Reaching Out (3 page)

"Woodland is a small town too," he said, unpacking a football and a tennis racquet. He swung the tennis racquet as if it were a large flyswatter, tossed it in his closet, and picked up the football. "Do you play sports?"

"Not really. I'm not good at them," I said. "How about you?"

"I love playing sports." He lobbed the football back and forth between his hands and tossed it into the air and caught it. "I played football and basketball, ran track, and played tennis in high school. I'm going to try out for the football team here. What do you like to do for fun?"

"Dancing and listening to music." I was good at dancing. Roberto called me Resortes, "Rubber Legs."

"Me too," he said, catching me off-guard and throwing the football to me. I tried to catch it but fumbled and dropped it.

"I told you..." I had no interest in sports. We never followed sports at home and had little or no time to participate in them at school because I had to work.

I saw that he had a portable typewriter.
I could definitely use one of those,
I thought. I had left my old, broken typewriter at home. I had bought it for five dollars from Robert Twitchel, an attorney whose office I cleaned when I was a freshman in high school.

The hall became increasingly noisy and congested as more and more students lugged their belongings to their rooms and became acquainted with each other. I was not used to so much noise. At home we honored silence most of the time because noise irritated my father, who suffered from frequent headaches. I wanted to be alone, but Smokey insisted on meeting our next-door neighbors and making new friends. We met Tony Lizza from Needles, California, and Jim Brodlow from Milwaukee, Pat Hall from San Luis Obispo, Mario Farana from San Francisco, and Tom Maulhardt from Oxnard, California. Smokey's energetic personality attracted students to our room like a magnet. One by one they came, introducing themselves. Within minutes it seemed as if we had met everyone on our floor and a few
from the third floor who dropped by to see what all the commotion was about. Pat Hall squeezed through several bodies to get to Smokey's radio. He changed the station to a baseball game and turned up the volume so loud that it grabbed everyone's attention. But only for a few seconds, because immediately they began arguing about what baseball team was the best. Like teletypes, they rattled off statistics on every player and team and had strong opinions on each.
How can they
know so
much about baseball?
wondered.

Once we had settled in, we assembled in the hallway as our prefect, Gary, and Father Edward Warren, a tall and thin Jesuit priest who wore a black cassock and Roman collar, welcomed us. Slightly hunched over, with hands clasped, Father Warren informed us that his room was at the east end of our floor and that his door would be open every day from seven to eleven p.m. in case we needed help personally or spiritually. "I am an English instructor, so some of you may end up in my classes," he said, smiling and glancing at all of us. He excused himself and gave the floor to Gary, who proceeded to explain to us that his role as prefect was to enforce dorm rules. He went over a long list of dorm regulations that applied to all freshmen.

"It's important that you guys keep it quiet at all times, but particularly during study period, which is from seven until eleven p.m., Monday through Thursday. I don't want to see or hear boisterous behavior, slamming of doors, or loud playing of radios or stereos. You must have the lights off
by eleven p.m. On Fridays and Saturdays, you can stay out until one a.m. I will be checking rooms periodically to make sure you follow these rules." The moans increased with each rule the prefect explained. I did not mind the regulations, because my father was much more demanding. He allowed Roberto and me to go out only once a week and we had to be home by midnight. It was advantageous for us to date girls whose parents were also strict because we avoided the embarrassment of having to be home before our dates.

"If you want to leave campus on weekends, you must sign a form, which I will give to you. And if you leave, you must be back by ten-thirty p.m. on Sunday. There is one telephone on each floor. You may nor use it after eleven p.m. Also, you may not have any type of alcoholic beverages in your rooms, nor women visitors, ever!"

"These dorm rules are bad for your health," someone yelled from the back of the crowd. There was thunderous applause, followed by laughter.

"Okay, guys, settle down," Gary continued. "Dinner tonight will be held in the Mission Gardens. The regular dining hall is located in Nobili; it's a dormitory for freshmen girls. Be back by seven p.m." As we were about to disperse, the prefect tired another rule. "No T-shirts, cutoffs, or sandals at any time in the dining hall."

