Moments from November- a week in Arvin, Lamont & Weedpatch
Monday- Playing pool with men at the Rasmussen Senior Center in Oildale in the morning. Men in their seventies and one in their eighties. Okies. A sign on the door that says, “No one under age 65 is allowed to play pool.” Don Burkett telling me about his father who led a strike at Digiorgio Farm (“He was fired right away. A few people were arrested for vandalism for cutting down trees. And there were many people who wanted jobs who took their place”).
Dinner at the home of Manuel and Maria Garcia, parents of Gabriel Garcia. Her warmth and her elegance remind me of my grandmother, and I feel very welcomed by both of them. They were raised in Mexico and left school after sixth grade to work in the fields there, and have lived in the U.S. for decades. I ate two burritos at the gas station burrito place before coming (again saw the friendly neighborhood drug dealer; he pulled weed out of his pocket in front of the burrito counter to demonstrate its quality) and I am totally stuffed, but I can’t say no; I even have seconds. After dinner, a conversation with Manuel, Maria, and Mauro Lopez, Gabriel’s brother-in-law who joins us after dinner – bringing the last grapes of the season, which are particularly sweet.
Tuesday- Gabriel tells me a story about a trip to Mexico when he was young, and how his dad got lost (his mom, sitting beside us, insists he wasn’t), and how he and his brother sat tight in the back seat of the truck playing hand-held video games, and how long you can go in Mexico without a gas station, and how afraid they were that they would run out of gas. He says that the truck was filled with household supplies and gifts for people in Mexico, and I am struck with the parallels to the story of Bob England, Dust Bowl street kid who now goes to Mexico every year with a truck filled with supplies for local orphans in the village where he lives part-time.
At the Board of Supervisors meeting for Community Recycling which ended (after I left – it lasted from 2 pm – 10 pm) with the Supervisors closing the plant and fining them $2.3 million. It took a half an hour for the person from the County staff to list all their past violations. After two brothers died in the plant, and Cal-OSHA ordered plant operators to stay away from the tunnel where they died, Community Recycling let people go inside it 5 times, presumably to clean up evidence. So much happened at the hearing, from a white man in a red cowboy s man arguing that the plant shouldn’t be closed for ‘political posturing’ while simultaneously honoring the undocumented immigrants who work there; to the guy who sells Community Recycling’s uniforms talking about the growth of the company (“I am the guy who sells their uniforms so I know they are expanding”); to Supervisor Goh greeting the family of the deceased men like a politician at a funeral; to an elegantly dressed Chicana woman threatening to recall the Supervisors if they kept the plant open; to the city of Lamont saying that if the plant is closed, waste water from the city would have to poured into the street ‘in 45 days’; to people lamenting the potential loss of over 130 jobs if the plant were to close; to many people talking about the many false promises made by the company over many years. At the break, I notice that the men’s bathroom line is much longer than the women’s, and it strikes me when I come back inside that the hearing room is made up almost entirely men, almost all Mexican or Mexican American; working faces asking for justice.
I watch Gabriel and Kat (she participated in CSU's 2011 Summer Arts Cornerstone workshop, too) perform in a
student-directed production of the ‘Laramie Project’ at CSUB in the evening. The play’s tenderness and
the tenderness with which the company depicts the community of Laramie moves me. I hope that I can
muster up some of that grace.
Wednesday- Gabriel tells me that the family of a friend from CSUB has been deported. He is a senior and a drama major. He was in the process of applying to Yale Drama – but he left school in his senior year, and no one knew why. Gabriel just found out. His parents and his sister were deported, and he has had to leave school to work. Gabriel tells me that he acted in a play in the friend’s back yard last summer, and what a normal, warm house it is; and the family had been here for decades.
I talk with a local resident who tells me that his wife has just had a miscarriage. He asks me, “I think it’s from the pollution here. What do you think?”
I meet with Javier Arreola, who has agreed to be our translator. He tells me about his work with the UFW, which he has both enormous respect for and also enormous bitterness for. According to him, “the movement is a corporation” and it became a kind of idol-worship that lost its way, and descended into infighting and intermarrying after (and before) Cesar Chavez’s death. He also talks about the police in Arvin, which used to beat up Hispanic men just because of the color of their skin (“Marx would call the police part of the repressive apparatus”), and a rumor he heard twice about helicopters dropping off drugs in the fields that were then distributed to street gangs. During the height of the conversation (in the nearly empty Starbucks in Bakersfield), when he is sharing the most difficult things about the UFW, he ask that we sit outside because of who might be listening. Javier is carrying a print out: a marked up, English/Spanish grammar book which he is writing in his spare time.
