"Bless the beasts and the children, for in this world they have no say."
- Glenden Swarthout
San Ramon was a dusty little desert town when my family arrived in the summer of 1954. All of our earthly possessions were either crammed into the back of our Chevrolet station wagon or the old horse trailer my father had hitched to the back. Our family doctor back in Hardinsburg, Kentucky, had suggested we move to the desert because of my asthma. My parents opted for Arizona because my father had been stationed at Thompson Air Force Base during the war and fell in love with the Sonoran Desert for its climate and its stunning sunsets. With the help of an old army buddy, my father landed a job with the state as a livestock inspector. My sister Nell was thirteen and I was ten when our family moved, and even at that age, we recognized that the adventure my parents were pitching to us was really a difficult move. At three thirty in the afternoon on our fourth day of traveling down what seemed like endless bumpy two-lane roads, we finally pulled into the dirt driveway of our new house. The thermometer nailed up to the back wall read one hundred and eleven degrees. My mother mumbled, "Dry heat, my ass."
The San Gabriel Valley was nearly a thousand square miles of raw, almost untouched land in the Sonoran Desert. It is bound on the north by the Gila River and on the south by the foothills of the Picacho Mountains. The valley lay between the Sayante Mountains in the west and the Tortolita Mountains in the east. In my eyes, it was untapped desert wilderness.
Our new home was a small wood-framed farmhouse on the south side of Warren Road. It faced north and had a screened in porch that went completely around the house. We had an old barn, a hayloft, and a couple of adjoining corrals. On the southwest side of the house stood two huge cottonwood trees that blocked most of the afternoon sun. Beyond those was a small grove of pecan trees that was practically like air conditioning when the breeze blew through it. To get a decent night`s sleep our family slept out on the screened-in back porch and would fall asleep to the sound of crickets and the rustling leaves of the cottonwood trees.
We had only been in San Ramon a few days when a Mexican kid showed up out of nowhere one morning and wanted to know if I`d like to play. His name was Jesus Garcia, and he was a short, stocky, brown-skinned kid with coal-black hair and eyes. He said he and his family lived in Sonora Town, a Mexican settlement a mile or so west, and he had ridden his bike to our house to find out if I wanted to be his friend.
I learned that Jesus was only three weeks younger than me, and we were going to be in the same fourth grade class at San Ramon Elementary. All summer long, we explored the wilds of the immense valley together. It was hot, but we were too busy to be bothered by it. Half a mile due south from my house, across fields of cotton and alfalfa, was the San Gabriel River. All summer long, we hiked its banks and swam in its pools, sending snakes and lizards scurrying. One afternoon Jesus brought a golf putter along. He told me to watch as he slowly walked up behind a rattlesnake, put the putter just behind the snake`s head so it couldn`t move, reached down, and carefully picked up the snake. I didn`t take a breath the entire time.
When Jesus invited me to his house for lunch, his mom served the best burritos I had ever eaten. But even more importantly, I met his beautiful older sisters, Adoncia and Sancha. I couldn`t take my eyes off of them. They told Jesus in Spanish to tell me to quit staring at them. It was the first time I`d heard people conversing fluently in another language, and I was fascinated by how they wove Spanish in and out of English like a thread through fabric. Jesus told me that his mom and dad made him and his sisters study, even during the summer. I was concerned that if the rest of the kids at school were as smart as he was, they`d hold me back a couple of grades. By the time school started in September, it was as though Jesus and I had been friends all of our lives.
The week before school started my father met some people through his work who invited our family to a picnic. Everyone met at Koller Park, a tranquil piece of the high desert up in the foothills of the Sayante Mountains. The area had been a sacred burial ground of the long-vanished Piipaash people, but during the Depression the Civilian Conservation Corps had built ramadas and bar-b-que pits there from river rock.
I was the only ten-year-old boy at the picnic, and when my sister went off to play with a girl her age, I had to stay and help my mother. I was putting out paper plates when I overheard a woman say something about the "damn Mormons." I looked up and saw a woman unpacking food from a basket.
"Ina, have the Mormons been over to meet you yet?" she asked my mother.
Mother looked up, a little confused. "I`m sorry?"
"The Mormons," the woman repeated, putting a bowl of macaroni salad on the table. "We were hardly unpacked when a couple of them came by to see if we needed any help."
