Stories from the Life of a Migrant Child Read online

  The Circuit

  Stories from the life of a migrant child

  Francisco Jiménez

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Table of Contents

  ...

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Contents

  Acknowledgments

  Under the Wire

  Soledad

  Inside Out

  Miracle in Tent City

  El Angel de Oro

  Christmas Gift

  Death Forgiven

  Cotton Sack

  The Circuit

  Learning the Game

  To Have and to Hold

  Moving Still

  A Note from the Author

  Houghton Mifflin Company

  Boston

  Copyright © 1997 by Francisco Jiménez

  Author's note previously published in The Horn Book Magazine © 1998

  All rights reserved. For information about permission to reproduce

  selections from this book, write to Permissions, Houghton Mifflin

  Company, 215 Park Avenue South, New York, New York 10003.

  Previously published in paperback by the University of New Mexico Press

  The following stories have been previously published:

  "The Circuit" in The Arizona Quarterly;

  "Moving Still" in California History;

  "Learning the Game" in RiverSedge.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Jiménez, Francisco, 1943–

  The circuit: stories from the life of a migrant child

  Francisco Jiménez.

  p. cm.

  ISBN 0-395-97902-1

  1. Mexican Americans—California—Social life and customs—

  Fiction. 2. Migrant agricultural laborers—California—Fiction.

  3. Mexican American families—California—Fiction,

  i. Title.

  ps3560.i55c57 1997

  813'FT.54—dc21 97-4844

  cip

  Manufactured in the United States of America

  MV 20 19 18 17 16 15 14 13

  To my parents and my seven sisters and brothers:

  Avelina/Rorra

  Evangelina/Yerman

  María Luisa/Licha

  Roberto/Toto

  José Francisco/Trampita

  Juan Manuel/Torito

  and Rubén/Carne Seca

  Contents

  Acknowledgments, [>]

  Under the Wire, [>]

  Soledad, [>]

  Inside Out, [>]

  Miracle in Tent City, [>]

  El Angel de Oro, [>]

  Christmas Gift, [>]

  Death Forgiven, [>]

  Cotton Sack, [>]

  The Circuit, [>]

  Learning the Game, [>]

  To Have and to Hold, [>]

  Moving Still, [>]

  A Note from the Author, [>]

  Acknowledgments

  There are many people who made this collection of short stories possible. I am indebted to my family whose lives are represented in this book. These stories are their stories as well as mine. These are also the stories of many migrant children of yesterday and today. I thank them all and ask their forgiveness for taking the liberty to write about them, knowing full well my limitations as a writer. Their courage, tenacity, and unwavering hope in the midst of adversity have been a constant inspiration to me.

  Thanks to the many teachers and students who have written to me over the years about my work. Their particular interest in my story "The Circuit" and their encouragement to write more stories about my life have motivated me to continue writing.

  I am grateful to my friends and colleagues who guided me along the way with constructive criticism: Cedric Busette, mi amigo del alma; Kate Martin Fergueson; and Alma Garcia. A special thanks to my immediate family for patiently listening to various drafts of the stories and offering valuable comments on them.

  I would like to express my sincere gratitude to my teachers whose faith in my ability and whose guidance helped me break the migrant circuit.

  I am thankful to Santa Clara University for giving me the time and encouragement to complete this book.

  Finally, I am also indebted to my editor, Andrea Otañez, for her valuable suggestions for improvements and for her support.

  Under the Wire

  "La frontera" is a word I often heard when I was a child living in El Rancho Blanco, a small village nestled on barren, dry hills several miles north of Guadalajara, Mexico. I heard it for the first time back in the late 1940s when Papá and Mamá told me and Roberto, my older brother, that someday we would take a long trip north, cross la frontera, enter California, and leave our poverty behind.

  I did not know exactly what California was either, but Papá's eyes sparkled whenever he talked about it with Mamá and his friends. "Once we cross la frontera, we'll make a good living in California," he would say, standing up straight and sticking out his chest.