Thursday- I have breakfast at 6:45am at the Westchester Bowling Alley in Bakersfield with 10-12 men from Okie stock who have been friends for many decades. After Don Burkett gives me a warm and slightly tongue-in- cheek introduction, I tell them about our play, and about how I’d like to tell the story about the waves of migration, including Okies and contemporary Mexican and Mexican-American migrants. Almost before I’ve finished the sentence, Reford Hutson says “The main difference is that they’re illegal.” Barney
Wednesday- Gabriel tells me that the family of a friend from CSUB has been deported. He is a senior and a drama major. He was in the process of applying to Yale Drama – but he left school in his senior year, and no one knew why. Gabriel just found out. His parents and his sister were deported, and he has had to leave school to work. Gabriel tells me that he acted in a play in the friend’s back yard last summer, and what a normal, warm house it is; and the family had been here for decades.
I talk with a local resident who tells me that his wife has just had a miscarriage. He asks me, “I think it’s from the pollution here. What do you think?”
I meet with Javier Arreola, who has agreed to be our translator. He tells me about his work with the UFW, which he has both enormous respect for and also enormous bitterness for. According to him, “the movement is a corporation” and it became a kind of idol-worship that lost its way, and descended into infighting and intermarrying after (and before) Cesar Chavez’s death. He also talks about the police in Arvin, which used to beat up Hispanic men just because of the color of their skin (“Marx would call the police part of the repressive apparatus”), and a rumor he heard twice about helicopters dropping off drugs in the fields that were then distributed to street gangs. During the height of the conversation (in the nearly empty Starbucks in Bakersfield), when he is sharing the most difficult things about the UFW, he ask that we sit outside because of who might be listening. Javier is carrying a print out: a marked up, English/Spanish grammar book which he is writing in his spare time.
Thursday- I have breakfast at 6:45am at the Westchester Bowling Alley in Bakersfield with 10-12 men from Okie stock who have been friends for many decades. After Don Burkett gives me a warm and slightly tongue-in- cheek introduction, I tell them about our play, and about how I’d like to tell the story about the waves of migration, including Okies and contemporary Mexican and Mexican-American migrants. Almost before I’ve finished the sentence, Reford Hutson says “The main difference is that they’re illegal.” Barney
Meyer tells me the story of his mixed race parents (Mexican and Okie), and how they met and when
Spanish was spoken at the home (“W.C. did you know any of this before?” “No!” “Me neither” “Why
didn’t we ask?” “Cause we didn’t care!”). Later, Barney asks how Mexican people with many
children can afford so many Quincineras, and recommends that they stop having Quincinieras (“They
should be American!”) Outside, he tells me the story of his grandson who used to beat up white kids and
who has embraced his Chicano heritage by giving his kids Mexican names (clearly confusing to Barney).
W.C. Stampes tells me about talking to a Mexican-American Marine veteran, saying, “When you guys
take over, my name is pronounced Stampiez (ie, with a Latino pronunciation). The word ‘wetback’ floats
from the end of the table. Also, stories of Dr. Desmet, the legendary doctor at Digiorgio farms who ‘wasn’t
big on anesthesia”. Conversation about overalls (“We took them off as soon as we got here, because
they identified us as Okie”); about the lack of rubber during the war, and the attempt (too late) to grow
it in Arvin; and a warm feeling of male camaraderie, familiar, aggressive in a loving way.
After breakfast, playing pool at the Rasmussen Senior Center and more talk with W.C. about his political views. When I tell him that I saw at Dust Bowl Days that Fred Ross (a leading mentor for Cesar Chavez) worked at Weedpatch, he says, “If we knew that, we’d have thrown him under the bus.” His view about the UFW is that people were whining. “I picked cotton under when I was 12. Taller than my head. No one ever died of heat exhaustion back then. They died of heat exhaustion because they were drinking too much the night before.” He also expresses his anger for the UFW picketing in front of Weedpatch and barring people who wanted to work from working; he remembers driving by the picket lines and seeing a picketer take up a rock to throw at his car, and that he’s “trying to be saved” otherwise he couldn’t have controlled his anger. Larry Hallum adds, “We had a good deal. We wanted to work. And the farmers had jobs. So it worked out for both of us.” W.C. is just getting warmed up, and he talks about education, home schooling (“I gotta unload.”) It goes on and on. I finally interject when he starts talking about Armageddon and gay people, (“I have many friends who are gay and they are strong, loving couples,” I respond. W.C.: “We have a nephew who is gay and we go to church and pray for him.”) Yet, even amidst the comments which I clearly don’t like (later he refers to Woody Guthrie and those other communists and I say “My people!”), but there is a respect in our exchange, even in the disagreement; maybe because I respect so deeply what he and his folks did to make a life for themselves, and he feels that; or maybe just because I am listening, and there is respect inherent in that.