"Really? Where were they when we were unpacking?" my mother replied, casually comparing her potato salad to the growing spread.
"If that`s all it was," another woman answered as she gave me a handful of plastic utensils, "that would be terrific. But those people always have a hidden agenda. Once they figure out you`re not going to join their cult, trust me, they won`t give you the time of day."
"What? A cult?" my mother asked as she put stacks of paper napkins on the table.
"Absolutely, it`s a cult," the woman said.
"I`ll be," my mother said, putting out jars of ketchup, mustard, and relish. "I never gave them much thought. We didn`t have a lot of Mormons in Kentucky. I just thought they were Christians."
"Oh, my heavens, no," said the woman. "They have their own brand of silliness."
My mother listened as each of the women gave their two cents` worth until the men brought trays of hamburgers and hot dogs and everyone sat down in the shade of the ramada to eat.
After lunch, to avoid being coerced by my mother to clean up the mess, I snuck off to watch my father play a game of horseshoes. An old man with leathery skin and dirty, rustic clothes caught my attention when he grabbed a pouch of Bull Durham out of the breast pocket of his shirt, then a single sheet of Zig-Zag paper, and preceded to roll a perfect cigarette, all with one hand while he listened to the other men talk. As soon as he`d lit the cigarette, he asked my dad what he`d done for a living back in Kentucky. My dad told everyone that he and my grandfather trained horses for police forces, for racing, and for working livestock. That struck a chord with another old man, who told my father that the Long Cattle Company was always breaking ponies to work with cattle. He suggested that if my dad wanted extra work, he should go out and talk to Asa Long, but cautioned him that Asa had a prickly sort of personality.
The men spent a good while talking about the best places in the valley for hunting and fishing. Then out of nowhere and for no particular reason, an old man asked my dad, "You there—Were there a lot of Mexicans out in Kentucky?" My dad told the man that every so often he`d see a Mexican jockey at one of the tracks, but that was about it.
The old man asked, "So what do ya think of `em?"
"I don`t think of them at all," Dad said, sounding a little confounded by the question.
"Well, I`ll tell ya what I think of them," another man spoke up. "If they spent as much time working as they do trying to get out of work, they`d be a whole lot better off. They come over here from Mexico to reap the bounty, but they don`t want to give up their language, their customs, nothing."
Another man interrupted. "Are you all aware they integrated the school over in San Ramon? Next week our kids are going to be sitting right next to them. Mark my word: little by little, this country`s going down the toilet."
On the way home that night, I asked my father about that conversation. He explained to Nell and me that neither he nor my mother were prejudiced, and that his grandfather had even helped integrate the Methodist Church back in Breckenridge County. But they did believe, like a lot of people in those days, that Negroes and Mexicans had their place, and we had ours. My father kept quiet when my mother suggested that once school started, it might be a good idea not to hang out with Jesus. I thought about my mother`s comment and wondered why she would say such a thing. In a little over a week I would begin to learn.
I had grown keenly aware of the differences between Mexicans and us that summer. Our cultures, the color of our skin, the language we spoke, and the foods we ate. But I didn`t see that as bad, just different. The one thing I had no doubt about was that Jesus Garcia had gone out of his way to ask if I wanted to be his friend, and nobody else had.
When my mother and I arrived at the school for the new-student orientation, we were surprised to see so many Mexican kids there. We realized then that the schools had just been integrated. Every parent had a chance to meet with the principal individually. The moment I met Mr. Udall, I felt at ease. He was an older man with a gray flattop haircut, brown horn-rimmed glasses, and the most amiable personality of anyone I`d ever met. He welcomed us to San Ramon Elementary and talked to us as if he had nothing better to do. He told us that Mrs. Millhouse and Mrs. Carter had both been teaching since the thirties; Mrs. Millhouse at the whites-only school and Mrs. Carter at the Mexican school. Finally he showed us the way to the little red brick bungalow that was to become my fourth grade class. Mrs. Eunice Millhouse`s most notable characteristic was her frown. She seemed entirely unimpressed when Mr. Udall introduced my mother and me.
The following Monday promptly at eight in the morning classes began.
"No talking," she barked. "I have assigned the seat where you will sit for the entire year. You cannot change where you sit."