  Roberto, who is four years older than I, became excited every time Papá talked about the trip to California. He didn't like living in El Rancho Blanco, especially after visiting our older cousin, Fito, in Guadalajara.

  Fito had left El Rancho Blanco. He was working in a tequila factory and living in a two-bedroom house that had electricity and a water well. He told Roberto that he, Fito, didn't have to get up at four in the morning anymore, like my brother, to milk the five cows by hand and carry the milk in a large aluminum can on horse for several miles to the nearest road, where a truck would transport it to town to sell. He didn't have to go to the river for water, sleep on dirt floors, or use candles for light.

  From then on, about the only thing Roberto liked about living in El Rancho Blanco was hunting for chicken eggs and attending church on Sundays.

  I liked looking for eggs and going to Mass too. But what I enjoyed most was listening to stories. In the evenings, after supper, Papá's brother, tío Mauricio, and his family came over to visit. We sat around a fire built with dry cow chips and told stories while shaking out grain from ears of corn.

  On one such evening Papá made the announcement: We were going to make the long-awaited trip across la frontera to California. Days later we packed our belongings in a suitcase and took the bus to Guadalajara to catch the train. Papá bought tickets on a second-class train, Ferrocarriles Nacionales de México. I had never seen a train before. It looked like metal huts on wheels strung together. We climbed in and took our seats. I stood to look out the window. As the train started to move, it jerked and made a loud clattering sound, like hundreds of milk cans crashing. I got scared and lost my balance. Papá caught me and told me to sit. I swung my legs, following the rhythm of the train. Roberto sat across from me, next to Mamá. He had a big grin on his face.

  We traveled for two days and nights. During the night, we didn't get much sleep. The wooden seats were hard, and the train made loud noises, blowing its whistle and grinding its brakes. At the first train stop I asked Papá, "Is this California?"

  "No mi'jo, we're not there yet," he answered patiently. "We have many more hours to go."

  Noting that Papá had closed his eyes, I turned to Roberto and asked, "What's California like?"

  "I don't know," he answered, "but Fito told me that people there sweep money off the streets."

  "Where did Fito get that idea?" Papá said, opening his eyes and laughing.

  "From Cantinflas," Roberto said assuredly. "He said Cantinflas said it in a movie."

  "Cantinflas was joking," Papá responded, chuckling. "But it's true that life is better there."

  "I hope so," Mamá
said. Then, putting her arm around Roberto, she added softly, "Dios lo quiera."

  The train slowed down. I looked out the window and saw we were entering another town. "Is this it?" I asked.

  "¡Otra vez la burra al trigo!" Papá said, frowning and rolling his eyes. "I'll tell you when we get there!"

  "Be patient, Panchito," Mamá said, smiling. "We'll get there soon."

  When the train stopped in Mexicali, Papá told us to get off. "We're almost there," he said, looking at me. We left the station. Papá carried our dark brown suitcase. We followed behind him until we reached a barbed wire fence. According to Papá, this was la frontera. He pointed out that across the gray wire barricade was California, that famous place I had heard so much about. On both sides of the fence were armed guards dressed in green uniforms. Papá called them la migra, and explained that we had to cross the fence to the other side without being seen by them.

  Late that night, we walked for several miles away from town. Papá, who led the way, paused, looked all around to make sure no one could see us, and headed toward the fence. We walked along the wire wall until Papá spotted a small hole underneath the fence. Papá got on his knees and, with his hands, made the opening larger. We all crawled through like snakes. A few minutes later, we were picked up by a woman whom Papá had contacted in Mexicali. She had promised to pick us up in her car and drive us, for a fee, to a place where we would find work.

  The woman drove all night, and at dawn we reached a tent labor camp on the outskirts of Guadalupe, a small town on the coast. She stopped the car by the side of a narrow road, near the camp.

