Will's report from time spent in south Kern communities in February 2012
SATURDAY (2/18)
Visited the young journalists at South Kern Sol to talk about the progress of the project and to listen to updates about their work. I also asked them to fill in details from previous conversations. When I asked them how I could understand the feeling of August heat in the fields, for example, Berenice said a child can feel the heat rising of their parent’s shirt when they come home from the fields, and can smell the dirt and the grapes. Luz said, “You can stand on concrete and feel heat rising up from the ground.” Luz also shared that there had been an ICE raid of street corner flower vendors in Lamont on Valentine’s Day of this year, and that many of the vendors were deported.
SUNDAY (2/19)
Paula and I visited Dr. Young and his wife Ruth in their home in Arvin. The goal of the meeting was to better understand why some former Dust Bowl migrants have been resistant to being compared to current day farm workers (note that, although this is generally true, there are several folks from that era who have embraced the comparison, particularly those who have more first-hand experience with young people from today’s farm working families). Dr. Young said he felt that people’s resistance comes largely from their perception that folks today have more access to public services (welfare, WIC, etc.) than people did back then when they (again, according to their own self-perception) “Either had to work or to starve.” Dr. Young acknowledged the many grey areas in this analysis (for example, he is not so sure that, if had folks had access to more public services in the thirties, that they would have said “no” to them). This perception led to more dialogue and debate as the week went on.
We also talked about Dr. Young’s work in the fields. He recalled jumping in the stand pipe at the edge of
the field to cool off (stand pipes were 5-6’ high pipes that provide water pressure); his love for picking
cotton in 1⁄4 mile rows and his hatred for 1⁄2 mile rows (“I could get two weighings out of a 1⁄4 mile row”);
how much he could pick (“After a dust storm or a rain the outside rows became very heavy. On days like
that my dad could do 900 lbs in a day. When I was 11 or 12 years old I could do 200/300 lbs in a day.”);
his perspective on labor contractors; his view toward the future of field workers (he has seen waves of
Okies, and folks from Mexican and Mexican-American background, and he believes in the future it will
be folks from India); as we talked about the differences between him and farmers’ children, he
remembered visiting the daughter of a “big shot farmer” on the occasion of her birthday party. He
never wore shoes during the summer, so when he arrived he was told, “We’re going to Bakersfield
Country Club. You can’t go without shoes.” So he left the present for the little girl and went home.
Visited the young journalists at South Kern Sol to talk about the progress of the project and to listen to updates about their work. I also asked them to fill in details from previous conversations. When I asked them how I could understand the feeling of August heat in the fields, for example, Berenice said a child can feel the heat rising of their parent’s shirt when they come home from the fields, and can smell the dirt and the grapes. Luz said, “You can stand on concrete and feel heat rising up from the ground.” Luz also shared that there had been an ICE raid of street corner flower vendors in Lamont on Valentine’s Day of this year, and that many of the vendors were deported.
SUNDAY (2/19)
Paula and I visited Dr. Young and his wife Ruth in their home in Arvin. The goal of the meeting was to better understand why some former Dust Bowl migrants have been resistant to being compared to current day farm workers (note that, although this is generally true, there are several folks from that era who have embraced the comparison, particularly those who have more first-hand experience with young people from today’s farm working families). Dr. Young said he felt that people’s resistance comes largely from their perception that folks today have more access to public services (welfare, WIC, etc.) than people did back then when they (again, according to their own self-perception) “Either had to work or to starve.” Dr. Young acknowledged the many grey areas in this analysis (for example, he is not so sure that, if had folks had access to more public services in the thirties, that they would have said “no” to them). This perception led to more dialogue and debate as the week went on.
Dr. Young talked more about farmers in the area, and he is able to see them with complexity (describing
both their service to the community and their prejudice) and also be able to see the complexity of the
farm working community today. When I asked him how he was able to bridge the Okie worlds and the
world of Arvin’s Mexican-American communities, he spoke about his own father, and how he opposed
racism and actively sought to counteract it by his own example.
Dr. Young also spoke about an upcoming fundraiser he is hosting for scholarships for undocumented students on March 25th called the “College Dream Fund.”
Paula and I met with Lisa Ann Lalobosso and David Lloyd at Lisa Ann’s home in Bakersfield. Lisa Ann is a poet/playwright who wrote a script with students at Arvin High School in partnership with the Arts Council of Kern, where David was employed at the time. For a number of reasons, the project was unsuccessful but mostly in ways that I don’t think are instructive for us. In briefly reading the first few pages of the script, though, I did appreciate how she avoided mythic characters of idealized young people, and instead wrote characters that seemed very contemporary.
Paula and I had dinner with Miguel, a friend and former classmate of Gabriel’s, at the Fogon Mexican Restaurant on Brundage Road in Bakersfield. Miguel talked honestly about the experience of watching his mother and father be deported. Specifically, he described himself being handcuffed on the floor while his partner looked on and the ICE agent picked up a bell which was on his desk (which had been borrowed for a prop). As he lay there, the ICE agent kept ringing the bell and saying, “Order up! Order up!”
He described the enormous difference between his life in Mexico (there is a street named after his family in their town, and is dad is an architect there) and their life here. He also described his acting training: he went through the 2 year training program at PCPA, and then transferred to CSUB to finish his studies. Although there is an edge of bitterness to him (which he himself acknowledges) it is overshadowed by charisma and grace. I imagine that he must be incredible to watch on stage.
