The day I got my social security card
at the age of nine years old, I became an official farm laborer. They didn’t
have laws like they have now. Child labor was legal if not
encouraged, especially when we brought home an extra paycheck. More children in
a family meant more income. Like everyone else my age, I had a place in the
fields.
That’s how it was in 1962.
Damn, that was a long time ago.
Aside from picking grapes in the fields, the farmer paid me $.75 an hour to clean his yard and wash his cars. Gratified, it was like $27 plus change, a lot money: Stashed a third in the bank, a third to mom for food, and the rest to buy comic books, bags of candy and soft drinks from the Fernandez store in Richgrove.
For a nine-year-old, that was a big thing.
Years passed and this was how it was; school during the week and work on the weekends. It wasn’t bad. I played sports and learned a musical instrument.
Then that weird day came.
I was 12 years old when the Filipinos walked off, September 8, 1965. I lived on the corner of Rd 192 and Ave 16, about 10 miles away from Delano and five from Richgrove, smack dab in the middle of a sea of green, in a house provided for, by grape farmer, George Zaninovich. Dad was his major go-to guy, working seven days a week, 10-12 hours a day. I remembered times when he’d work at nine and ten o’clock at night to sulfur fields or check irrigation lines. Even at my young age, I knew dad worked hard to provide for us, a place to sleep, food to each, clothes to wear.
It was after the bus dropped us off from school when it happened. I was inside the house when I heard the commotion. I rushed out, saw a group of men, a lot of them, young Filipinos, screaming in Tagalog. They were throwing boxes of grapes from a flatbed truck out onto the road. It was a crazy, and the Mexican driver stood helplessly aside, not daring to move, not even an inch.
Minutes later, the truck was up-ended, on its side.
Then, as quickly as it happened, it ended.
A mess.
A terrible mess.
Dad showed up minutes later. I asked him what all of this was about, and he simply said, “Trouble.”
His demeanor indicated that this was serious. I was both curious and afraid as I watched him helping the Mexican clean up the mess. He told me and my sister to go back inside the house where I sat in my room and practiced my trumpet. Theresa and I practiced our instruments when we got home. We weren’t good and required a lot of practice, our abilities creating sounds that would keep mom and ad up and they needed to sleep and wake up early for work. The horn practice helped me ease my fear, but I could not get the images out of my head. What I witnessed was not a television show, nor a scene from a book.
It was real. Crazy real.
When he and mom got home, I heard them have a serious conversation in their native language that I later learned was their decision to build a home in Delano.
...to be with other Filipino families...
I learned that a Filipino organizer by the name of Larry Itliong with a handful of supporters: Pete Velasco, Ben Gines, and Andy Imutan organized the Agriculture Workers Organizing Committee voted to strike against Delano grape growers for higher wages and better work conditions.
We lived in a cause and effect world where lives could’ve been predictable had things been left well enough alone. But it was a time for change, and all that was left to do was forge on and see where this new world would take us.
We grew up poor but not without, eating three meals a day, clothes to wear, house that protected us from the elements. It wasn't the high life, but I didn’t see the need for much more. I had books to read, a transistor radio and black and white television set that picked up three sometimes four channels. Public school at Richgrove wasn’t bad either. I had nothing to compare with except for what I saw from episodes from “Father Knows Best” or “Leave it to Beaver.”. Teachers genuinely cared for us and provided an education that tolerated only so much of nonsense and ambivalence. Students were asked if not demanded to try. I remembered this attitude that despite our chances for a better life, we’d probably end up working in the fields to maintain a status quo. The farm labor strike was long time coming. They complained about inadequate pay, poor work conditions. I personally did not hear any of it. I was sure dad knew, well connected, news like this never passed without his knowing. I was a did, and this type of news was below my radar, above my still developing pre-frontal cortex to understand, and wasn’t really discussed at the dinner table. What I knew was that dad was placed in a precarious situation. Except for times when mom and I would join in during harvest and pruning season, dad was the family’s sole support. Manongs, who lived in labor camps, were unmarried, had no family responsibilities. When work was not available, they would travel to Alaska or out of state to follow season work. Families with roots established were not afforded these options. In 1965, I guessed was a significant amount of Filipino families in Delano that shared our conundrum. I was not worldly then, to realize the unique verities of life, but didn’t need a college degree to figure it out. Weeks after this incident, I learned a new name, “Ceasar Chavez.” At the time, it was no different than other names, normal in many ways. My Godbrother, Roy’s birthname was Ceasar. Even one of the grower’s names was Ceasar. Ceasar dressing. Ceasar was a character’s name in Shakespeare’s plays that now became synonymous to Delano’s farm worker’s struggle and affected the lives of many Filipinos, ours included.