We went back to our rooms, got dressed appropriately, and headed for the Mission Gardens for a special dinner sponsored by the sophomore class. I was struck by the beauty of the gardens, with the palm and olive trees, a wisteria arbor, and hundreds of rosebushes. For dinner we had chicken with vegetables and salad, which we never had at home because my father thought that salad was food for rabbits. I would have preferred my mother's tastier homemade flour tortillas and
came con chile.
The food was plentiful, and, as a habit, I ate everything we were served—and was shocked to see so much food left on students' plates and then thrown away. At home we never wasted food. During rainy winters in Corcoran, when my parents went days without field work, we had to look for food in the trash behind grocery stores. We picked up partly spoiled fruits and vegetables that had been discarded. My mother sliced off the rotten parts and made soup with the good vegetable pieces and with beef bones she bought at a butcher shop.

That evening Smokey and I made sure we were in our room by seven. A few minutes later, after our prefect dropped by to check on us, we listened to rock 'n' roll music on the radio while we finished unpacking and rearranging our room, I placed my desk against the left wall, next to the window. Smokey placed his on the other side of the window too. We went to bed early because we wanted to be rested for the placement tests in English and math we had to take the next morning and for registration in the afternoon. As we lay in bed, we talked for a few minutes. "I notice you have a thick accent," Smokey said, pulling the covers over his broad shoulders.

"I'm Mexican. But I was born in Colton, California," I quickly added. It was an automatic response. As a child, my father often warned me against telling the truth about where we were born because we had crossed the U.S.-Mexican border illegally. I had lived in constant fear of being caught by the immigration authorities. And even though I now had my green card and felt bad and uncomfortable about not telling the truth, lying about my birthplace had become ingrained in me. "My lather doesn't speak English, so we speak only Spanish at home."

"So you'll be able to help me with my Spanish. I am planning to take Spanish for the language requirement."

"Sure, but only if you help me with my English."

"Unfortunately, I didn't inherit the Irish writing talent, but I think I can help you." He paused. "What does your father do?" There was a moment of silence.

"My father used to work in the fields ... but ever since he hurt his back a few years ago, he hasn't been able to work," I did net want to tell Smokey that my father had fallen into a deep depression ever since he tried to sharecrop strawberries and failed—by no fault of his own. I was in the eighth grade, attending El Camino Junior High School in Santa Maria, at the time. Even though my father was suffering from back problems, he held on to his regular job of picking strawberries for Ito, a Japanese sharecropper, while trying to take care of three acres of strawberries that had been parceled out to him by the owner of the land. My father
would work for Ito from seven in the morning until five-thirty in the afternoon, come home, have a quick supper, and head out to the three acres, where he worked until dusk. After a few weeks, the plants became infested with blight, so the land owner had a chemical company fumigate them. The company used chemicals that were too strong; they killed the plants. From that day on, my father's spirit began to die too. And when he could no longer work in the fields because of his back, he became worse. "We must be cursed," he often said.

"I am so sorry." Smokey must have sensed my uneasiness, because he did not ask me any more questions about my father. "My dad is a policeman," he said, breaking the silence. "He's had lots of jobs. He was a security consultant, but also a rancher and farmer until the Depression. Then he worked as a butcher and mortuary assistant until becoming a policeman. He's seventy-one years old."

Smokey's openness made me feel comfortable, so I told him about my mother, who also worked in the fields and cooked for twenty farm workers during the time we lived in Tent City, a migrant labor camp in Santa Maria.

"We must be the two poorest kids in this school!" Smokey said. "My mother is a secretary for the March of Dimes. She also spent a fair amount of time as a volunteer at the labor camp near Woodland, helping poor families. I sometimes tagged along. And while I was in high school, I worked as a park recreation director during summers, serving the labor
camp kids. I tried to raise money to get them baseball mitts and bats."

"I am glad we're roommates." I liked Smokey's kmdheartedness and childlike spirit. "We have a lot in common." We ended our conversation and tried to fall asleep. Within minutes, Smokey had fallen asleep. I could hear a faint whistling sound coming from his mouth.

I had a hard time falling asleep, thinking about my family. Was it right for me to be here at college while they struggled to make ends meet at home? The more I thought about it, the more confused I became. Then I remembered the English test. Suddenly I felt hot and sweaty and my heart started racing. I threw off the covers and quietly tiptoed to the window to get fresh air. I took a deep breath and stared out into the darkness.