Over the next ten minutes she read the names of kids in our class and one by one we sat at our assigned locations.
"Jesse Garcia," Mrs. Millhouse called out.
No one answered.
"Is there a Jesse Garcia in the class?" she asked.
"My name is Jesus Garcia," my friend answered.
"I see," said Mrs. Millhouse. "Jesse, you can`t use that name at school. You`ll have to start using Jesse."
"But my name isn`t Jesse, it`s Jesus," Jesus said as he took his seat at the desk his was instructed to.
"You cannot use that name," she said sternly. "You`ll have to go by Jesse. You have no choice in the matter. Jesus is Jesse in English."
"No, Jesse is not the translation of Jesus in English," Jesus answered as he sat up in his chair and looked at Mrs. Millhouse with determination and pride. "My mom and dad named me Jesus after my grandfather who lives in Parral, Chihuahua, and that`s what I want to be called."
Mrs. Millhouse looked annoyed. "We will deal with that later, young man," she said. "For now, sit there and behave yourself."
After we had all taken our seats, she told us the rules.
"You are expected to be in class at exactly eight o`clock in the morning. If you cannot be here on time, you must go to Mr. Udall`s office with a note from your mother or father. No exceptions! The first thing we do in this class each morning is say the Pledge of Allegiance to the American flag." She continued outlining the do`s and don`ts of the fourth grade, and finished with a warning to the Mexican kids.
"This is important, so listen. We live in the United States of America. Our language is the English language, nothing else. It will not be tolerated for anyone in the United States to speak any other language other than English here at school, even at recess."
She was looking at the Mexican kids, whose seats were all at the back of her class. "You must also bathe at least three times a week and wear clean clothes to school. Are there any questions?"
Jesus was the only kid in the classroom to raise his hand.
Mrs. Millhouse looked down at her roster for his name. "Yes, Jesse, what`s your question?"
"I don`t understand, Mrs. Millhouse. Of all the Mexican kids, I`m the only one who speaks both English and Spanish. How are the other kids going to learn anything if they don`t understand what you`re saying? In our old school, Mrs. Carter taught us in Spanish."
"You and your little friends back there are in a white school now, and you must adopt our customs and our language, whether you like it or not. I will not cater to you because you have not bothered to learn to speak English. Pay attention, Jesse. This is very important: it`s none of your business if they learn anything or not. I suggest you mind your own business. I compliment your parents for taking the time to teach you English. The parents of the other kids back there need to decide if they want to live in the United States or not. If they want to live this country, they need to learn our national language." She looked around the classroom. "Are there questions?"
Jesus raised his hand again.
She gave him a concerned glare. "Yes."
"How can they learn," he asked, "when their parents don`t speak English?"
"Young man," she said, "that`s not my concern." She looked around the classroom again.
Jesus again raised his hand.
"What?" she practically spat.
"Mrs. Millhouse, if you check, you`ll discover that there is no national language in the United States of America."
"I`m not sure where you`re getting your information, young man, but I assure you there is a national language, and it`s English." She watched him and continued in an ominous tone. "Young man, you`ll be a lot better off as soon as you figure out who`s in charge. Keep testing, and you`ll find out the hard way."
Jesus would not be intimidated. He repeated, "I think if you check, you`ll learn otherwise."
Mrs. Millhouse glared at Jesus without saying a word.
My father worked five and a half days a week for the State of Arizona as a livestock inspector, which took him all around the valley, and there were occasions when he would let me tag along. One Saturday about a week after the picnic, my dad had to be at the Long Cattle Company for a livestock inspection and asked the night before if I`d like to go to work with him. I jumped at the opportunity.
The Long Cattle Company was a feedlot operation next to the Southern Pacific railroad that housed cattle for the last few months before they were slaughtered and sent to market. They had a mixing plant that made the feed for five thousand head of cattle every day, and to control as much of the process as possible, Asa Long had built a slaughterhouse next to the Southern Pacific railroad. They had the capacity to slaughter up to four hundred head a week. The state required livestock in an operation that size to be inspected once a month, so my father would conduct an inspection that took about an hour to complete. While Dad was with the foreman out among the cattle, I wondered around the feedlot and happened upon a beautiful young reddish-brown horse with a light red mane and tail standing in the corral as if he was the king of the world.
