Reaching Out (14 page)

For a long time after that, I wondered how many others felt the way he did but hid those feelings from me because they knew I was Mexican.

I had to tell Laura the truth. I could no longer keep my secret from her. After we had closed the language lab one evening, we sat side by side on the front steps of Varsi Hall, watching in silence the tiny golden fish in a small, round pond a few feet away. A white weather-beaten statue of a child, poised in the middle of it, shouldered a vase from which a thin stream of water poured into the pond. Once in a while we would glance at each other and smile. "What are you thinking?" Laura asked.

"I have something important I want to tell you," I said. "Do you want to get a cup of coffee?"

My idea was to go away from campus because I didn't want anyone else to hear what I was about to tell her. We strolled down Franklin Street, looking for a coffee shop. We passed Wade's Mission Pharmacy, the University Electric Company, the Santa Clara Movie Theater, the Genova Delicatessen. No luck. We finally found one on Sherman Street. I opened the door for her. She smiled. We sat at a
small table, across from each other, and ordered two cups of coffee. It took all the courage I had to begin to tell her my secret. "I've wanted to tell you this for a long time."

"What is it?" She frowned slightly.

"I was not born in this country. I was born in Mexico," I blurted out. There, I had said it.

"Is that it?" She gave me a puzzled look. "Neither was most of my family."

She proceeded to tell me that her maternal grandfather, Arrigo Descalzi, had emigrated to the United States from Sestre Levante, a small town in the northern part of Italy. Being quite adventuresome, he boarded a ship at the age of sixteen and landed in New York, passing through Ellis Island. He didn't know a word of English and ended up in California working on farms and selling vegetables from a horse-drawn wagon. He met and married Caterina Zunino, who also came from Italy. She worked as a chambermaid in San Francisco. Laura's paternal grandparents, Ferdinando and Rosa, also born in Italy, settled in San Francisco and ran a small business.

Laura paused, and said, "Tell me more about yourself, or is that all you wanted to tell me?"

Feeling more at ease, I told her about our family crossing the border illegally when I was tour years old and about being caught by the Border Patrol and deported back to Mexico ten years later. I described my family life in the years that followed, including my father's leaving. It was like a personal confession. I talked for a long time, and when I finally stopped, Laura gave me a sweet smile and gently placed her right hand over mine. I felt peaceful inside. After a long period of silence, I asked, "Do you speak Italian?"

"Yes, in fact, I spoke more Italian at home than English. You see, my mother passed away when I was nine years old. She died from multiple sclerosis..." Laura paused. Her eyes filled with tears and her hands trembled as she buttoned her white sweater, trying to buy time to compose herself. "So ... I was raised by my maternal grandparents, who spoke only Italian at home."

"I am sorry. She must have been very young."

"She was only thirty-two years old. No one knew what was wrong with her when she first got sick. She slowly began to lose her eyesight and control of her legs until she could no longer see or walk. Eventually she became bedridden. I would sit on the edge of her bed and read out loud to her and my younger sister, Lynn, every day when I got home from school. We had no medical insurance, so my Dad worked all day running the grocery store in Brisbane, the one I told you about, and in the evenings he played the accordion at nightclubs or, on weekends, at weddings to make ends meet. Poor Dad—his hair turned completely gray and he lost a lot of weight. I felt so helpless." The waitress came by and interrupted her.

"More coffee?"

"No, thank you." She looked startled.

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to go on and on," she said when the waitress had left.

"It's okay. Thank you for telling me," I said awkwardly. I was at a loss for words to comfort her.

She collected herself and added proudly, "So I grew up speaking Italian at home. In fact, not only did we speak Italian, but we lived in an Italian neighborhood, shopped at Italian-owned businesses, and ate Italian food most of the time."

I admired her feelings about her Italian heritage. I was proud of my heritage too.

"What about your ancestors?" she asked.