After playing pool, I visit Evergreen Senior Center and meet Millie Gibson, at 101 possibly the oldest living Dust Bowl Migrant. I sit and listen to her very lucid stories about coming west (she came in the forties because of flooding on her land so, technically, not a Dust Bowl migrant), sitting beside her son Bob. An amazing story about the journey west, settling at Weedpatch, continually punctuated by expressions of gratitude for God and for California, and how happy her life was (And a disagreement between her and Bob about where she sat in the truck. He says she sat in the cab with three other adults, she insists she sat in the back with 13 kids, from two families). On the way out, I talk to Bob, who tells me that his half-Cherokee father was fluent in the Cherokee language and once brought him to visit the former home of the famed Oklahoma outlaw Belle Star. When I say to him how amazing it is that his mother is so happy and so grateful for her life, he says, “Well, we never had any hard times.”
After breakfast, playing pool at the Rasmussen Senior Center and more talk with W.C. about his political views. When I tell him that I saw at Dust Bowl Days that Fred Ross (a leading mentor for Cesar Chavez) worked at Weedpatch, he says, “If we knew that, we’d have thrown him under the bus.” His view about the UFW is that people were whining. “I picked cotton under when I was 12. Taller than my head. No one ever died of heat exhaustion back then. They died of heat exhaustion because they were drinking too much the night before.” He also expresses his anger for the UFW picketing in front of Weedpatch and barring people who wanted to work from working; he remembers driving by the picket lines and seeing a picketer take up a rock to throw at his car, and that he’s “trying to be saved” otherwise he couldn’t have controlled his anger. Larry Hallum adds, “We had a good deal. We wanted to work. And the farmers had jobs. So it worked out for both of us.” W.C. is just getting warmed up, and he talks about education, home schooling (“I gotta unload.”) It goes on and on. I finally interject when he starts talking about Armageddon and gay people, (“I have many friends who are gay and they are strong, loving couples,” I respond. W.C.: “We have a nephew who is gay and we go to church and pray for him.”) Yet, even amidst the comments which I clearly don’t like (later he refers to Woody Guthrie and those other communists and I say “My people!”), but there is a respect in our exchange, even in the disagreement; maybe because I respect so deeply what he and his folks did to make a life for themselves, and he feels that; or maybe just because I am listening, and there is respect inherent in that.
After playing pool, I visit Evergreen Senior Center and meet Millie Gibson, at 101 possibly the oldest living Dust Bowl Migrant. I sit and listen to her very lucid stories about coming west (she came in the forties because of flooding on her land so, technically, not a Dust Bowl migrant), sitting beside her son Bob. An amazing story about the journey west, settling at Weedpatch, continually punctuated by expressions of gratitude for God and for California, and how happy her life was (And a disagreement between her and Bob about where she sat in the truck. He says she sat in the cab with three other adults, she insists she sat in the back with 13 kids, from two families). On the way out, I talk to Bob, who tells me that his half-Cherokee father was fluent in the Cherokee language and once brought him to visit the former home of the famed Oklahoma outlaw Belle Star. When I say to him how amazing it is that his mother is so happy and so grateful for her life, he says, “Well, we never had any hard times.”
After Evergreen, I drive up the road to Tehachapi to La Paz, the current home of the UFW. There is an
amazing photo exhibit there of the movement, as well as the untouched office of Cesar Chavez, almost
like a shrine. It’s incredible to see in the photos the faces of working people, clearly farm workers, and
the raw spirit of fighting against enormous power; pride; Cesar Chavez clearly very poor himself; Luis
Valdez and early scenes of el Teatro; joy, celebration, power.