MONDAY (2/20)
Talked with activist and actress Paola Fernandez about the perception of today’s immigrants by older generations of immigrants. She talked about previous waves, when immigration wasn’t controlled, and what she feels is the ‘myth of the rule of law’, as it relates to legal and illegal immigration. She said that there were more immigrants at the turn of the 20th century than today, and that she organizes talking circles to bring together people with various points of view to discuss these issues in non-combative ways, because there are so many misperceptions.
Dr. Young also spoke about an upcoming fundraiser he is hosting for scholarships for undocumented students on March 25th called the “College Dream Fund.”
Paula and I met with Lisa Ann Lalobosso and David Lloyd at Lisa Ann’s home in Bakersfield. Lisa Ann is a poet/playwright who wrote a script with students at Arvin High School in partnership with the Arts Council of Kern, where David was employed at the time. For a number of reasons, the project was unsuccessful but mostly in ways that I don’t think are instructive for us. In briefly reading the first few pages of the script, though, I did appreciate how she avoided mythic characters of idealized young people, and instead wrote characters that seemed very contemporary.
Paula and I had dinner with Miguel, a friend and former classmate of Gabriel’s, at the Fogon Mexican Restaurant on Brundage Road in Bakersfield. Miguel talked honestly about the experience of watching his mother and father be deported. Specifically, he described himself being handcuffed on the floor while his partner looked on and the ICE agent picked up a bell which was on his desk (which had been borrowed for a prop). As he lay there, the ICE agent kept ringing the bell and saying, “Order up! Order up!”
He described the enormous difference between his life in Mexico (there is a street named after his family in their town, and is dad is an architect there) and their life here. He also described his acting training: he went through the 2 year training program at PCPA, and then transferred to CSUB to finish his studies. Although there is an edge of bitterness to him (which he himself acknowledges) it is overshadowed by charisma and grace. I imagine that he must be incredible to watch on stage.
MONDAY (2/20)
Talked with activist and actress Paola Fernandez about the perception of today’s immigrants by older generations of immigrants. She talked about previous waves, when immigration wasn’t controlled, and what she feels is the ‘myth of the rule of law’, as it relates to legal and illegal immigration. She said that there were more immigrants at the turn of the 20th century than today, and that she organizes talking circles to bring together people with various points of view to discuss these issues in non-combative ways, because there are so many misperceptions.
Gabriel mentioned a friend of his
mom is afraid of leaving the house for fear of being deported. He also filled in the details of a
couple of stories that his mom had shared earlier: when she had to go to her friend’s houses to find a
babysitter for him before heading out the fields at five or six in the morning (according to Gabriel, he
was wrapped in a ‘baby tamale’).
TUESDAY (2/21)
Met with Gene Lundquist at his home in Bakersfield. Gene was the child of a small farmer who lived in the area at the time when Dust Bowl migrants arrived. He described that, at the time, there were so many small farmers that you could see a different farm every 1⁄4 mile. His father was interviewed by John Steinbeck when he was writing Grapes of Wrath (he was standing the corner of his farm at Weedpatch and Buena Vista Road when John Steinbeck pulled up. Gene believes the kindly farmer met by Tom Joad late in the book is modeled after his dad). He described the intimacy of the relationship between small farmers and folks who worked for them (and a particular memory of her mother giving the daughter of one of their field hands a ribbon for her hair for school, and it being the first ribbon she’d ever received).
He also described class differences, as expressed by children. Said a friend who stood with Gene in his driveway as they were on their way to a little league game, “Well, you’ve got a big mailbox...You’re rich.” Later, he remembered the school bus ride: he would be picked up early, and then the bus would loop around the fields, and stop by the Government Camp and then DiGiorgio Farms. At DiGiorgio, a group of Mexican (Mexican-American? Not sure if parents were Braceros) girls got on the bus, who Gene liked. He wanted to sit next to them, but didn’t know how to approach them, so he said to a friend who was from a Dust Bowl family “I’ll pay you 5 cents if you go up and sit next to her and then I’ll replace you,’ and the boy replied, “That’s the trouble with you rich kids. You think you can buy you way into any situation.”
Gene also talked about the Arvin Congregational Church, of which he is the moderator. It was once a large congregation, and is now down to 30 people – they are planning on giving it to the Lutheran Church, with the hope of it becoming a Latino Lutheran congregation.
Gene worked professionally for a cotton co-op, and he told me that at one-time there was more cotton grown in Kern County than in all of the Deep South combined. He also talked about the clothes, food (‘their egg whites were browner’), and stories of the Okie young people. When I asked if he often had the experience of his friends leaving without warning because of migration, he recalled Jesse, “The best athlete we’d ever seen. He was there for just a couple of years and then he was gone.”
TUESDAY (2/21)
Met with Gene Lundquist at his home in Bakersfield. Gene was the child of a small farmer who lived in the area at the time when Dust Bowl migrants arrived. He described that, at the time, there were so many small farmers that you could see a different farm every 1⁄4 mile. His father was interviewed by John Steinbeck when he was writing Grapes of Wrath (he was standing the corner of his farm at Weedpatch and Buena Vista Road when John Steinbeck pulled up. Gene believes the kindly farmer met by Tom Joad late in the book is modeled after his dad). He described the intimacy of the relationship between small farmers and folks who worked for them (and a particular memory of her mother giving the daughter of one of their field hands a ribbon for her hair for school, and it being the first ribbon she’d ever received).