I must have admired the horse longer than I realized. My dad said from behind me, "You have a good eye, son. Look how that animal stands. He`s proud. If he gets trained right, he`s going to be a great horse for someone." He was telling me how to tell the young chestnut had great potential as a stock horse or a police horse when a man driving a brand new red 1954 Ford pickup truck parked near my dad and me.
"Hello," said a large, gruff-looking man as he got out of his truck. "Can I help with something?"
I stood closer to my dad for protection.
"No, sir," answered my father. "I`m Jimmy Fowler, the livestock inspector for the state. My son and I were just admiring that horse."
"That`s right," said the man, nodding. "My foreman said you`d be here today." He extended his hand to my father. "I`m Asa Long. This is my place. Pleasure to meet you, sir."
"Pleased to meet you, Mr. Long," said my father as they shook hands. "This is my son, Robert."
"Please to meet you, young man," Asa Long said, extending his gigantic hand to me. I shook it.
"You have a beautiful horse," my father said.
"Well, thank you," Mr. Long responded.
"When we lived in Kentucky I trained horses for a living," my father said.
"Really? I`ve never heard of training horses," Asa said, with a bit of laughter. "We break `em here to become working horses. When we`re done, they have no doubt who the boss is."
My father ignored the man`s tone and posture. "Well, I understand. If you ever need some help with a horse, let me know. I`d be happy to help you out."
"You bet, I`ll remember that," answered Mr. Long. "We`ve been breaking horses for a long time."
Mr. Long climbed back into his truck and drove into the feedlot.
After school started, my relationship with Jesus became increasingly awkward. He was keenly aware of his status and I was slowly becoming aware of mine. We were cordial to each other, but there were reprisals for bucking the system. During recess and lunchtime, the Mormon kids hung out with other Mormons, the Mexican kids hung out with each other, and the rest of us hung out together. No one was exactly hostile, and in fact we got along just fine, but all of us understood the rules.
One morning during recess while waiting for my turn to play tetherball I noticed Mr. Udall walking across the playground. The Mexican kids were, as usual off to one side of the playground huddled together talking. Mr. Udall took an abrupt turn and began walking toward them. I noticed that as he approached, they stopped talking and looked somewhat concerned. He began talking to them and in just a few minutes I could see the Mexican kids smiling from ear to ear and even laughing aloud, they hung onto every word Mr. Udall said. I have no idea what he said to them because he was speaking in Spanish, but whatever it was, it was strong medicine and they needed it.
It was approaching three o`clock in the afternoon when my dad, Nell, and I were driving home from the grocery store and my dad noticed a horse standing in the middle of a cotton field. He recognized the young chestnut we had admired that day at the feedlot. He stopped his truck and looked at the horse long and hard without saying a word. The expression on his face when he turned to us was one we had seldom seen before.
He looked at Nell who was only thirteen at the time. "Sweetheart, do you remember when I taught you how to drive?"
"Yes," she answered nervously. "What`s wrong, Dad?"
"I don`t know yet," he said. "But I need your help. Okay? Can you help?"
"Yeah. Sure, Dad," she answered.
"I need you to drive the truck home," Dad said. "Drive directly home and tell your mom where I am. Get that old red box from the barn and make sure it has the ointment, a large syringe, and the saline solution. Tell your mother to bring me that old bridle and a handful of carrots. Can you do that, Nell?"
"Yes," she answered, moving over to the driver`s seat.
Dad looked at my sister seriously. "You do know how to get home, right?"
"Dad," she answered.
Dad looked at me. "Bobby, you`re going to stay with me." He looked back at my sister. "Bobby is going to be standing along the road while I try to work my way over to the horse. When you come back out here with your mom, look for your little brother. When you get back, I will know, so whatever you do, don`t yell at me or honk the horn. It could spook the horse." He explained that after he got next to the horse, he would hold his arm, and I should bring out all the stuff, nice and easy.
Nell pulled the truck back onto the two-lane dirt road and headed home. I stood at the end of the cotton furrow watching my father make his way step by step over to the injured young horse. The chestnut stood perfectly still as my father edged his way closer and closer. He was twenty feet away for nearly three hours. My mother and Nell came and went, leaving me with the red box, the bridle, and a handful of carrots. My dad was finally standing next to the traumatized horse stroking his neck, talking to him in a low, soothing voice. He finally motioned for me to bring everything out.