I told her how my grandparents were poor peasants from Los Altos de jalisco. My paternal grandfather, Hilario, was a small farmer who died in 1910, when my father was a few months old. For the first eleven years of his life, my father, who was the youngest of sixteen children, was raised by my grandmother, Estafania, who was part Huichol Indian and very religious. He spent the next four years, living here and there a few months at a time, with his older brothers and sisters who were married. He never attended school, and by the time he was fifteen, he was on his own working as a ranch hand in El Rancho Blanco. At the age of twenty-seven, he met and married my mother in Tlaquepaque. She was sixteen. My maternal grandfather, Salvador Hernández, was an
arriero,
a mule driver. He married my grandmother, Concepción Moreno, who was also devout. She helped him sell firewood.

After exchanging a few more family stories, Laura and I left
the coffee shop and headed back to the university. On the way, we passed by an old smoke shop. "That looks like our store in Brisbane," she said. "Let's go in." The place was small, dimly lit, and crowded. The shelves were jammed with cigar boxes of different sizes and shapes. Some had broken covers and faded labels. In the back corner of the room sat a pinball machine. Its blinking lights reflecting off the dark ceiling were the only cheerful spot in the store.

"Do you want to play a game?" she said, pulling the lever and quickly releasing it. I reached into my pants pocket, pulled out a quarter, and put it into the slot machine. "It's only a nickel a game," she said.

"Good, we'll play five games." She insisted I go first. Within seconds, I lost the first game. Sheepishly, I stepped aside, giving her room to take over. She released the first ball with such force that it shot forward, ringing bells and turning on multicolored lights. She swayed her shoulders and moved her arms and hands, trying to guide the ball to the top of the board. In perfect succession, five bells went off and a number 10 in red flashed on the scoreboard."

"I've won ten games!"

"You're a pro." We continued playing, she winning and I losing. Neither of us thought of time or homework. We left the shop determined to return to challenge the pinball machine, which we did whenever we went out together. It was perfect. Our friendship grew and our entertainment cost us only a nickel.

Telling Laura my secret about being born in Mexico and not in Colton, California, finally lifted a heavy burden of guilt I had carried with me since childhood. Now I felt I had to confess it to Father John Shanks too. As my spiritual advisor, he met with me periodically to discuss my progress as a member of Sodality. Ar one of our meetings, I told him my story.

"I'm glad you told me. One should always tell the truth." His serious tone made me feel uncomfortable. "However, I understand why it has been difficult for you to be honest about where you were born, but you're here legally now, so try to get over it." He grinned slightly and lit up a cigarette.

"But I've lied about it in all my school records, in my application for admission to Santa Clara, and in my applications for financial aid from Santa Clara and the federal government."

He stared wide-eyed at me for a few seconds, taking a deep puff. "There is no problem with Santa Clara, but I am
not sure about the federal loan." My heart fell to my stomach. Could I lose my scholarship?

"You would have heard from the federal government by now if it were a problem," he said, noticing my anxiety. "Why don't you become an American citizen? Ir would simplify matters."

Even though I was born in Mexico and was proud of being Mexican, I felt I was an American too. I had lived most of my life in the United States. It had become parr of me. "I'd like to, but I don't know how."

"Well, that's a task for both of us. We'll start by getting you an application form."

A week later, Father Shanks handed me the petition for naturalization form and asked me to work on it. I read through the long document and was happy to find out that I qualified to apply for citizenship because I was an adult and had been living in the United States legally for eight years; the minimum was five. The application called for two witnesses from each of the places in which I had lived during the past five years. They had to be U.S. citizens and willing to give testimony in court, under oath, on my behalf. I asked Darlene Jimenez, Roberto's wife, and Eva Martinez, a family friend, from Santa Maria. Both agreed. Father Shanks asked Brian Servatius and Ron Whitcanack, two students at Santa Clara, to be my witnesses. They knew me well. Brian was a senior, president of Sodality, and a prefect in McLaughlin Hall. Ron was a classmate of mine and codirector of the Sodality Tutoring Cell. I completed the application form, writing down "Tlaquepaque, Mexico" for my place of birth. Writing down the truth felt strange but liberating.

A few days later, after I had mailed the petition, I received a letter from the United States Department of Justice in San Francisco informing me that I had to go to their headquarters to take an examination. I had to prove that I could speak, read, and write English. On Friday, February 12, I borrowed Tom Maulhardt's Volvo and drove to the Immigration and Naturalization building at 630 Sansome Street in San Francisco to take the test. I felt nervous but confident that I would pass.