He also described class differences, as expressed by children. Said a friend who stood with Gene in his driveway as they were on their way to a little league game, “Well, you’ve got a big mailbox...You’re rich.” Later, he remembered the school bus ride: he would be picked up early, and then the bus would loop around the fields, and stop by the Government Camp and then DiGiorgio Farms. At DiGiorgio, a group of Mexican (Mexican-American? Not sure if parents were Braceros) girls got on the bus, who Gene liked. He wanted to sit next to them, but didn’t know how to approach them, so he said to a friend who was from a Dust Bowl family “I’ll pay you 5 cents if you go up and sit next to her and then I’ll replace you,’ and the boy replied, “That’s the trouble with you rich kids. You think you can buy you way into any situation.”
Gene also talked about the Arvin Congregational Church, of which he is the moderator. It was once a large congregation, and is now down to 30 people – they are planning on giving it to the Lutheran Church, with the hope of it becoming a Latino Lutheran congregation.
Gene worked professionally for a cotton co-op, and he told me that at one-time there was more cotton grown in Kern County than in all of the Deep South combined. He also talked about the clothes, food (‘their egg whites were browner’), and stories of the Okie young people. When I asked if he often had the experience of his friends leaving without warning because of migration, he recalled Jesse, “The best athlete we’d ever seen. He was there for just a couple of years and then he was gone.”
He also shared with me a copy of “Weedpatch Boy....A Praeterita,” a memoir of his life, including many
details about his childhood in Weedpatch.
That afternoon I led a workshop with Mandy Rees, at CSUB, who is continuing the work that Paula and I started with her students. Now, students are creating their own short plays based on interviews about other students’ views about Bakersfield, and compositions inspired by them.
Had dinner with Maria and Sam Mercado and her family, and then watched the 2011 movie A Better Life together. She also taught me how to make tortillas, which she had offered to do after our last visit. They talked about the public pool in DiGiorgio Park and the community surrounding the pool. Gene Lundquist also spoke about how the children at Sunset School built their own pool, and I have heard stories about the pool at the DiGiorgio Farm – so this was definitely a South Kern summer theme.
The film provoked stories about Maria and her sister’s arrival in the Bakersfield area (although they were not undocumented, their dad became a resident only after working as a Bracero). We spoke about ‘feeling’ or ‘being’ poor, and how relative those perceptions were for them. We also spoke about the perception, among some older generation of migrants, that immigrants of today are overusing public services and that is causing a drain on the country. For her, this is a coded form of racism.
We also spoke briefly about the percentages of folks who work in the fields who are undocumented. Based on my experience in NY, I imagined the numbers to be very high (a friend who is an outreach worker in the farm working area where I’ve worked estimated it to be ‘99%’), but Maria wasn’t sure – and she cautioned me to find out more details, as this is as often repeated stereotype. Since then, she has referred me to a colleague at the Dolores Huerta Foundation, to whom I have reached out, to learn more.
WEDNESDAY (2/22)
Had breakfast with the family of Larry Hallum at Spencer’s, a diner in Bakersfield. At the table were Larry, his sisters Jonnie and Virginia and their husbands, and a relative and her husband, who was the Arvin Police Chief in the late sixties. The conversation was wide-ranging. Larry’s sister, Jonnie, was the only sibling in their family to come West from Oklahoma (“The rest of us are CIO’s: California Improved Okies’, says Larry). Their mom would often tell the story of coming West on the Greyhound bus while Jonnie would run up and down the aisles look at people. There were many details of their early lives shared at the meal: they would always have a 50 gallon pile of raisins in the house for snacking (a family tradition that came from their grandfather). They spoke about everyone fitting in a small house when they arrived, and putting bunk beds in the closet to fit everyone. Also about their schedule on the farm prior to arriving in CA: 5:00 am go out feed the animals (sometimes driving through the fog), 6:00 breakfast, 7:00 back in the fields; and about games that the kids would play: marbles, poker, hopscotch, crack the whip; also about women working in the potato sheds (often men would work in the fields and women would work in the sheds seasonally): a good cutter could cut 50 sacks of 50 lb potatoes in a day (almost every Dust Bowl person I’ve interviewed describes someone – a mom, a dad, someone they saw – who can cut or pick a record amount.)
That afternoon I led a workshop with Mandy Rees, at CSUB, who is continuing the work that Paula and I started with her students. Now, students are creating their own short plays based on interviews about other students’ views about Bakersfield, and compositions inspired by them.
Had dinner with Maria and Sam Mercado and her family, and then watched the 2011 movie A Better Life together. She also taught me how to make tortillas, which she had offered to do after our last visit. They talked about the public pool in DiGiorgio Park and the community surrounding the pool. Gene Lundquist also spoke about how the children at Sunset School built their own pool, and I have heard stories about the pool at the DiGiorgio Farm – so this was definitely a South Kern summer theme.
The film provoked stories about Maria and her sister’s arrival in the Bakersfield area (although they were not undocumented, their dad became a resident only after working as a Bracero). We spoke about ‘feeling’ or ‘being’ poor, and how relative those perceptions were for them. We also spoke about the perception, among some older generation of migrants, that immigrants of today are overusing public services and that is causing a drain on the country. For her, this is a coded form of racism.