As I slowly approached my father and the horse I could see the open bleeding wounds from being whipped. I felt like crying, but it was more important to help my father. What he did with that poor animal was amazing. As I made my approach I could hear my father`s soothing voice.
"Hey, Red," he called softly. "Have you been out here chopping cotton? If you have, it sure enough don`t look that way." He massaged the horse`s neck and shook his head, astounded that someone could be so cruel to an animal. "Well, Red, it looks to me that you`ve gotten yourself all whupped up, but you`re going to be just fine." He was still stroking the horse as he talked with a calming voice.
Over the next two hours, my dad fed all the carrots to the horse, calmed him down, put a bridle on him, rinsed out a few of the larger wounds with the saline solution, and started the slow two-mile walk along Warren Road to our house. We finally made it home at ten that evening. My father put the horse in a stall, gave him some hay, and tended to his wounds. I went on to bed and fell fast asleep listening to the muffled words of my parents, who were up most of the night.
The next day, Dad and I hooked the horse trailer to our station wagon and took the chestnut back to the feedlot. As we parked the truck, a young man walked up to us and demanded, "Just what the hell do you think you`re doing?"
My dad, surprised, looked at him and said, "And who are you?"
"I`m Asa Long, Junior, and this is my father`s place," he answered. "Who are you and what do you think you`re doing?"
"Well, junior," said my father. "I believe this horse unfortunately belongs to you and your daddy."
"What did you say to me?" asked the young man.
"I said this horse unfortunately belongs to you or your daddy," my father answered, looking directly into the boy`s eyes. "Some stupid bastard that has no idea how to work a horse beat this poor animal with a whip. I wish I could whip the coward son of a bitch who did this."
The young man looked into the trailer. "Hell, you brought this damn thing back. We were hoping he`d get his dumb ass hit by a truck."
"If you don`t want the horse, I`d be more than happy to take him off your hands," my dad said.
"Only thing wrong with this horse is it needs to learn who the boss is," answered the young man. "I think we can take it from here."
About two weeks after school started, I overheard Mrs. Millhouse and Mrs. Carter arguing outside Mr. Udall`s office. I was lying on a cot on the other side of the wall, sick from one of the pills I had to take for my asthma. I waited for my mother to pick me up as the bell rang and the rest of the kids left school for the day.
I recognized Mrs. Carter`s voice first. "How are things going with the Garcia boy? I have room for him, if you`d like."
Mrs. Millhouse answered her in an acid tone. "Thank you, Alice," she said. "Why don`t you take all of my little wetbacks? You`ve coddled them this long already."
"That would be fine with me, Eunice," Mrs. Carter said, her voice wavering through the thin wall to me. It was quiet for a few moments, and then Mrs. Carter spoke again. "Rumor is, you insist on calling Jesus Jesse, and ignore him and the other Mexican students."
Mrs. Millhouse laughed. "Well, I`m not going to call him Jesus, and I`m certainly not going to call him Hey-soos. That would only encourage them. It`s insulting to any good Christian to name a child after our Lord and Savior."
"Oh my God, Eunice. Your prejudice is boundless," Mrs. Carter said.
"You`re welcome to call me anything you`d like, Alice," said Mrs. Millhouse. "Mexicans are exactly like niggers. You know as well as I do, they simply don`t have the capacity to do much more than pick crops and clean houses." At that point, they must have stood up, because I heard the scrape of the chairs on the linoleum floor and then Mr. Udall`s voice.
"Hello Alice, Eunice. Alice, you`re free to go. Eunice, come into my office."
I heard footsteps and the door to Mr. Udall`s office click shut, and then it was quiet. After several minutes, Mr. Udall`s voice rose loud enough for me to hear.
"Do you understand," he was saying.
The door opened and Mrs. Millhouse`s voice came through the wall to me again. "Don`t push the issue, Ezra," she said. "If you want to take this to the superintendent, let`s do it. You know as well as I do I`ll win."
With a trembling voice that sounded as though he was holding back his anger, Mr. Udall said, "If you want to discuss the merits of integration, you may run for Congress. Your job is to teach children, regardless of their race or their ability to speak English. This is not an option, Eunice. You have no choice but to work within the guidelines set by the school district."