James Welsh, the court clerk, greeted me and informed me that he would be administering the exam. He was an elderly, short, and balding gray-haired man who wore a rumpled dark gray suit and bow tie. His cramped office had a glass window that looked onto a larger office. I sat at a small worktable, to the right of his paper-cluttered desk. Adjusting his wire-rimmed glasses, he asked me questions on U.S. history and the Constitution: "In what year did the United States declare its independence? What are the three branches of government, and what is their function? How many articles of amendments to the Constitution are there? What is the Thirteenth Amendment?" I answered them all correctly. He then gave me a form with two sets of yes-or-no questions. I read through the first set and checked no to
each question: "Are you now, or have you ever, in the United States or in any other place, been a member of, or in any other way connected or associated with, the Communist Party? Do you now or have you ever advocated, taught, believed in, or knowingly supported or furthered the interests of Communism? Have you borne any hereditary title or have you been of any order of nobility in any foreign state? Do you owe any federal taxes? Have you ever been a patient in a mental institution, or have you ever been treated for a mental illness?" The image of my father's gaunt face flashed in my mind as I read this last question.

I began the second set, checking yes to each question with confidence: "Do you believe in the U.S. Constitution and form of government of the United States? Are you willing to take the full oath of allegiance to the United States? If male, did you ever register under United States Selective Service laws or draft laws?"

However, when I got to the last two questions, my self-confidence quickly disappeared, I could hear my heart pounding as I reread them: "Are deportation proceedings pending against you, or have you ever been deported or ordered deported, or have you ever applied for suspension of deportation or for preexamination? Have you ever represented yourself to be a United States citizen?" I did not want to answer them but had no choice. My hand trembled as I checked yes and gave a brief explanation for each.

After I completed the questionnaire, the clerk dictated
a sentence to me: "I like the American way of life." I wrote it down, hoping that he would not ask me to explain "the American way of life," He picked up the questionnaire, glanced at it, and frowned. "Excuse me," he said. "I'll be right back." Through the window, I could see him in the larger office talking to a man who was dressed in a suit and tie. I guessed he was the supervisor. My mouth was dry and I had a tight feeling in my chest. They
are going to
turn me
down,
I thought. When the clerk returned, I said a quick silent prayer. "Your petition is complete," he said, closing the door behind him and placing the questionnaire on his desk. "All the depositions are in and you have passed the exam. Congratulations!"

I stood up and shook his hand. I was elated.

"You can expect to hear from us in about a month."

As I was about to leave, I glanced down at the questionnaire and spotted a scribbled note in the margin, next to the last two questions, but I could not make out what it said. He caught my eye and grinned.

On April 2, I received a second letter from the United States Department of Justice. I nervously opened it and sat down at my desk to read. "You are hereby notified to appear for a hearing on your petition for naturalization before a judge of the naturalization court on Tuesday, April 13, at Ceremonial Court, Room 415, U.S. Courthouse, 450 Golden Gate Avenue, San Francisco, California. Please report promptly at 8:15 AM. Certificates of naturalization
will be mailed by the Clerk of Court within five (5) days after your admission to citizenship."

I anxiously showed the letter to Father Shanks. He assured me that I had been approved for citizenship, that the hearing was simply ceremonial.

On the day of the hearing, I got up at dawn and hurried to the Santa Clara train station, which was a few blocks from the university. I bought a roundtrip ticket to San Francisco and took a window seat. As the train pulled out of the station, I thought about the long train trip my family and I had made when I was four years old.

Our journey from Guadalajara to Mexicali on a second-class train, Ferrocarriles Naciones de Mexico, took two days and nights. I was excited and impatient to get to California because my father repeatedly told us that life would be better there. When we arrived at the United States-Mexico border, Roberto, my parents, and I waited until night to cross the barbed-wire fence, which separated the two countries. We walked several miles along the wire wall, away from the entry point, until we spotted a small hole underneath the fence. My father got on his knees and dug a larger opening with his hands. We all slithered through like snakes and entered California.