We also spoke briefly about the percentages of folks who work in the fields who are undocumented. Based on my experience in NY, I imagined the numbers to be very high (a friend who is an outreach worker in the farm working area where I’ve worked estimated it to be ‘99%’), but Maria wasn’t sure – and she cautioned me to find out more details, as this is as often repeated stereotype. Since then, she has referred me to a colleague at the Dolores Huerta Foundation, to whom I have reached out, to learn more.
WEDNESDAY (2/22)
Had breakfast with the family of Larry Hallum at Spencer’s, a diner in Bakersfield. At the table were Larry, his sisters Jonnie and Virginia and their husbands, and a relative and her husband, who was the Arvin Police Chief in the late sixties. The conversation was wide-ranging. Larry’s sister, Jonnie, was the only sibling in their family to come West from Oklahoma (“The rest of us are CIO’s: California Improved Okies’, says Larry). Their mom would often tell the story of coming West on the Greyhound bus while Jonnie would run up and down the aisles look at people. There were many details of their early lives shared at the meal: they would always have a 50 gallon pile of raisins in the house for snacking (a family tradition that came from their grandfather). They spoke about everyone fitting in a small house when they arrived, and putting bunk beds in the closet to fit everyone. Also about their schedule on the farm prior to arriving in CA: 5:00 am go out feed the animals (sometimes driving through the fog), 6:00 breakfast, 7:00 back in the fields; and about games that the kids would play: marbles, poker, hopscotch, crack the whip; also about women working in the potato sheds (often men would work in the fields and women would work in the sheds seasonally): a good cutter could cut 50 sacks of 50 lb potatoes in a day (almost every Dust Bowl person I’ve interviewed describes someone – a mom, a dad, someone they saw – who can cut or pick a record amount.)
Denise, who was a cousin, spoke about working in the cotton fields when she was four. We also spoke about whooping cough, which many
folks suffered from.
Next, I met with Irene Rowe, Don Burkett’s aunt, and Johnny Means, a cousin, along with Larry and Don. I have
wanted to meet with them for some time, because Don’s Aunt has personal memories of the 1947 strike
at DiGiorgio farm, a major unrest at the time but something which is almost completely erased from
folks’ memories. When we arrived, Johnny presented us with a printed report, from that time, which
was published by a ‘Citizens Committee’ (of farmers and other civic leaders) refuting the official version
of an editorial of the time. Irene then spoke about her husband getting arrested, and all of them being
kicked off the farm (a pick up arrived in front of the train car on the farm where they were living and
they had to fill it up with their things and get out). Johnny remembered sitting alone in a car in
Weedpatch while has dad was in the union hall and watching a lone man with a gun walk by and shoot
holes in the building (a representative from the growers, he thought). The bullet hit one man inside.
The strike, they thought, lasted 2-3 years, and both Irene’s husband and Johnny’s dad were arrested.
We also talked about the drive west, and specifically about signs they would have seen along the road. A few that stuck in my mind: Gila Monsters Coming Soon; signs with limericks that ended with “UseBurmashave”; Indian Women in Native Dances on Saturday. Something I’ve never asked was about the radio playing on the road. What would they have heard? (When I asked later, Don mentioned local stations, and also the country music station from Del Rio Texas).
Larry spoke again about Grapes of Wrath, saying that they got many things wrong, but the one that they got dead right was Ma; “just the right combination of toughness and tenderness.”
We spoke about more details: how they would have fixed a flat in those days; where they slept en route (I have often heard about people driving straight through, but Larry talked about his dad sleeping on a park table Flagstaff for a few hours – and, in his own cross country trip years later, stomping his feet around to wake up); pranks they played as kids (stirring up a wasp nests with a paddle); and Okie sayings (‘no hill for a highstepper’, ‘might nigh’, ‘he hasn’t been far enough around the tea cup to see the handle’); and the love of animals (Larry said that, late in his life, he showed his uncle Buddy a picture of mules from 1941 and he still knew their names).
We also talked about the drive west, and specifically about signs they would have seen along the road. A few that stuck in my mind: Gila Monsters Coming Soon; signs with limericks that ended with “UseBurmashave”; Indian Women in Native Dances on Saturday. Something I’ve never asked was about the radio playing on the road. What would they have heard? (When I asked later, Don mentioned local stations, and also the country music station from Del Rio Texas).
Larry spoke again about Grapes of Wrath, saying that they got many things wrong, but the one that they got dead right was Ma; “just the right combination of toughness and tenderness.”
We spoke about more details: how they would have fixed a flat in those days; where they slept en route (I have often heard about people driving straight through, but Larry talked about his dad sleeping on a park table Flagstaff for a few hours – and, in his own cross country trip years later, stomping his feet around to wake up); pranks they played as kids (stirring up a wasp nests with a paddle); and Okie sayings (‘no hill for a highstepper’, ‘might nigh’, ‘he hasn’t been far enough around the tea cup to see the handle’); and the love of animals (Larry said that, late in his life, he showed his uncle Buddy a picture of mules from 1941 and he still knew their names).
Irene, who is 89, has an accent that Larry and everyone there described as prototypical Okie. I
thought it might be helpful for the actors to hear so, before we left, she kindly recorded 5 minutes of
herself reading Grapes of Wrath (It happened to be by the chair, and I asked her to open to any passage
– and she happened to have it open to what is my favorite passage). It’s a real beautiful moment, and
one that I’ll hold on to for some time.