I could practically hear my teacher`s sneer when she said, "Ezra, you are sadly mistaken. You think because you`re a Mormon that you are somehow above the rules that rest of us have to live by."
"That`s ridiculous. End of discussion." His door snapped shut, sharper than before.
"Like hell it is," Mrs. Millhouse said.
One evening after dinner, our parents went to the back porch to talk while Nell and I washed the dishes. We listened carefully; whenever they talked out there, it meant something was wrong.
"Asa Long went to Henry and wants him to fire me, claiming that I was rude to his son," my father said.
"Was it about that horse?" my mother asked.
"Yup it was," answered dad. "Ina, I swear I almost could have horsewhipped that kid, just to see how he`d like it."
My mother was quiet for a moment. "I can`t believe there aren`t any laws to protect animals like that," she finally said.
"I wish there were," responded my dad. "That chestnut could be a good work horse someday, but the way they`re going about it is criminal. They beat that poor creature half to death."
Jesus was the smartest kid in our class. Unlike me, he always had his homework completed on time. When we had to read aloud, he was ahead of everyone else. If he`d been a white kid, he would have been the teacher`s pet, but as it was, he took the brunt of Mrs. Millhouse`s shrewd retaliation. It was bad for all the Mexican kids in her class, but he got it worst.
It all came to a head during morning recess one day, when someone asked Jesus to help him understand what Mrs. Millhouse had been saying during the morning lecture. Jesus and three other Mexican kids sat beneath a cottonwood tree as he explained the lesson in Spanish. I noticed Mrs. Millhouse watching the Mexican kids that were huddled at the base of the cottonwood tree. She began to move toward the kids like a cat stalking a mouse. Suddenly she was standing over the kids.
"Were you speaking Spanish?" she said, loud enough to get Mrs. Carter`s attention.
Jesus stood up and looked directly into her face and answered, "Yes, I was. Because—"
"Are you retarded?" Mrs. Millhouse questioned, pointing her finger at him. "How many times do you have to be told? This is America. You must speak English." She was hitting his chest with the tip of her finger for emphasis.
Everyone on the playground could hear Mrs. Millhouse reprimanding Jesus for speaking Spanish, and Mrs. Carter almost knocked me over as she rushed over to defuse the explosive situation.
The third time Mrs. Millhouse poked his chest, Jesus slapped her hand out of the way. "What is wrong with you?" he said, finally exasperated. "All I`m trying to do is help them to understand what you`re saying. Why are you treating us this way? We haven`t done anything to you!"
The instant before Mrs. Carter arrived, Mrs. Millhouse slapped Jesus`s face with all her might. He fell to the ground and she was about to strike him again when Mrs. Carter commanded her to stop.
"Eunice," she yelled. "Get away from that child right now."
Mrs. Millhouse kept yelling at Jesus as he lay on the ground.
Mrs. Carter grabbed my teacher by the back of her blouse and shoved her away from Jesus. "Eunice! Go to Mr. Udall`s office."
As Mrs. Millhouse stalked back to the building, Mrs. Carter sat down in the dirt and pulled Jesus into her lap. "Are you okay, sweetheart?" she asked.
My friend looked up at her. When she saw the imprint of Mrs. Millhouse`s hand on his face, she began to openly weep. Jesus kept quiet, but his eyes welled up in tears. It was as though his spirit evaporated right there in the dirt beneath the cottonwood tree.
A few days before Christmas that year, my father came home from work visibly shaken. My mother and he went out on the porch and my sister and I listened in.
He`d been on his way home from a ranch near the foothills of the Tortolita Mountains when he saw the chestnut horse again. Even from the road, he could see the horse had been severely beaten. My father`s voice cracked as he described the horse lying in the dirt next to the concrete irrigation ditch, gasping into the dust beneath his head. In its desperation, the horse had gotten completely entangled in barbed wire. It had tried to jump across the ditch and shattered its right front leg. The bone protruded from his leg above the knee and the barbed wire had worked its way deeply into the horse`s hindquarters so no matter which way the horse turned, it was in excruciating pain. My dad told my mother that he never seen an animal suffer so much.
"They just whipped the spirit out of the poor thing," he said, and began to cry in her arms.