  "This is the place I told you about," she said wearily. "Here you'll find work picking strawberries."

  Papá unloaded the suitcase from the trunk, took out his wallet, and paid the woman. "We have only seven dollars left," he said, biting his lower lip. After the woman drove away, we walked to the camp, following a dirt path lined on both sides by eucalyptus trees. Mamá held me by the hand very tightly. At the camp, Mamá and Papá were told that the foreman had left for the day.

  We spent that night underneath the eucalyptus trees. We gathered leaves from the trees, which smelled like sweet gum, and piled them to lie on. Roberto and I slept between Papá and Mamá.

  The following morning, I woke to the sound of a train whistle. For a split second I thought we were still on the train on our way to California. Spewing black smoke, it passed behind the camp, traveling much faster than the train we had taken from Guadalajara. As I followed it with my eyes, I heard a stranger's voice behind me. It was that of a woman who had stopped by to help. Her name was Lupe Gordillo; she was from the nearby camp. She brought us a few groceries and introduced us to the camp foreman, who spoke Spanish. He loaned us an army tent, which we pitched with his help. "You're lucky," he said. "This is the last tent we have."

  "When can we start work?" Papá asked, rubbing his hands.

  "In two weeks," the foreman answered.

  "That can't be!" Papá exclaimed, shaking his head. "We were told we'd find work right away."

  "I am sorry, the strawberries won't be ready to pick until then," the foreman responded, shrugging his shoulders and walking away.

  After a long silence, Mamá said, "We'll manage, viejo. Once work starts, we'll be fine."

  Roberto was quiet. He had a sad look in his eyes.

  During the next two weeks, Mamá cooked outside on a makeshift stove using rocks and a comal Doña Lupe had given her. We ate wild verdolagas and rabbit and birds, which Papá hunted with a rifle he borrowed from a neighbor.

  To pass the time, Roberto and I watched the trains go by behind the labor camp. We crawled underneath a barbed wire fence to get a closer look at them as they passed by several times a day.

  Our favorite train came by every day at noon. It had a distinct whistle. We heard it coming from miles away. Roberto and I called it the Noon Train. Often, we would get there early and play on the railroad tracks while we waited for it. We ran straddling the rails or walked on them as fast as we could to see how far we could go without falling off. We also sat on the rails to feel them vibrate as the train approached. As days went by, we could recognize the conductor from afar. He slowed the train every time it went by and waved at us with his gray-and-white striped cap. We waved back.

  One Sunday, Roberto and I crossed the fence earlier than usual to wait for the Noon Train. Roberto didn't feel like playing, so we sat on one of the rails, arms wrapped around our legs, foreheads on our knees. "I wonder where the train comes from," I said. "Do you know, Roberto?"

  "I have been wondering too," he answered, slowly lifting his head. "I think it comes from California."

  "California!" I exclaimed. "This is California!"

  "I am not so sure," he said. "Remember what—"

  The familiar Noon Train whistle interrupted him. We stepped off the rail and moved a few feet away from the tracks. The conductor slowed the train to a crawl, waved, and gently dropped a large brown bag in front of us as he went by. We picked it up and looked inside. It was full of oranges, apples, and candy.

  "See, it does come from California!" Roberto exclaimed. We ran alongside the train, waving at the conductor. The train sped up and soon left us behind. We followed the rear of the train with our eyes until it got smaller and smaller and disappeared.

  Soledad

  That cold, early morning, Papá parked the Carcachita, our old jalopy, at one end of the cotton field. He, Mamá, and Roberto, my older brother, climbed out and headed toward the other end, where the picking started. As usual, they left me alone in the car to take care of Trampita, my little brother, who was six months old. I hated being left by myself with him while they went off to pick cotton.