Met with Verner Stenderup, an Arvin farmer whose family has been farming continually in the area for close to 100 years (as far as he knew, his is the longest standing singly-owned farm in the area. They have some grape vines which are almost 100 years old). He farms grapes (his house is on route 223 and looks out on the fields). His wife, Birthe, was also there and, briefly, his son, who I had met at a City Council Meeting.
His father came to the area in 1914 from Denmark, and he has vivid memories of his childhood, specifically being an outsider to Okie culture but with an intimate vantage point. He told me that he remembers working in the fields as a child, and looking at the church on the other side (Baptist or Pentecostal?) and hearing people speaking in tongues inside it. He also remembers people doing full immersion baptism on the edge of the fields. Birthe recalled people refusing to let their kids go to the same school as Okies because, ‘the girls didn’t wear underwear.’
We talked about the cotton riots in the thirties (which included a fight two miles northwest of Arvin that left one picker dead and 13 people badly hurt), and also about the UFW period – which he described as difficult, especially for his son and what he faced from his high school peers for being the child of a farmer (he didn’t go into specifics). He also talked about the changing racial cultural landscape of the farms and about the Congregational Church, which is nearing 100 years old and now down to 30 members.
On the way to the Lamont Public Library, I went down Vineland Road and saw an old barn that I had never seen; it looked, from other pictures I have seen, to have dated back to the late 1800s. I parked and got out of the car to look at it and, just then, a man and his son drove up in a white van: John Doctolero and his son Tanner Davis. John is a second generation farmer, of mixed Filipino and Okie heritage. His land was across the road from the barn. We walked over to the barn together, and Tanner explained that he used to swing from a rope tied to the rafters, climbing up huge potato crates that still lined the floor. As we looked over, we saw a nest at the intersection of rafters, made up of spindly branches that were still piled in one of the crates (not sure, but it looked like from grape branches). Tanner explained that it was a hawk’s nest. We talked for a while, and John explained to me what a Filipino-Okie Thanksgiving consists of (chicken adobo, pork adobo, biscuits and gravy, homemade pie with the flakiest crust ever made by his mom, etc.), and big parties thrown for the workers at the end of the harvest (Violins playing Flipino music playing in the fields). He talked about his dad’s service in WW2, how he got his first car (from Flipino field workers who had pooled money to buy a car at the planting beginning of the season, worked around the country, then went home after a year because ‘the work was too hard’). He also told a beautiful story about him saving the change given to him by the workers as they collected their salaries from their dad, who was a contractor.
Met with Verner Stenderup, an Arvin farmer whose family has been farming continually in the area for close to 100 years (as far as he knew, his is the longest standing singly-owned farm in the area. They have some grape vines which are almost 100 years old). He farms grapes (his house is on route 223 and looks out on the fields). His wife, Birthe, was also there and, briefly, his son, who I had met at a City Council Meeting.
His father came to the area in 1914 from Denmark, and he has vivid memories of his childhood, specifically being an outsider to Okie culture but with an intimate vantage point. He told me that he remembers working in the fields as a child, and looking at the church on the other side (Baptist or Pentecostal?) and hearing people speaking in tongues inside it. He also remembers people doing full immersion baptism on the edge of the fields. Birthe recalled people refusing to let their kids go to the same school as Okies because, ‘the girls didn’t wear underwear.’
We talked about the cotton riots in the thirties (which included a fight two miles northwest of Arvin that left one picker dead and 13 people badly hurt), and also about the UFW period – which he described as difficult, especially for his son and what he faced from his high school peers for being the child of a farmer (he didn’t go into specifics). He also talked about the changing racial cultural landscape of the farms and about the Congregational Church, which is nearing 100 years old and now down to 30 members.
On the way to the Lamont Public Library, I went down Vineland Road and saw an old barn that I had never seen; it looked, from other pictures I have seen, to have dated back to the late 1800s. I parked and got out of the car to look at it and, just then, a man and his son drove up in a white van: John Doctolero and his son Tanner Davis. John is a second generation farmer, of mixed Filipino and Okie heritage. His land was across the road from the barn. We walked over to the barn together, and Tanner explained that he used to swing from a rope tied to the rafters, climbing up huge potato crates that still lined the floor. As we looked over, we saw a nest at the intersection of rafters, made up of spindly branches that were still piled in one of the crates (not sure, but it looked like from grape branches). Tanner explained that it was a hawk’s nest. We talked for a while, and John explained to me what a Filipino-Okie Thanksgiving consists of (chicken adobo, pork adobo, biscuits and gravy, homemade pie with the flakiest crust ever made by his mom, etc.), and big parties thrown for the workers at the end of the harvest (Violins playing Flipino music playing in the fields). He talked about his dad’s service in WW2, how he got his first car (from Flipino field workers who had pooled money to buy a car at the planting beginning of the season, worked around the country, then went home after a year because ‘the work was too hard’). He also told a beautiful story about him saving the change given to him by the workers as they collected their salaries from their dad, who was a contractor.
He also spoke about his own trip West. Although he wasn’t stopped at the CA border by LA police, he confirmed that many people were. He remembers when his dad – along with him and his brother - pulled into a gas station on the way out from Oklahoma with, ‘Three tires and a rim’ on their model A. Their dad only had $2.20, so he got a job working for a ranch in Arizona. Later that year, their cousins came out to AZ to bring them to CA, but they got lost in the dessert near the ranch. They then walked through the Arizona desert, looking for their cousins, and luckily came upon a cattle train – and then they found Earl. “If they hadn’t seen that, they woulda died” Earl said – his story reminded me of stories about the next generations of migrants crossing through the Arizona desert from the Mexico, and the many who didn’t find their way through.