As time passed the farm labor movement that was started by Filipinos lead by Larry Itliong was taken over by Ceasar Chavez and the United Farm Workers Union (UFW). Mexicans had a socialist appeal and it created a riff amongst the Filipino community. Dad, however, was cautiously optimistic and didn’t mind the higher pay and better work conditions, but he wasn’t happy about seeing his beloved Filipino Community Building transposed into a labor hall run by Mexicans, or so it was perceived. It naturally created factions: Pro Union vs Anti-Union. Dad was close to many of the organizers, but he continued to work. He figured he would benefit as with others. Early in the 1970’s Itliong resigned from the UFW with Philip VeraCurz taking his place as a spokesman and leader. Though I recognized Itliong throughout my life, I didn’t know him. Not saying that he wasn’t approachable. Our paths did not cross. Philip Vera Cruz was a different story. When passed away in 1977, Vera Cruz became the voice of the Filipino struggle with strong socialist undertones. Delano Filipinos like hearing him talk but could not support a union that ignored them. While I was a Cal State Bakersfield, I became his friend, spending many hours talking about the struggle and how Filipinos could in act change. As with others, I encouraged him to write his thoughts and publish a book. He said he didn’t have the education. I told him it wasn’t necessary. What he needed to do was record his thought in his how words and someone would transpose it on paper. Later, I saw his book on a book shelf, pleased that he followed up on our advice. I’m not sure. Just a feeling. I think he wanted me to write his book, but I was too dumb to recognize the signals. Doesn’t matter. Book written and his ideas live forever as with the voice for Filipino farm laborers who had no voice otherwise.
When dad built a house and we finally moved to Delano, the same time my baby sister, Rosalie, was born, dad quit his “go-to” 60-hour week job.
When we worked in the fields, we earned pay in one of several ways. Typically, we get paid by the hour, which, at the time, was between $1.05 to $1.15 an hour. During harvest and pruning seasons, we earned a bonus for the amount of work we produced. Finally, certain crews got paid, purely by the amount of work or output, which we called by contract, paid by the weight, the number of rows or boxes. When I turned 14, dad and I teamed up and worked for Pete Pasqual who paid us cash after turning in our slips. It was competitive and tough, earning a living based upon pushing our minds, bodies and spirits to and past their limits. Dad was incredibly strong at 57 and we worked to bring in as much cash we could to pay our bills. I remembered one winter when it rained so hard that we couldn’t see through the windshields. But despite this harsh conditions, we put our time in earning about $17. We weren’t alone. The fields were full of Filipinos, Mexicans and Mestizos putting our time in. Without it, we had, basically, no other way of earning a living.
Like I said, we lived in a post-Depression World War II era ala John Steinbeck boxcar that sat on stilts like a mobile home; plumbing, heating and cooling adequate and primitive; a place our family called home. Later, we moved from the country to Delano that dad built for less than $12,000 and into one of the best neighborhoods in Delano, Dover Street, wide enough for four lanes, ran straight into Fremont Elementary, home of the West Side Warriors. Ninong Consule Ninang Luci and Donna and Chris lived on the corner of Cecil and Dover, next was Loy Monsanto and next were my Godparents Arcadio Sr and Jovita Jose. They had three boys: Roy, David and Junior. Our house was next. Across the street was Mr. Jones and the Lees who owned and operated Central Market on 11th Avenue, which was right across the street from Lando and Rogers parent’s the New HB Market. We had the Armendariz, the Espinozas, the Torres, Kiko Miranda (who happened to be the toughest guy in Delano), and on the next block, the DeGuzmans, Masigats, Felix’, Bonitas, Ascuncions, Testons, and Bristols. We had drag races, football games, three fly’s up, and band practice on that street. On hot summer days, we’d have water balloon fights that lasted till the late hours of the night where we’d dry up faster than we’d get wet. It was a great block to live and grow.