On the way back, from La Paz, I drive down the winding road that Dust Bowl migrants drove down just before the valley opened up to the lushness of the fields below. I remember vividly Nellie Oldham’s story of coming down that hill as a little girl, arriving in the spring, and seeing the blossoms exploding with color - in stark contrast to the brown, dry landscape that she had left behind. I stop by the home of Mauro Lopez and we watch (first in Spanish and then in English) the incredibly inspiring film “Fighting for our Lives” about mid-1973, when the battles of the UFW was at its most violent (two farm workers died that year). Afterward, we talk about if that movement could be possible now, a discussion we’ve had before (when I asked him that when we were working in the fields, he said, “No, and it’s our own fault. Because people will just take our place”). Today, he says, “I used to be a member, but I can’t afford the $30.” And when I tell him about the nice buildings at the UFW headquarters, he says, “and I’m afraid that’s where my $30 would go.” Mauro also tells me about how, back in the day, police would be waiting at 5:30 a.m. at the 7/11 and at local gas stations to harass Mexican men. I need to revisit this conversation with a translator, because an enormous amount of nuance was lost. Mauro also tells me how hard it is now to make a living by working in the fields, how one can barely stay ahead of the bills. I wonder: how were Gabriel’s parents able to buy 2 (3?) homes doing the same? What has changed?
At Karaoke night at Bear Mountain Pizza where I sang “Un Dia a La Vez” (badly), at owner Manuel Pantoja’s request (Luckily, someone agreed to sing it with me). After, the singer and his friends welcom me warmly to their table, especially Javi, who is a Teacher’s Aide at the Sunset School. We drink Clamato mixed with beer and salt. I tell them about the play, and they say they’d love to help (one woman at the table said, ‘we’ll welcome you this way’ and made a gesture I couldn’t quite see, at which point Javi said ‘don’t be perverted!”) They ae all in their mid-twenties. Maybe a microcosm of young Arvin/Weedpatch/Lamont? One person who used to work in the oil fields but lost that job and is now working the grape lines alongside his mother; a second, who is working as a dump truck driver at Community Recycling, set to close in 90 days, (“they have so much money, and so many properties, a $2.3 million fine won’t hurt, and they’ll just move their business to another county. The people who will really suffer are those who are losing our jobs.”); Javi, who works as a teacher’s aide and used to work at a bank before being laid off; a woman beside her (“my life ain’t about nuthin”). I ask them if we got together all the people their age in the area and asked how many people do drugs, what would the answer (“The majority. Most of the people at this table do coke” the woman says). When they sign the info sheet, all of them put “drunk” in the column marked “additional interests”
Friday
Interviewed Nelda Oldham, 84, at her trailer in a quiet senior trailer park in Bakersfield. She lived at Weedpatch when John Steinbeck was there, although they never met. Later, she became the head of the Housing Authority, and speaks with a refined grammar that belies education and an inquisitive mind
On the way back, from La Paz, I drive down the winding road that Dust Bowl migrants drove down just before the valley opened up to the lushness of the fields below. I remember vividly Nellie Oldham’s story of coming down that hill as a little girl, arriving in the spring, and seeing the blossoms exploding with color - in stark contrast to the brown, dry landscape that she had left behind. I stop by the home of Mauro Lopez and we watch (first in Spanish and then in English) the incredibly inspiring film “Fighting for our Lives” about mid-1973, when the battles of the UFW was at its most violent (two farm workers died that year). Afterward, we talk about if that movement could be possible now, a discussion we’ve had before (when I asked him that when we were working in the fields, he said, “No, and it’s our own fault. Because people will just take our place”). Today, he says, “I used to be a member, but I can’t afford the $30.” And when I tell him about the nice buildings at the UFW headquarters, he says, “and I’m afraid that’s where my $30 would go.” Mauro also tells me about how, back in the day, police would be waiting at 5:30 a.m. at the 7/11 and at local gas stations to harass Mexican men. I need to revisit this conversation with a translator, because an enormous amount of nuance was lost. Mauro also tells me how hard it is now to make a living by working in the fields, how one can barely stay ahead of the bills. I wonder: how were Gabriel’s parents able to buy 2 (3?) homes doing the same? What has changed?