  As they walked farther into the field, I climbed onto the roof of the car, stood on tiptoe, and watched them until I could no longer tell them apart from the other pickers. Once I lost sight of them, I felt pain in my chest, that same pain I always felt whenever they left Trampita and me alone. Sobbing, I climbed into the car and wrapped my arms around Trampita, who slept in the back seat. He woke up crying and shivering from the cold. I covered him with a small blanket and gave him his bottle of milk. He calmed down and went back to sleep.

  After several long hours, I climbed onto the roof of the car again to see if Papá, Mamá, and Roberto were on their way back for lunch. I looked as far away as I could, without blinking, hoping to spot them. When I finally saw them, my heart started racing. I jumped off the car, fell to the ground, got up, and ran to meet them. I almost knocked Roberto off his feet when I jumped on him.

  After checking on Trampita, Mamá and Papá spread a green army blanket on the ground behind the Carcachita, where we all sat to eat. Mamá reached into a large grocery bag and pulled out the tacos she had prepared for us at dawn that morning. Papá ate quickly because he did not want to lose time from work. Roberto and I ate slowly, trying to make time last a bit longer. Holding him in her left arm, Mamá nursed Trampita while she ate with her right hand. She then laid him on the back seat of the car, changed his diaper, and kissed him gently on his forehead as he closed his eyes and fell asleep. Papá got up, folded the blanket, and placed it back inside the trunk of the car. He then picked up his empty cotton sack and flipped it over his left shoulder. This was the signal for Roberto and Mamá that it was time to go back to work.

  I climbed onto the roof of the Carcachita again and watched them disappear into the sea of cotton. My eyes began to cloud up. I climbed off the car and, leaning against the back tire, I sat and thought, "If I learn to pick cotton, Papá will let me go with him, Mamá, and Roberto, and I won't be left alone anymore!"

  After checking on Trampita to make sure he was still asleep, I quietly walked over to the row nearest the car and picked cotton for the first time.

  It was not as easy as I thought. I tried to pick with both hands, just like Roberto, but could only pick one cotton boll at a time. I held the cotton shells steady from underneath with my left hand
while I picked the bolls with my right hand and piled them on the ground. The shells' sharp prongs scratched my hands like cat's claws and, sometimes, dug into the corner of my fingernails and made them bleed. I had trouble reaching the cotton bolls at the very top of the tall plants, so I leaned against the plants and pushed them over with my body until they touched the ground. I then stood on them while I stooped over and picked the cotton bolls. I had to step off to the side quickly because the plants sprang back like a bow, whipping me in the face if I did not move fast enough.

  At the end of the day, I was tired and disappointed. I had not picked as much cotton as I had wanted to. The pile was only about two feet high. Then I remembered Papá saying that we got paid three cents a pound, so I mixed dirt clods with the cotton to make it weigh more.

  At dusk, Papá, Mamá, and Roberto finally returned. I was about to tell them my surprise when Mamá interrupted me. "How is Trampita?" she asked, going straight to the car to check on him. When she opened the car door and saw him, she was angry. I had been so busy learning to pick cotton that I had forgotten all about him. Tired from crying, he had fallen asleep after soiling himself and dropping and breaking the bottle of milk. "I told you to take care of Trampita!" Mamá shouted.

  "But look what I did," I said, proudly pointing to my pile of cotton.

  Mamá glanced at the pile, shook her head in anger, and began cleaning Trampita. Papá looked at my cotton, grinned slightly, and asked Roberto to help him collect it. His grin quickly turned into a frown when he discovered the dirt clods. He separated them from the cotton, pointing them out one by one as he tossed them on the ground. "You should be ashamed of yourself. We could be fired for this," he said. "Besides, your job is to take care of Trampita. Is that clear?" he continued, placing both hands on his belt buckle.

  "Sí, Papá," I answered timidly. I was hurt and confused. Seeking comfort, I walked over to Roberto and whispered to him, "Someday, I will get to go pick cotton with you, Papá, and Mamá. Then I won't be left alone." Roberto put his arm around me and nodded his head.