Met with Monica Martinez and her father, Guadalupe. Monica is a close friend of Gabriel’s, and has often spoke about her love for Arvin and her pride for her family and specifically her parents. Guadalupe works seasonally at Sunridge Nurseries, where he hybrids different types of grape vines (Gabriel’s dad also works there) and then seasonally in the fields on a range of other farms. After I introduced the project, he talked about learning Biblical stories from his parents, and performing in Pastorelas in his home community of Zimental in Guanajuato, which were performed in the center of town. He said that they would rehearse for 3 months with a cast of 115. He performed many roles from the age of 5 to the age of 18, including San Miguel, a soldier, and el Diablo (which was his favorite). He then performed selections from many of them, as me, Monica and her brother Junior looked on with joy.
Guadalupe also spoke about his work in the fields, as a farming contractor (which seemed more informal than a large business operation) and for Sunridge nursery. He remembered that when he first arrived he would sleep in the fields and bathe in the canals and expressed enormous gratitude for this country, for Ronald Reagan for signing the amnesty bill (“I am not educated, but I know enough to say that Ronald Reagan is in the grace of God”). He also talked about walking the UFW picket lines, which he did for 2-3 months, the danger of pesticides, and about supervising other workers: in that last regard, he remembered supervising two crews cutting down trees, one of which was documented and the other which was undocumented. He recalls that the documented crew cut down 7 trees, and that the undocumented crew cut down 25 – which he took as a testament to their extremely hard work.
At the very end of the evening, as we had wine from a new grape from Sunridge, I asked him if anyone
ever takes grape vines to replant (in my imagination in the play someone takes a vine to replant in their
own field in Mexico). They said that it doesn’t officially happen but there are folks who may
do that without people knowing.
Stopped by the Rustic Rail Saloon briefly to say hello to Millie Stead, who I met in a previous visit. At the bar, I met someone who said his father was “DBA” (i.e., Ditch Bank Arkie). It turned out that the family of one of the other ten people at the bar is from the same small town in Arkansas where his family is from. When I said, “Does that happen often?” he said, “It does in Kern County.”
THURSDAY (2/23)
7:00 a.m. breakfast at Westchester Lanes with a group of men whose families (or they themselves) migrated west. I spoke to the first person who would be classified as a ‘migrant’ (almost everyone I have met came to the area and then settled at the Government Camp or on a farm). The man (whose name I didn’t get) said that he went to 19 schools before high school. He said that at one point his family lived in a chicken coop in the back of someone’s house (they were too proud to accept the invitation to stay in the house). He also remembers that his prized possession was a glove, and that one day when they were about to move he realized that he had forgotten in in his desk at school and he still remembers going back to the school to get the janitor to open the classroom so that he could open his desk before they went along. He also said he remembers a boy who was even poorer than him and the reason he knew was because the boy had to kick a kickball from his heel because there was a hole in the front of his shoe.
Bob Gibson, whose 102 year old mother Millie I interviewed a couple months ago, recalled that when he and 12 other children came West in the back of the truck the canvas was closed at the back and at the sides so that they couldn’t see the ride west but they could hear the sounds. He also remembers the names of the horses they left in Oklahoma over 70 years ago: Bones (I think) and Snip.
A man named Gene recalled what he did with his money from picking cotton for the first time: he bought a Mackinaw jacket.
Stopped by the Rustic Rail Saloon briefly to say hello to Millie Stead, who I met in a previous visit. At the bar, I met someone who said his father was “DBA” (i.e., Ditch Bank Arkie). It turned out that the family of one of the other ten people at the bar is from the same small town in Arkansas where his family is from. When I said, “Does that happen often?” he said, “It does in Kern County.”
THURSDAY (2/23)
7:00 a.m. breakfast at Westchester Lanes with a group of men whose families (or they themselves) migrated west. I spoke to the first person who would be classified as a ‘migrant’ (almost everyone I have met came to the area and then settled at the Government Camp or on a farm). The man (whose name I didn’t get) said that he went to 19 schools before high school. He said that at one point his family lived in a chicken coop in the back of someone’s house (they were too proud to accept the invitation to stay in the house). He also remembers that his prized possession was a glove, and that one day when they were about to move he realized that he had forgotten in in his desk at school and he still remembers going back to the school to get the janitor to open the classroom so that he could open his desk before they went along. He also said he remembers a boy who was even poorer than him and the reason he knew was because the boy had to kick a kickball from his heel because there was a hole in the front of his shoe.
Bob Gibson, whose 102 year old mother Millie I interviewed a couple months ago, recalled that when he and 12 other children came West in the back of the truck the canvas was closed at the back and at the sides so that they couldn’t see the ride west but they could hear the sounds. He also remembers the names of the horses they left in Oklahoma over 70 years ago: Bones (I think) and Snip.
A man named Gene recalled what he did with his money from picking cotton for the first time: he bought a Mackinaw jacket.