At Karaoke night at Bear Mountain Pizza where I sang “Un Dia a La Vez” (badly), at owner Manuel Pantoja’s request (Luckily, someone agreed to sing it with me). After, the singer and his friends welcom me warmly to their table, especially Javi, who is a Teacher’s Aide at the Sunset School. We drink Clamato mixed with beer and salt. I tell them about the play, and they say they’d love to help (one woman at the table said, ‘we’ll welcome you this way’ and made a gesture I couldn’t quite see, at which point Javi said ‘don’t be perverted!”) They ae all in their mid-twenties. Maybe a microcosm of young Arvin/Weedpatch/Lamont? One person who used to work in the oil fields but lost that job and is now working the grape lines alongside his mother; a second, who is working as a dump truck driver at Community Recycling, set to close in 90 days, (“they have so much money, and so many properties, a $2.3 million fine won’t hurt, and they’ll just move their business to another county. The people who will really suffer are those who are losing our jobs.”); Javi, who works as a teacher’s aide and used to work at a bank before being laid off; a woman beside her (“my life ain’t about nuthin”). I ask them if we got together all the people their age in the area and asked how many people do drugs, what would the answer (“The majority. Most of the people at this table do coke” the woman says). When they sign the info sheet, all of them put “drunk” in the column marked “additional interests”
Friday
Interviewed Nelda Oldham, 84, at her trailer in a quiet senior trailer park in Bakersfield. She lived at Weedpatch when John Steinbeck was there, although they never met. Later, she became the head of the Housing Authority, and speaks with a refined grammar that belies education and an inquisitive mind
(she tells me that she only recently read The Grapes of Wrath, although she had read Cannery Row, of
Mice and Men, and others. She said, despite how angry everyone was about the book, and despite the
fact that he invented some parts just for dramatic effect, he ‘ mostly got it right’). She tells me about
leaving Oklahoma, about their drive, about the games she played with other kids in Weedpatch, and the
singing group that she and other two girl friends formed at the camp. Perhaps because she worked at
the Housing Authority, she has a great deal of sympathy for current migrants, and she does see the
connections between her life and theirs. She does not have a lot of respect for Cesar Chavez (“From
what I understand, he was too lazy to work, so he hung around the pool halls and listened to folks and
that’s where he got his ideas.”) This may be partly to do with her relationships with farmers, who she
respected and she felt always respected the Okies – maybe because they shared an immigrant
background , as she says– and whom she stayed in touch with. I’d like to learn about the results of the
strikes in the farms (A story I have heard is that many farms shut down in the wake of UFW strikes, but
my instinct is that was because of larger economic forces outside the farms). At the end of the
interview, she describes the lushness of the fields in the hills coming into Arvin, which were filled with
wild flowers. She shows me a picture of her brother and sister one year after coming to Arvin, hands
filled with flowers almost as big as them.
Later, I watch a youth soccer league, founded by man named Ben, who immigrated to Arvin from Belize. I am watching the game because Mauro, Gabriel Garcia’s brother-in-law, is one of the coaches. During the game, I talk to Mauro’s daughter her about her dad, who I know was a single dad for part of her and her sisters’ childhood (Mauro told me this the day that I worked beside him in the fields; he worked in the fields and raised them alone. It’s one of the reasons he is so sympathetic to single mother farm workers). His daughter tells me how proud of her dad she is for raising them alone. After the game, I speak to the father of a player who has lived here for decades, become a citizen, and at one point tried moving to Texas but moved back (“The pay was better, but here in Arvin are people I’ve known my whole life. Don Chavo over there, if I ever needed money, he’d give it to me.”) Speaking about how white people view field work, he says with anger and a tinge of sadness: “They don’t like us. But nobody else will do this work. It’s like the movie, ‘A Day without Mexicans’. They can’t live without us. But they don’t like us.”
After the game, I talk to Lucy, Gabriel’s sister, who works in a truck stop at the intersection of route 99 and highway 5. We are talking about their parents, and how amazed I am by their kindness and generosity, and she explains that during part of their childhood they had 13 people living in the house – and that her mom would come home, cook dinner for everyone, cook lunch for the next day for people working in the fields. According to Lucy, “We live our lives with a clock in our hands.”
Saturday
Paula, I, and Gabriel meet with youth members of South Kern Sol, a youth media team that writes health-related articles for New America Media. When I arrive, Paula is in a circle of “Amazons,” young women both in South Kern Sol and in a group sponsored by the Dolores Huerta Foundation. They are
Later, I watch a youth soccer league, founded by man named Ben, who immigrated to Arvin from Belize. I am watching the game because Mauro, Gabriel Garcia’s brother-in-law, is one of the coaches. During the game, I talk to Mauro’s daughter her about her dad, who I know was a single dad for part of her and her sisters’ childhood (Mauro told me this the day that I worked beside him in the fields; he worked in the fields and raised them alone. It’s one of the reasons he is so sympathetic to single mother farm workers). His daughter tells me how proud of her dad she is for raising them alone. After the game, I speak to the father of a player who has lived here for decades, become a citizen, and at one point tried moving to Texas but moved back (“The pay was better, but here in Arvin are people I’ve known my whole life. Don Chavo over there, if I ever needed money, he’d give it to me.”) Speaking about how white people view field work, he says with anger and a tinge of sadness: “They don’t like us. But nobody else will do this work. It’s like the movie, ‘A Day without Mexicans’. They can’t live without us. But they don’t like us.”