Delano was a seven on a scale of one to 10 with a Chinatown, a bowling alley, and dances almost every weekend at the VFW, clean grocery stores, and people who actually cared about each other. Ceasar Chavez and the United Farm Workers were in full swing, taking over the Filiipino Community Center and sharing front-page news with the Viet Nam war, civil disobedience, hard rock, sexual freedom, and street drugs. Dad though in his 60’s attended and participated in all activities that promoted the well being of our race and culture. I did my thing; joined the Caballero de DiMas Alang, danced tininkling with Meding Ubay, hung out at the bowling alley and Chinatown, played palalasi, and won and lost at the chicken fights. I had a girlfriend, also Filipino and American born, much like myself but living in Pismo Beach. We were an on again, off again item at the time but, eventually, got married, raised kids and survived many years of togetherness.
Off Hwy 99 Delano was one of those rural cities that predominantly supported an agricultural community and had a significant Filipino population. Other smaller cities like Stockton, Salinas, and Santa Maria and large cities such as Vallejo, Daly City, Union City, Torrance, San Francisco, Los Angeles, San Diego, and National City had their own like communities, not agriculture based, but Filipino nevertheless. In this little mix, was a hamlet on Hwy 99 called Earlimart. Have no idea what that meant, but it was the home of a group of Filipinos from Illocos Norte, Illocos Sur and Cagayan with names like Gabriel, Apilado, Ascuncion, Ayson, Roque, Magno, Baltazar and Christobal. George had the hots for one of the Apilados. Luci when she first arrived from where Army families come from dressed in chiffon and lace that put Stevie Nix of Fleetwood Mac to shame. She didn’t grow up with us so it was difficult to bring her into our clan especially when she had this new look. I had her in several of my classes and I treated her as I did with any of my friends. When I was a senior in high school I was class assistant in one of the biology classes and met her younger brother who happened to be one of the shortest kids in school. He wasn’t a midget, or heck, maybe he was. At the time, I knew him on the roster as John, but I heard Luci call him Tex, which meant nothing to me. In school, we had nicknames like Sugar Bear, Wizard, Chango, Ma and so forth. And they meant something too. Like Sugar Bear what Chris’ name since he was a big guy, Chango which meant monkey for a fellow who looked like one, Ma being the first letters of Melba Alipio. Tex was like something you’d give a redneck. John was a short Filipino and far from being a cowboy. Luci said he was born in Texas, so I guess it made sense. I was born in Delano, and my name is Dominador. Go figure.
So George asked me one day to go to the pool after laps during track practice one day so I can join him in oogling Luci in her skintight bathing suit. He asked her out to dates and I got to meet her father “Domingo” a hard core military type with a stern disposition, “Fernanda” Luci’s mother, a nice Filipina lady with expressive eyes and features, and the rest of the clan that included Tex, Paula and Les. Though I grew up with many families, it was later on in life when this family (Danny Dulay, Ed Macaba, and Frank Azevedo included) became mine as George married Luci, and when they had their son, Gregorio Narcisso Donato, III, I became his godfather.
John or Tex finally found a way to reach a normal height and even played in a basketball team.
Delano was famous because it was the place where you could get “grapes.” When I was a kid living somewhere between Delano and Richgrove my whole world revolved around grapes. The house I lived in was built around miles and miles of it, smothering, suffocating, and stifling. It was that kind of thing, working in the dusty fields, little pay, surviving: It was our life, their lives, my life in 1971 when drugs and sex were safe. This was also the time when Ferdinand and Imelda Marcos ran not only the Philippines but the entire Pacific Rim wined and dined big shot dignitaries to lavish parties while squatters in Tondo Manila sold dried fish to help eke out a living. Delano Filipinos were either vocal or quiet about their Philippines. Being half-way across the world and with problems of their own here, it was a “who cared” attitude and life went on. I, on the other hand, experienced life that will never be replicated. Delano no longer had a Chinatown nor those who supported it as it flourished when the old timers were alive. Replacing them were families, many of them not knowing the history where the time for all good men to come to the aid of their country had come and passed.