One thing I sometimes hear from the men of the Dust Bowl is a lament about what they see as the
overuse of public services. Often, this is part of their worldview about how they
didn’t have access to any of those things when they were young , and how they pulled themselves
without aid (‘when we were young, if we didn’t work, we starved.’ Another person said, “There is no
hunger today,” I said, “Yes there is.” And another guy responded, “He means there is hunger if the
parents are lazy or on drugs.”)
Today, though, I heard for the first time a different color to that story. One man spoke about he and his dad lining up for a 1⁄4 mile to get ‘commodities’ at what is now the fairgrounds, and bringing home a box of cheese, milk, and other items. Another man said that his family got WPA flour, and another person said he didn’t go but his dad also went to wait in line for commodities.
One thing I struggle with is how to respond when folks share things I disagree with or, in some cases, offend me. In past projects, I have let things like that slide, in the spirit of absorbing the most I could. But as I have gotten to know the Dust Bowl folks, and learned to love them, this feels increasingly manipulative. So I am trying to respond more and more directly, in the spirit of honest exchange.
Before I left I had a long talk with W.C. about all the various people who have written things about the Dust Bowl (many of whom have joined the men at their Thursday Breakfast). He repeated the frustration that Pete Bancroft, the principal at the Sunset School has never gotten his just due (many other people have said this). [ He deserves more credit for his work at the school.] On my last day in CA, I received a phone call from Verner Stenderup saying that Pete Bancroft is 95 and still lucid and telling me how to contact him.
THURSDAY (2/23)
I spoke to a Mexican-American man who has lived in the area for many years, who shared his own view on the public services question. He feels that there is a difference between folks who are migrating now and those who migrated a generation ago; in that he believes the older generation came to work, and to provide for their families, and to contribute to their communities in service and in struggle. He feels that this generation of migrants is more materialistic and more willing to take the benefits of public services without giving back. It’s hard to understand with such a limited lens, but I wonder if what he is observing in the migrant culture is a reflection of United States culture as a whole? Because I could say the same things about US culture in the past 20 years that he is saying about migrants.
Visited the Arreola home, on Haven Drive, not too far from Haven Drive School (and the home of Mayor Tarver). I hoped that Javier Arreola (our translator) could translate my recording of an interview conducted late last year with man who had been through the Bracero program. Turned out to be not possible- I have notes, but I also think that, of the many layers of immigration stories in the world of the play, Bracero stories will likely play a minor role.
Today, though, I heard for the first time a different color to that story. One man spoke about he and his dad lining up for a 1⁄4 mile to get ‘commodities’ at what is now the fairgrounds, and bringing home a box of cheese, milk, and other items. Another man said that his family got WPA flour, and another person said he didn’t go but his dad also went to wait in line for commodities.
One thing I struggle with is how to respond when folks share things I disagree with or, in some cases, offend me. In past projects, I have let things like that slide, in the spirit of absorbing the most I could. But as I have gotten to know the Dust Bowl folks, and learned to love them, this feels increasingly manipulative. So I am trying to respond more and more directly, in the spirit of honest exchange.
Before I left I had a long talk with W.C. about all the various people who have written things about the Dust Bowl (many of whom have joined the men at their Thursday Breakfast). He repeated the frustration that Pete Bancroft, the principal at the Sunset School has never gotten his just due (many other people have said this). [ He deserves more credit for his work at the school.] On my last day in CA, I received a phone call from Verner Stenderup saying that Pete Bancroft is 95 and still lucid and telling me how to contact him.
THURSDAY (2/23)
I spoke to a Mexican-American man who has lived in the area for many years, who shared his own view on the public services question. He feels that there is a difference between folks who are migrating now and those who migrated a generation ago; in that he believes the older generation came to work, and to provide for their families, and to contribute to their communities in service and in struggle. He feels that this generation of migrants is more materialistic and more willing to take the benefits of public services without giving back. It’s hard to understand with such a limited lens, but I wonder if what he is observing in the migrant culture is a reflection of United States culture as a whole? Because I could say the same things about US culture in the past 20 years that he is saying about migrants.
Visited the Arreola home, on Haven Drive, not too far from Haven Drive School (and the home of Mayor Tarver). I hoped that Javier Arreola (our translator) could translate my recording of an interview conducted late last year with man who had been through the Bracero program. Turned out to be not possible- I have notes, but I also think that, of the many layers of immigration stories in the world of the play, Bracero stories will likely play a minor role.
Javier shared facinating UFW photos, though. I originally had asked because Ana Maria had said that she would
go after work to translate for the UFW daily meetings in Lamont Park during 1973. That summer was a
violent and tense time for the movement and the Arvin/Lamont area was a center point (some of this is
chronicled in the film Fighting for Our Lives, which I have and can share). I was intrigued by the image of
a young woman translating during such a feverish moment, and I was intrigued by the theatricality of a
bi-lingual, very practical working session in a park, with a playground where children could play at the
same time. They shared some rich details: free bowls of Menudo and Pan Dulce in the Lamont
headquarters of the UFW; Cesar Chavez’s dogs named Huelga and Boycott; a young Catholic priest who
apparently had his nose broken in the violence (Ana Maria: ‘Do you see the mark in his nose?’)
They had many photos of Lamont Park, as well as of the inside of the local UFW hall. They also had a picture of Cesar Chavez speaking in the Arvin High School auditorium; a young Dolores Huerta; lines of sheriffs; a young man named Nagi who was killed that summer and who Ana Maria introduced as “our first martyr”; a young man covering his face, and later being chased because he was crossing the picket line. What was more moving to me, though, were family photos interspersed through the movement: a child opening birthday presents in a circle of friends while, behind them, a man sits exhausted on a couch where a UFW flag also sits; picket lines with a father and child; and a photo of Ana Maria with a child in her arms and two at her legs, beside Cesar Chavez.
