once Rorra, Torito, and Rubén had gone to bed, Trampita, my mother, and I stayed up talking about my father.

"Our dad is never coming back," Trampita said. "He's gone home."

"What do you mean, he's gone home?" my mother asked.

"Mexico has always been his home. He never felt comfortable living in this country. It was foreign to him. He was here, but his mind and heart were always in Mexico. Remember, his dream was to earn and save enough money and eventually return to Mexico with our whole family."

"You're right, Trampita," my mother said, "but I do pray he'll come back."

"You're a dreamer, too," Trampita said to me.

"Because we're full of hope," I said.