At the labor camp where I worked, I knew of one Manong Alejandro. He was one of four or five who shared the same name, 62 years old, a bachelor, unmarried since arriving to America, in the late 1920’s. What made him unique were his stories of romance.
Each day, he would strike up a conversation with the question, “Young boy, do you know the words to that song?”
We’d have our talks during work breaks, mostly when we shared a snack, a staple needed to get us through the day.
Work in the fields was hard, steady and long; and, it required a reservoir of energy. I admired him, as with the rest of the elders in the camp. Farm labor was nothing less than back breaking; however, he knew the techniques and skill to work fast, efficient and with the least amount of effort. I was in my early 20’s, and he outpaced me despite my youth and vigor.
After we’d chew down a Zinger, cookie or cinnamon roll, Manong Alejandro would light up a smoke, a reliable Toscani, a foul-smelling cigar that resembled a dark twisted rope. He clenched it between his teeth and puffed, saying it kept the flies and mosquitoes away.
He shared stories about the the loves he had and should have had, both in the Philippines and in the States, how women were to be treated with respect and tender loving care, smothered with poetry, song and flowers.
George told me, that when my auntie Tusay worked in one of the crews, he would serenade her with the words from Besame Mucho.
His delivery was far from stellar, voice cracking and rasping, sometimes in tune, sometimes not, a soulful acapella, underneath the shade of vines, carried far, wide and echoed in the fields, no one talking, as if listening to a great tenor, like Mario Lanza, with murmurs of approval from his fellow brothers, who shared a culmination of years of wanting and needing, and how the tides of fate, laws, and racism denied them the decency of a relationship.
Time stood still and even the birds perched in reverence. I was touched by his performance, sanguine and melodious, an act that demonstrated aspirations and dreams, that were to have been rewarded earlier in his life, so many years ago, when a prized future that was promised and never came to be.
The first time I heard him sing, I was sad, and depressed, because I came to learn that Manongs like him had their fate sealed and set in stone. With no way out, he sang his song, as if the music, a painful testament, a metaphor of what he and his brothers endured.
His story was one of many. My father, unlike him, afforded the opportunity of meeting mom, when he was stationed in the Philippines. Those, who were not, returned to lonely bunk houses, where the basics of eat, sleep and work were all but guaranteed.
In return for this convenience, segregation left them emotionally destitute, emptied, and void.
Several days after one of our talks, I noticed Manong Alejandro was missing from work.
I learned, sad to say, that he passed away the night before, apparently from years of an auto immune disease that finally progressed to his heart. Never had I known that his body rebelled, ached and burned his joints, torturing him to unbearable and unspeakable pain.
And not once did he tell of it, a small word of complaint, showing up every day, in work boots, khaki’s, long sleeve shirt, bandanna around his neck and a floppy hat over his head, ready to earn an honest day’s pay.
I could still hear his words, in his thick Filipino accent, asking me, “Young boy, do you know the words to that song?”
I didn’t, and respectfully, asked him to sing “the words to that song.” the lyrics, reminding me of the tormented soul, that he and others shared; all kept within themselves; the unforgotten heroes, who hoped for a better life, compelling stories, all and everyone of them, never to be told, blown away in the wind; forgotten, forever.
A medical diagnosed disease may have taken Manong Alejandro; but I knew what killed him was something else. Not as cut and dry as what was written on his death certificate, but subtle and deadly and most certainly final.
What took him away was that of broken heart, a small part of his physical self. He couldn’t bear it anymore. Not one more day of loneliness. It affected me just thinking about it because I knew as true and pure as the wind that blew across the valley, he played his hand the best he could, despite the lousy cards that were shuffled to him.
Could his life been better? I was too young and precocious to tell.