I also most thrilled, though, to see a photo of Javier and his two sisters, all under age 10, playing in the wildflowers along the route between Arvin and Tehachapi from the late 60s. I also have a photo that Nellie Oldham took of her three siblings playing with flowers along that same route, in 1938 – just a year after they moved west from Oklahoma . I love looking at those photos side by side.
They had many photos of Lamont Park, as well as of the inside of the local UFW hall. They also had a picture of Cesar Chavez speaking in the Arvin High School auditorium; a young Dolores Huerta; lines of sheriffs; a young man named Nagi who was killed that summer and who Ana Maria introduced as “our first martyr”; a young man covering his face, and later being chased because he was crossing the picket line. What was more moving to me, though, were family photos interspersed through the movement: a child opening birthday presents in a circle of friends while, behind them, a man sits exhausted on a couch where a UFW flag also sits; picket lines with a father and child; and a photo of Ana Maria with a child in her arms and two at her legs, beside Cesar Chavez.
I also most thrilled, though, to see a photo of Javier and his two sisters, all under age 10, playing in the wildflowers along the route between Arvin and Tehachapi from the late 60s. I also have a photo that Nellie Oldham took of her three siblings playing with flowers along that same route, in 1938 – just a year after they moved west from Oklahoma . I love looking at those photos side by side.
[ Coming soon: photos
Donald, Jerald, and Elda Mae Hawley (ca. 1938)
Photo by Nelda Oldham, their sister, who we met at Dust Bowl Days
Maria Elena, Susana, and Javier Arreola (ca. late 60s)
Photo by Ana Maria Arreola ]
Photo by Ana Maria Arreola ]
Went with Javier to a dusty corner near the fields on route 223, not too far from route 99. We spoke
with a man who was selling roses and purple tulips out of a white bucket. The flowers were fresh and
unwilted, despite the heat. Javier asked him if it was true that many of the flower sellers in the Arvin
and Lamont area were deported on Valentine’s Day and he said yes. He was not there that day, but
many men were taken in vans to buses that were waiting in a supermarket in Bakersfield and,
presumably, to a processing center and then to Mexico. We talked for a while and he explained that he
comes daily with a group from Los Angeles to sell flowers in the afternoon (they are less bothered by the
police here than in LA). Flowers are $10/bunch and he keeps $4 of each bunch. He is from Puebla. He
lives near McArthur Park (in Los Angeles) in a one bedroom with five other guys (reminded me very much of Larry
Hallam’s description of bunk beds in the closet when he first came). We talked for a bit about Puebla
(many folks in New York are from Puebla, and I visited the region in December). I then explained that
we are doing a play about local stories, and I might like to include what we talked about and he said that
would be fine; that he would do whatever he could do to help. When I asked if there was any danger in
including what we talked about (without names) he said that there was no risk in doing so, that they
move around a lot, and that we needn’t worry. I was left with a feeling of his warmth, perhaps because
he was grateful for the conversation on what was becoming an unseasonably warm winter day.
NOTE ABOUT UNDOCUMENTED FOLKS
I had many discussions with or about folks who are undocumented, but I didn’t want to put them in the narrative so that people could remain anonymous. This is a major theme, though. Young people talked about their perspective of being undocumented, (“It’s like everyone’s playing a soccer game, and I am just watching and I know how the game is played, and I know who is winning. If I could only be allowed to play, I’d kick their ass.”); perspectives on life in the U.S. (“To live in this country you have the world at your feet”); and stories about applying for college. One woman said she first admitted publicly that she was undocumented when she had to write a college scholarship application, and to receive it she had to interview with a former teacher who had openly expressed anti-immigrant sentiment. Dr. Young said that he knows many, many undocumented young people who fell into a depression during the second semester of their senior year when they realized how different their lives would be from those of their peers. He recalled the story of another young person who was wait-listed at Harvard, admitted at Berkeley, and then sent him an email one day saying, “I haven’t been truthful.” As we spoke on the phone about it, his doorbell rang and a person came to the door to ask if it was too late to apply for the scholarship fund for undocumented students (it wasn’t).
I had many discussions with or about folks who are undocumented, but I didn’t want to put them in the narrative so that people could remain anonymous. This is a major theme, though. Young people talked about their perspective of being undocumented, (“It’s like everyone’s playing a soccer game, and I am just watching and I know how the game is played, and I know who is winning. If I could only be allowed to play, I’d kick their ass.”); perspectives on life in the U.S. (“To live in this country you have the world at your feet”); and stories about applying for college. One woman said she first admitted publicly that she was undocumented when she had to write a college scholarship application, and to receive it she had to interview with a former teacher who had openly expressed anti-immigrant sentiment. Dr. Young said that he knows many, many undocumented young people who fell into a depression during the second semester of their senior year when they realized how different their lives would be from those of their peers. He recalled the story of another young person who was wait-listed at Harvard, admitted at Berkeley, and then sent him an email one day saying, “I haven’t been truthful.” As we spoke on the phone about it, his doorbell rang and a person came to the door to ask if it was too late to apply for the scholarship fund for undocumented students (it wasn’t).
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