Recuerdo Luisa ~ I Remember Luisa

On Wednesday when June and I drove into the camp, we noticed a red farm truck and several strange cars.

“It looks like the crew from Yakima has arrived,” June said.

A new boy watched us get out of the car.

“You can’t come in here,” he said. “My father is the labor contractor and no one can come in unless he says so.”

“We have permission from the grower.”

The boy seemed to be turning this information in his mind. “What’re you going to do here?”

“We’re the English and Bible school teachers.”

I turned to June. “Let’s take a walk around and see if we can meet some of the new people.”

The boy followed us. He spoke good English with only a trace of Spanish accent.

“Why are you going to teach these stupid workers?” he said. “They’re too dumb to learn anything.”

We ignored him and continued into the muddy center of the camp.

A young woman warily watched our approach. Short and of sturdy build, she had the strong facial features that indicated she was pure Indian, probably from a northern Mexican village.

At the workshop for volunteers I had learned that even in labor camps there is class distinction and Indians are placed near the bottom. Some of the Mexicans and the Americans of Mexican descent won’t let their children play with Indian children, and adults don’t socialize. Life is oftentimes lonely for a family of Indians in a labor camp.

June whispered to me, “I guess we’re learning first hand about camp prejudice.”

The Indian woman was filling a bucket with water from the outdoor tap that stood in the center of a dirty mud puddle. Three barefooted children stared blankly at June and me, probably trying to figure out why these tall women were in their camp.

“I’m a teacher of English.” I spoke to the woman in Spanish. “My class meets tonight at seven o’clock.”

“Dónde? Where?”

“Here in the camp. Room thirty-five.”

The boy was still watching us. He pulled down the corners of his mouth. “You can’t learn English,” he taunted the woman. “You’re too stupid.”

He pointed at her hand and demanded, “What’s that?”

She looked down at her hand. “Mano.” She said the Spanish word.

“That’s ‘hand, hand.’ See, I was right. You can’t learn. You’re too dumb.”

I spoke softly to the woman. “If you wish, I can teach you some English words.”

She raised her head, “I will come to your class.”

“And there is Bible school for the children.”

“Maybe Melita can go. She is eight years old.”

I looked at the little girl, holding a baby on her hip. “Melita, will you come to the escuelita?”

“I have never been to school.” Her little face was serious, the words unspoken, yet I sensed the fear she had in knowing she would be the only Indian.

“I hope you will come. We will have stories and songs and some crayons for coloring.”

Melita came. Looking frightened and forlorn, she sat by herself on a block of firewood. The other children ignored her but at least they tolerated her and no one told her to leave. She colored a picture. June taught her how to turn the pages in a book.

The scene was repeated in English class. Melita’s mother Bernardina sat by herself and repeated the English words and phrases. No one spoke to her but neither did they tell her to leave.

The next afternoon Bernardina was still in the fields when June and I arrived at the camp. I looked for Melita and found her gathering the clothes that she had rubbed clean on a scrub board earlier in the day and hung on a fence to dry. All day she had cared for her brothers, three-year-old Panchito and Jaime, aged two. The other brothers, aged seven and five, had gone to work with Bernardina and Melita’s father.

The baby sister was five months old. Melita and I carried the clean clothes to her room and I watched as she filled the baby’s bottle with tea to control diarrhea.

“Time for school, Melita,” I said.

“What can I do with my three little children?”

“Bring them. We’ll put them in boxes to keep them safe.”

In the school room Delia helped Melita put the baby in a box. I smiled at June to see if she, too, had noticed this bit of acceptance.

The baby promptly went to sleep while Panchito and Jaime sat in their boxes to watch the flannelgraph story.

When Bernardina came from the fields, she looked in the door at her children in school. Melita sitting on a block of wood, the little boys in their boxes, and the baby sleeping peacefully.

When the children left for the day, I made conversation with Bernardina, trying out some new words I had learned in Spanish.

”I guess I’ll prepare some corn tortillas for supper. Mine are very funny-looking because I’m just learning to, make them,”

“Don’t you have a tortilla press?”

“No.” I laughed as I said, “I just try to pat them out by hand.”

The next afternoon was the last time for Bible school.

June was dividing the crayons. There were enough so that each child got two. I was putting the flannelgraph board in the car when Bernardina came.

“This is for you,” she said as she handed me her tortilla press.

I wanted to say, “Oh, Bernardina, I can’t accept your tortilla press. I seldom eat tortillas at home and was only making conversation and trying some new words when we talked about my problems. When will you have enough money to buy another press? Where will you find one in this northern state?”

Then I saw Melita holding the baby and standing behind her mother. The little girl who had been so sad and frightened was smiling at me. At that moment I learned that I could not refuse a gift, an expression of deep friendship. I must be willing to receive as well as give.

This was Bernardino’s way of showing her gratitude for English lessons and especially for kindness to her children who were so often rejected.

“But . . . but . . .,” I stammered, “How will you make your corn tortillas?”

“By hand,” she said.

But she did not say “por mano” in Spanish.

Smiling at me, she said it in English, “By hand.”

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Copyright 2012, Rolf Erickson