I searched the sky and wondered what Manong Alejandro’s last thoughts were, before he closed his eyes for the very last time, after contributing so much of himself in this land of opportunity.
That’s how it was in 1962.
Damn, that was a long time ago.
Aside from picking grapes in the fields, the farmer paid me $.75 an hour to clean his yard and wash his cars. Gratified, it was like $27 plus change, a lot money: Stashed a third in the bank, a third to mom for food, and the rest to buy comic books, bags of candy and soft drinks from the Fernandez store in Richgrove.
For a nine-year-old, that was a big thing.
Years passed and this was how it was; school during the week and work on the weekends. It wasn’t bad. I played sports and learned a musical instrument.
Then that weird day came.
I was 12 years old when the Filipinos walked off, September 8, 1965. I lived on the corner of Rd 192 and Ave 16, about 10 miles away from Delano and five from Richgrove, smack dab in the middle of a sea of green, in a house provided for, by grape farmer, George Zaninovich. Dad was his major go-to guy, working seven days a week, 10-12 hours a day. I remembered times when he’d work at nine and ten o’clock at night to sulfur fields or check irrigation lines. Even at my young age, I knew dad worked hard to provide for us, a place to sleep, food to each, clothes to wear.
It was after the bus dropped us off from school when it happened. I was inside the house when I heard the commotion. I rushed out, saw a group of men, a lot of them, young Filipinos, screaming in Tagalog. They were throwing boxes of grapes from a flatbed truck out onto the road. It was a crazy, and the Mexican driver stood helplessly aside, not daring to move, not even an inch.
Minutes later, the truck was up-ended, on its side.
Then, as quickly as it happened, it ended.
A mess.
A terrible mess.
Dad showed up minutes later. I asked him what all of this was about, and he simply said, “Trouble.”
His demeanor indicated that this was serious. I was both curious and afraid as I watched him helping the Mexican clean up the mess. He told me and my sister to go back inside the house where I sat in my room and practiced my trumpet. Theresa and I practiced our instruments when we got home. We weren’t good and required a lot of practice, our abilities creating sounds that would keep mom and ad up and they needed to sleep and wake up early for work. The horn practice helped me ease my fear, but I could not get the images out of my head. What I witnessed was not a television show, nor a scene from a book.
It was real. Crazy real.
When he and mom got home, I heard them have a serious conversation in their native language that I later learned was their decision to build a home in Delano.
...to be with other Filipino families...
I learned that a Filipino organizer by the name of Larry Itliong with a handful of supporters: Pete Velasco, Ben Gines, and Andy Imutan organized the Agriculture Workers Organizing Committee voted to strike against Delano grape growers for higher wages and better work conditions.
We lived in a cause and effect world where lives could’ve been predictable had things been left well enough alone. But it was a time for change, and all that was left to do was forge on and see where this new world would take us.
We grew up poor but not without, eating three meals a day, clothes to wear, house that protected us from the elements. It wasn't the high life, but I didn’t see the need for much more. I had books to read, a transistor radio and black and white television set that picked up three sometimes four channels. Public school at Richgrove wasn’t bad either. I had nothing to compare with except for what I saw from episodes from “Father Knows Best” or “Leave it to Beaver.”. Teachers genuinely cared for us and provided an education that tolerated only so much of nonsense and ambivalence. Students were asked if not demanded to try. I remembered this attitude that despite our chances for a better life, we’d probably end up working in the fields to maintain a status quo. The farm labor strike was long time coming. They complained about inadequate pay, poor work conditions. I personally did not hear any of it. I was sure dad knew, well connected, news like this never passed without his knowing. I was a did, and this type of news was below my radar, above my still developing pre-frontal cortex to understand, and wasn’t really discussed at the dinner table. What I knew was that dad was placed in a precarious situation. Except for times when mom and I would join in during harvest and pruning season, dad was the family’s sole support. Manongs, who lived in labor camps, were unmarried, had no family responsibilities. When work was not available, they would travel to Alaska or out of state to follow season work. Families with roots established were not afforded these options. In 1965, I guessed was a significant amount of Filipino families in Delano that shared our conundrum. I was not worldly then, to realize the unique verities of life, but didn’t need a college degree to figure it out. Weeks after this incident, I learned a new name, “Ceasar Chavez.” At the time, it was no different than other names, normal in many ways. My Godbrother, Roy’s birthname was Ceasar. Even one of the grower’s names was Ceasar. Ceasar dressing. Ceasar was a character’s name in Shakespeare’s plays that now became synonymous to Delano’s farm worker’s struggle and affected the lives of many Filipinos, ours included.