After the game, I talk to Lucy, Gabriel’s sister, who works in a truck stop at the intersection of route 99 and highway 5. We are talking about their parents, and how amazed I am by their kindness and generosity, and she explains that during part of their childhood they had 13 people living in the house – and that her mom would come home, cook dinner for everyone, cook lunch for the next day for people working in the fields. According to Lucy, “We live our lives with a clock in our hands.”
Saturday
Paula, I, and Gabriel meet with youth members of South Kern Sol, a youth media team that writes health-related articles for New America Media. When I arrive, Paula is in a circle of “Amazons,” young women both in South Kern Sol and in a group sponsored by the Dolores Huerta Foundation. They are
leaving to go to LA for an exhibit. We sit with the young people who remain in Arvin, along with Luz
Pena, their mentor and journalism teacher. The young people talk about the details of their life, often
interspersing the mundane details of young adult life (going to school, the Super Wienie truck) with the
challenges of Arvin (the smell of pesticide in the morning, gangs). I am moved in particular by the ways
in which the descriptions of their morning routines are told against the backdrop of the fields (outside
their windows, outside the school bus), and by a particular comment by Pablo, who earlier has said that
“although he wears red, gangs don’t bother him because he’s an Emo kid”. Pablo describes the nicer
houses with families with more money that stand just on the other side of his: “And I see that house.
And I wish I could live in it. But I can’t.”
Afterward, we walk down the block where a group from the Dolores Huerta Foundation is painting an outdoor mural. We speak with Jesus, a leader of the youth group who many of the young people in South Kern Sol look up to. He is a student at Bakersfield College, studying philosophy. He tells me his dream is to be a Coordinator at Dolores Huerta, or maybe a teacher, and we talk about Descartes in front of images of Olmec and Aztez history.
Paula, I, and Gabriel have lunch at the diner in Lamont, then go to visit Gabriel’s family where we have lunch again. At their house is Gabriel’s aunt, filled with energy and an infectious sense of humor. She tells me that “if we need two viejitas” in the play, they are ready. While we are there, Gabriel’s brother David is cleaning the fish tank. He dreams of being a botanist (he is trying to collect every kind of Aloe to cross-pollinate them). We tell him on our way out that we’ll try to introduce him to the CRPE activist who is starting an organic garden in Arvin, possibly linked to South Central Farms.
They say that I am welcome to stay there any time. Their generosity carries us out the door, even though I eat too much and actually get sick on the way home – not sure if it’s the excessive food, the water (which no one drinks), air (the worst in the nation), or the contradictory emotions the stories of the week have left me with. But it is the warmth and hospitality of Gabriel’s family that carry me up the Grapevine.
Afterward, we walk down the block where a group from the Dolores Huerta Foundation is painting an outdoor mural. We speak with Jesus, a leader of the youth group who many of the young people in South Kern Sol look up to. He is a student at Bakersfield College, studying philosophy. He tells me his dream is to be a Coordinator at Dolores Huerta, or maybe a teacher, and we talk about Descartes in front of images of Olmec and Aztez history.
Paula, I, and Gabriel have lunch at the diner in Lamont, then go to visit Gabriel’s family where we have lunch again. At their house is Gabriel’s aunt, filled with energy and an infectious sense of humor. She tells me that “if we need two viejitas” in the play, they are ready. While we are there, Gabriel’s brother David is cleaning the fish tank. He dreams of being a botanist (he is trying to collect every kind of Aloe to cross-pollinate them). We tell him on our way out that we’ll try to introduce him to the CRPE activist who is starting an organic garden in Arvin, possibly linked to South Central Farms.
They say that I am welcome to stay there any time. Their generosity carries us out the door, even though I eat too much and actually get sick on the way home – not sure if it’s the excessive food, the water (which no one drinks), air (the worst in the nation), or the contradictory emotions the stories of the week have left me with. But it is the warmth and hospitality of Gabriel’s family that carry me up the Grapevine.
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