Plus, my cousins Fausto and Oscar were always ready to join me and my siblings in the fun.
Every morning, after the adults left for the fields, the main goal for the day was to figure out how to get to a magical place we called “Faraway.” You would only know you had arrived there when you got there! If I needed a break from our escapades, I hung out at the garage where tractors and farm equipment were serviced, offering my mechanical know how and skill in maneuvering large vehicles. I also started a business cleaning workers’ rooms at a nearby barracks. Because my rates were lower than the competition’s, I was in demand.
Unfortunately, the competition, a fifteen-year-old, came after me with his posse. One of the guys pinned me down and twisted my arm so painfully that I couldn’t use it to clean. Clearly, the time had come to learn some real Kaliman maneuvers for self-defense.
Thus, when we returned home to Mexico, my first thought was to take boxing lessons at a gym in Mexicali. But after sadly saying good-bye to the paradise of Faraway/Mendota, our family was soon stretched as thin as ever, and I accepted that I would have to create my own self-improvement program. So I came up with a bold plan to turn the out-of-doors into an obstacle course for my self-designed training regimen. Aha! On my way to school or work, I’d race against my previous pace, pushing myself faster each day, sometimes inventing athletic moves that called for leaping over creeks, catapulting over fences—anything to squeeze out another ounce of energy.
Such was the Kaliman approach. According to the comic-book hero’s history, his DNA was not superhuman. He had simply pushed his human abilities to their optimal levels, training himself to be as strong as fifty men, to levitate and practice telepathy and ESP, and to fight evil and injustice without ever taking a life. Except for his occasional use of sedative darts to temporarily paralyze evildoers and a dagger employed only as a tool, he needed no weapons to overcome an adversary. Kaliman would even risk his own life to avoid causing the death of another human being. Dressed all in white except for the jewel-encrusted letter “K” on his turban, he was also a scientist, often spouting interesting facts about nature and the cosmos while embracing the attainment of knowledge with such philosophies as “He who masters the mind masters everything.”
Fortunately, school still provided a positive place for me to work on mental mastery, even though being the youngest student and the teacher’s pet brought problems. These concerns intensified when I changed schools and no longer had my circle of protectors. Worse, there were some seriously scary kids at the school. One of them, Mauricio, a mountain of muscle, did back flips and propelled off walls like a circus acrobat, and the ground shook whenever he walked by. The only person who wasn’t afraid of him was his sidekick—known as El Gallo because he crowed like a rooster when he was triumphing over anyone who made the mistake of tangling with him. The Rooster was one of the tallest thirteen-year-olds I had ever seen, with long, sinewy arms designed for landing jabs and uppercuts. Of all the kids I was determined to avoid as part of my survival, these two were at the top of the list. Guess what? Just my luck, Mauricio was in my natural science class, sitting right behind me and peering over my shoulder to copy off my tests.
I saw only one solution and that was to offer him and his fellow bad boys my tutoring services. We settled on a fee, in addition to a promise that they would provide protection from any of the bigger bullies. As I explained, they were on my payroll.
The tutoring sessions were not as transformational for my pupils as I had hoped. Their understanding of the fundamentals improved, but I soon concluded that the more expedient (and profitable) path was to let them copy my answers on my tests. Of course, I knew that this solution was wrong, and I didn’t pretend otherwise. But on an up note, the school saw a downturn in troublemaking during this time.
With tutoring and restaurant work, I could contribute to our family’s welfare without falling behind in my studies. However, I soon began to lament that I couldn’t pursue much of a social life outside of school. At fourteen, I had experienced my share of flirtations with girls in my class, but I had not had the money or time to explore romance. No dates, no dances, no strolls down the sidewalk holding hands. Did I feel sorry for myself? No, I couldn’t allow that. But working every waking hour outside of school, day in and day out, was definitely getting old.
I finally confessed these feelings to my mother, trying to explain for the millionth time why, at the age of fourteen, I believed that the time had come for me to return to Mendota for the summer, on my own. If I could work there for two months, I could help the family so much more than if I stayed in Mexico. Moreover, I could put money away so that I wouldn’t have to work full-time during the school year.
This would also allow me to move more rapidly in completing the special training program I’d recently begun that was the equivalent of a college curriculum for those studying to become teachers. Mamá and Papá agreed that becoming an educator was an excellent choice for me: not only was it a respected profession, but it would enable me to start earning a living in a shorter amount of time than, say, studying to become a lawyer or a doctor. And, in the best of all worlds, if I became a teacher, I could afford to continue my education toward those other professions if I desired.
Although I didn’t have a work permit for my summer plans, that hurdle could be overcome with the passports that let us go back and forth across the border. Nothing anyone could say was going to convince me that this survival strategy was not a good idea; it was the only idea. Mamá finally gave in and went to the phone booth to call Uncle Fausto.
“Absolutely not,” was his firm response when she asked if I could return to Mendota and work the fields for the summer. However, he quickly added that he would love for me to come for a vacation.
Grateful for his offer, I was determined to change his mind. During the entire ride up to Central California, as I sat quietly in the passenger seat of a car driven by a relative who was heading that way, I pondered how to convince Uncle Fausto to give me a shot at proving myself. When I was finally dropped off in front of my uncle’s house, I stood there with my few items under my arm and gathered my resolve, not sure that anything I could say would sway him. At 102 pounds, much skinnier than when my Mendota relatives had last seen me, I could tell that Uncle Fausto and my cousins were shocked when they came out to welcome me. Uncle Fausto’s first words were, “Are you hungry?”
Before I could answer, an ice cream truck playing cheerful organ-grinder music came down the road with a throng of dancing children following behind. Uncle Fausto gestured toward the truck and asked, “Want an ice cream?” Thanking him profusely, I had the pleasure of trying my first-ever rainbow-colored, push-up sherbet. Savoring its creamy, sweet deliciousness, I was in heaven. And it was a mere morsel compared to the hearty dinner that Uncle Fausto set out that evening. I realized that I could easily forget about working and just enjoy the good life for the next two months. Yet no sooner did that thought occur to me than an image arose of my family back in Mexico, sitting around the table each night and subsisting on the most meager diet.
That evening I began my campaign with Uncle Fausto, telling him what an asset I would be in the fields. Again, he forcefully refused. But after a lengthy back and forth, my uncle said, “Okay, give me five good reasons why I should give you a job.”
I don’t remember the first four, but I clearly remember the last one: I looked Uncle Fausto in the eyes and said, “Because we need it at home.”
He studied me thoughtfully, saying nothing. Finally he nodded his head. “Fine,” he said, “if you’re ready to go at five A.M., I’ll put you to work.”
That next morning, I waited outside by Uncle Fausto’s truck fifteen minutes early, eager to prove myself. No special treatment followed. I was dropped off with a crew of mostly men and started at the bottom of the migrant-worker ladder—pulling weeds. By the end of my two months, I had moved up several rungs, from pulling weeds in the cotton and tomato fields to picking