As time passed the farm labor movement that was started by Filipinos lead by Larry Itliong was taken over by Ceasar Chavez and the United Farm Workers Union (UFW). Mexicans had a socialist appeal and it created a riff amongst the Filipino community. Dad, however, was cautiously optimistic and didn’t mind the higher pay and better work conditions, but he wasn’t happy about seeing his beloved Filipino Community Building transposed into a labor hall run by Mexicans, or so it was perceived. It naturally created factions: Pro Union vs Anti-Union. Dad was close to many of the organizers, but he continued to work. He figured he would benefit as with others. Early in the 1970’s Itliong resigned from the UFW with Philip VeraCurz taking his place as a spokesman and leader. Though I recognized Itliong throughout my life, I didn’t know him. Not saying that he wasn’t approachable. Our paths did not cross. Philip Vera Cruz was a different story. When passed away in 1977, Vera Cruz became the voice of the Filipino struggle with strong socialist undertones. Delano Filipinos like hearing him talk but could not support a union that ignored them. While I was a Cal State Bakersfield, I became his friend, spending many hours talking about the struggle and how Filipinos could in act change. As with others, I encouraged him to write his thoughts and publish a book. He said he didn’t have the education. I told him it wasn’t necessary. What he needed to do was record his thought in his how words and someone would transpose it on paper. Later, I saw his book on a book shelf, pleased that he followed up on our advice. I’m not sure. Just a feeling. I think he wanted me to write his book, but I was too dumb to recognize the signals. Doesn’t matter. Book written and his ideas live forever as with the voice for Filipino farm laborers who had no voice otherwise.
When dad built a house and we finally moved to Delano, the same time my baby sister, Rosalie, was born, dad quit his “go-to” 60-hour week job.
When we worked in the fields, we earned pay in one of several ways. Typically, we get paid by the hour, which, at the time, was between $1.05 to $1.15 an hour. During harvest and pruning seasons, we earned a bonus for the amount of work we produced. Finally, certain crews got paid, purely by the amount of work or output, which we called by contract, paid by the weight, the number of rows or boxes. When I turned 14, dad and I teamed up and worked for Pete Pasqual who paid us cash after turning in our slips. It was competitive and tough, earning a living based upon pushing our minds, bodies and spirits to and past their limits. Dad was incredibly strong at 57 and we worked to bring in as much cash we could to pay our bills. I remembered one winter when it rained so hard that we couldn’t see through the windshields. But despite this harsh conditions, we put our time in earning about $17. We weren’t alone. The fields were full of Filipinos, Mexicans and Mestizos putting our time in. Without it, we had, basically, no other way of earning a living.
Like I said, we lived in a post-Depression World War II era ala John Steinbeck boxcar that sat on stilts like a mobile home; plumbing, heating and cooling adequate and primitive; a place our family called home. Later, we moved from the country to Delano that dad built for less than $12,000 and into one of the best neighborhoods in Delano, Dover Street, wide enough for four lanes, ran straight into Fremont Elementary, home of the West Side Warriors. Ninong Consule Ninang Luci and Donna and Chris lived on the corner of Cecil and Dover, next was Loy Monsanto and next were my Godparents Arcadio Sr and Jovita Jose. They had three boys: Roy, David and Junior. Our house was next. Across the street was Mr. Jones and the Lees who owned and operated Central Market on 11th Avenue, which was right across the street from Lando and Rogers parent’s the New HB Market. We had the Armendariz, the Espinozas, the Torres, Kiko Miranda (who happened to be the toughest guy in Delano), and on the next block, the DeGuzmans, Masigats, Felix’, Bonitas, Ascuncions, Testons, and Bristols. We had drag races, football games, three fly’s up, and band practice on that street. On hot summer days, we’d have water balloon fights that lasted till the late hours of the night where we’d dry up faster than we’d get wet. It was a great block to live and grow.