Past midnight, I crawled back in bed and struggled to fall asleep. It seemed only minutes later that I heard loud banging on our door. Smokey jumped out of bed like a scared rabbit and turned on the light, "Who is it?" he asked.

"Open up! It's time to get up, you lazy freshmen!"

I glanced at the alarm clock. It was four o'clock in the morning, Smokey unlocked the door and slowly opened it, poking his head out to see who it was, I stumbled put of bed and stood behind him. Standing before us were two tall, muscular students dressed in red and white. They identified themselves as Mike and Jim and said they were members of the Orientation Committee. Mike handed each of us a sheet of paper with lyrics on it. At the top it read "Varsity Fight for Santa Clara."

"This is Santa Clara's rally song," he said. "You have to learn it by tomorrow and recite it on demand." He looked at his watch and added: "Oops, I stand corrected—tomorrow is already here. We'll he generous; we'll give you until eight a.m. to learn it."

"Sounds fair to me," Jim said.

"You got to be kidding," Smokey said, adjusting the bottoms of his pajamas.

"Nope, we're not joking, and if you don't learn it, you'll be sorry," Mike said. Both laughed hysterically and moved on to the next room, yelling, "Go Broncos!" Smokey and I sat on our beds and studied the lyrics.

"I don't have time to memorize this. It's ridiculous!" I exclaimed.

Smokey looked at me, smiled, and said: "Oh, come on—it's not that bad. It's all in fun."

"I don't consider this fun!" I was furious. "We have a test tomorrow!"

Smokey did not respond. He gave me a puzzled look and crawled back in bed. I crumpled the piece of paper, tossed it on my desk, and slipped into bed.

I woke up three hours later exhausted and disoriented. I didn't know where I was. As soon as I saw the ball of paper on my desk and Smokey's empty bed, it hit me like a bolt: The English test! I took off my underwear, wrapped a towel around my waist, grabbed a bar of soap from my closet, and rushed down the call to take a shower. The hot steaming water calmed me down. At home we bathed in a large aluminum tub that was located in a shed attached to the side of our barrack. We heated the water in a pot, carried it, poured it into the tub, and washed our hair with Fab laundry detergent because soap and shampoo
were too mild to cut the sulfur and oil in the water.

When I got back to the room, Smokey was sitting at his desk, diligently memorizing the varsity fight song and waiting for me to go to breakfast. He had gotten up early and gone to Mass at the Mission Church. I was amazed at how much energy he had. He was like a giant dynamo. "After we eat, we can go take the English test," he said, glancing up at me and looking at the wrinkled piece of paper on my desk. I knew he was disappointed in me, but I pretended not to notice.

"I'll be ready in a second," I said, feeling tense about the test. No sooner had I gotten dressed than I heard pounding at the door.

"It must be those two guys coming back," Smokey said. I dashed to the closet and hid before he opened the door. Smokey was right. I recognized their deep, loud voices: "Go Broncos! Go Broncos! You know what to do," they shouted in unison.

Smokey began singing "Varsity fight for Santa Clara, Banners of red ... and white on high ... No matter how great your foe ... men, let your motto be 'To do or die.' Rah! Rah! Rah!" At points he sounded out of tune, but he continued, not missing a word. He punctuated the end by chanting: "Go Broncos!"

Mike and Jim applauded and hollered, "Go Broncos!" The noise subsided as they went down the hall looking for other victims.

"You can come out now, you chicken," Smokey said. I opened the closet door slowly, making sure they were completely gone.

"Thanks, Smokey."

"You owe me one, buddy." He punched me lightly on the shoulder.

We headed for the student dinning hall in Nobili for breakfast. On the way I felt lightheaded and had a knot in the pit of my stomach. We handed our meal ticket to a heavyset elderly woman who sat on a stool at the entrance of the dining hall. From a small table, we picked up a plastic tray, plate, and utensils and proceeded through a line as servers scooped large portions of scrambled eggs, sausage, and potatoes onto our plates. We sat at a round wooden table with a few other classmates. Smokey immediately struck up a conversation with them, but I tuned them out, worrying about the English placement test. English had always been my most difficult subject in school, and I did not test well in it. I felt sick to my stomach but ended up cleaning my plate as usual. I excused myself, rushed to the bathroom in Kenna Hall, splashed cold water on my face, and looked into the mirror. I was pale and had dark circles under my eyes.