Delano was a seven on a scale of one to 10 with a Chinatown, a bowling alley, and dances almost every weekend at the VFW, clean grocery stores, and people who actually cared about each other. Ceasar Chavez and the United Farm Workers were in full swing, taking over the Filiipino Community Center and sharing front-page news with the Viet Nam war, civil disobedience, hard rock, sexual freedom, and street drugs. Dad though in his 60’s attended and participated in all activities that promoted the well being of our race and culture. I did my thing; joined the Caballero de DiMas Alang, danced tininkling with Meding Ubay, hung out at the bowling alley and Chinatown, played palalasi, and won and lost at the chicken fights. I had a girlfriend, also Filipino and American born, much like myself but living in Pismo Beach. We were an on again, off again item at the time but, eventually, got married, raised kids and survived many years of togetherness.
Off Hwy 99 Delano was one of those rural cities that predominantly supported an agricultural community and had a significant Filipino population. Other smaller cities like Stockton, Salinas, and Santa Maria and large cities such as Vallejo, Daly City, Union City, Torrance, San Francisco, Los Angeles, San Diego, and National City had their own like communities, not agriculture based, but Filipino nevertheless. In this little mix, was a hamlet on Hwy 99 called Earlimart. Have no idea what that meant, but it was the home of a group of Filipinos from Illocos Norte, Illocos Sur and Cagayan with names like Gabriel, Apilado, Ascuncion, Ayson, Roque, Magno, Baltazar and Christobal. George had the hots for one of the Apilados. Luci when she first arrived from where Army families come from dressed in chiffon and lace that put Stevie Nix of Fleetwood Mac to shame. She didn’t grow up with us so it was difficult to bring her into our clan especially when she had this new look. I had her in several of my classes and I treated her as I did with any of my friends. When I was a senior in high school I was class assistant in one of the biology classes and met her younger brother who happened to be one of the shortest kids in school. He wasn’t a midget, or heck, maybe he was. At the time, I knew him on the roster as John, but I heard Luci call him Tex, which meant nothing to me. In school, we had nicknames like Sugar Bear, Wizard, Chango, Ma and so forth. And they meant something too. Like Sugar Bear what Chris’ name since he was a big guy, Chango which meant monkey for a fellow who looked like one, Ma being the first letters of Melba Alipio. Tex was like something you’d give a redneck. John was a short Filipino and far from being a cowboy. Luci said he was born in Texas, so I guess it made sense. I was born in Delano, and my name is Dominador. Go figure.
So George asked me one day to go to the pool after laps during track practice one day so I can join him in oogling Luci in her skintight bathing suit. He asked her out to dates and I got to meet her father “Domingo” a hard core military type with a stern disposition, “Fernanda” Luci’s mother, a nice Filipina lady with expressive eyes and features, and the rest of the clan that included Tex, Paula and Les. Though I grew up with many families, it was later on in life when this family (Danny Dulay, Ed Macaba, and Frank Azevedo included) became mine as George married Luci, and when they had their son, Gregorio Narcisso Donato, III, I became his godfather.
John or Tex finally found a way to reach a normal height and even played in a basketball team.
Delano was famous because it was the place where you could get “grapes.” When I was a kid living somewhere between Delano and Richgrove my whole world revolved around grapes. The house I lived in was built around miles and miles of it, smothering, suffocating, and stifling. It was that kind of thing, working in the dusty fields, little pay, surviving: It was our life, their lives, my life in 1971 when drugs and sex were safe. This was also the time when Ferdinand and Imelda Marcos ran not only the Philippines but the entire Pacific Rim wined and dined big shot dignitaries to lavish parties while squatters in Tondo Manila sold dried fish to help eke out a living. Delano Filipinos were either vocal or quiet about their Philippines. Being half-way across the world and with problems of their own here, it was a “who cared” attitude and life went on. I, on the other hand, experienced life that will never be replicated. Delano no longer had a Chinatown nor those who supported it as it flourished when the old timers were alive. Replacing them were families, many of them not knowing the history where the time for all good men to come to the aid of their country had come and passed.
At the labor camp where I worked, I knew of one Manong Alejandro. He was one of four or five who shared the same name, 62 years old, a bachelor, unmarried since arriving to America, in the late 1920’s. What made him unique were his stories of romance.
Each day, he would strike up a conversation with the question, “Young boy, do you know the words to that song?”
We’d have our talks during work breaks, mostly when we shared a snack, a staple needed to get us through the day.
Work in the fields was hard, steady and long; and, it required a reservoir of energy. I admired him, as with the rest of the elders in the camp. Farm labor was nothing less than back breaking; however, he knew the techniques and skill to work fast, efficient and with the least amount of effort. I was in my early 20’s, and he outpaced me despite my youth and vigor.
After we’d chew down a Zinger, cookie or cinnamon roll, Manong Alejandro would light up a smoke, a reliable Toscani, a foul-smelling cigar that resembled a dark twisted rope. He clenched it between his teeth and puffed, saying it kept the flies and mosquitoes away.
He shared stories about the the loves he had and should have had, both in the Philippines and in the States, how women were to be treated with respect and tender loving care, smothered with poetry, song and flowers.
George told me, that when my auntie Tusay worked in one of the crews, he would serenade her with the words from Besame Mucho.
His delivery was far from stellar, voice cracking and rasping, sometimes in tune, sometimes not, a soulful acapella, underneath the shade of vines, carried far, wide and echoed in the fields, no one talking, as if listening to a great tenor, like Mario Lanza, with murmurs of approval from his fellow brothers, who shared a culmination of years of wanting and needing, and how the tides of fate, laws, and racism denied them the decency of a relationship.
Time stood still and even the birds perched in reverence. I was touched by his performance, sanguine and melodious, an act that demonstrated aspirations and dreams, that were to have been rewarded earlier in his life, so many years ago, when a prized future that was promised and never came to be.
The first time I heard him sing, I was sad, and depressed, because I came to learn that Manongs like him had their fate sealed and set in stone. With no way out, he sang his song, as if the music, a painful testament, a metaphor of what he and his brothers endured.
His story was one of many. My father, unlike him, afforded the opportunity of meeting mom, when he was stationed in the Philippines. Those, who were not, returned to lonely bunk houses, where the basics of eat, sleep and work were all but guaranteed.
In return for this convenience, segregation left them emotionally destitute, emptied, and void.
Several days after one of our talks, I noticed Manong Alejandro was missing from work.
I learned, sad to say, that he passed away the night before, apparently from years of an auto immune disease that finally progressed to his heart. Never had I known that his body rebelled, ached and burned his joints, torturing him to unbearable and unspeakable pain.
And not once did he tell of it, a small word of complaint, showing up every day, in work boots, khaki’s, long sleeve shirt, bandanna around his neck and a floppy hat over his head, ready to earn an honest day’s pay.
I could still hear his words, in his thick Filipino accent, asking me, “Young boy, do you know the words to that song?”
I didn’t, and respectfully, asked him to sing “the words to that song.” the lyrics, reminding me of the tormented soul, that he and others shared; all kept within themselves; the unforgotten heroes, who hoped for a better life, compelling stories, all and everyone of them, never to be told, blown away in the wind; forgotten, forever.
A medical diagnosed disease may have taken Manong Alejandro; but I knew what killed him was something else. Not as cut and dry as what was written on his death certificate, but subtle and deadly and most certainly final.
What took him away was that of broken heart, a small part of his physical self. He couldn’t bear it anymore. Not one more day of loneliness. It affected me just thinking about it because I knew as true and pure as the wind that blew across the valley, he played his hand the best he could, despite the lousy cards that were shuffled to him.
Could his life been better? I was too young and precocious to tell.
I searched the sky and wondered what Manong Alejandro’s last thoughts were, before he closed his eyes for the very last time, after contributing so much of himself in this land of opportunity.
