coveted tractor-driving positions.
During breaks, I kept to myself, pulling out a book I’d brought to keep up my studies and to feed my mind so that I could focus on the physical challenges of work and not be overwhelmed by menial or difficult tasks. I was proud that I could work harder than anyone else, not because of a difference in abilities but probably because of the urgency that drove me—the strong sense of purpose that came from the knowledge that every penny earned would put food on the table for my parents and siblings and would allow me to help improve my family’s status quo.
When I did socialize at night with my cousins and my uncle, the main subject of interest was boxing. And it was in this context that I would be given the nickname “Doc,” perhaps as a hint of things to come. But there was no medical connection, at least not for many years.
In Mexican culture, people are often given more than one nickname; we might have several that are loosely related to one another. On my first visit to Mendota with my family, most of my nicknames had been Americanized versions of Alfredo—from Freddy, to Alfred, Fred, and Fredo. At fourteen, as I was introduced to Rocky, the classic underdog, I was given a rash of new nicknames. First was the affectionate “Ferdie” that my uncle dubbed me in honor of Dr. Ferdie Pacheco, the famous boxing physician who had been Muhammad Ali’s beloved cornerman and personal doctor. Then he and my cousins started calling me Dr. Pacheco, which then morphed into “Doctor” and ultimately just “Doc.”
When everyone in the fields heard my family calling me Doc or Dr. Pacheco, they assumed that the nicknames explained why I read so much and was so intense and meticulous in everything I did—as if each task were a matter of life and death. Some of them believed that I was a doctor!
Looking back, I know that part of my intensity stemmed from my percolating anger that my family’s situation hadn’t improved. Some of my anger was directed at my father, no doubt, because so much had fallen on my mother’s shoulders. He blamed himself for the loss of the gas station, but after five years, I thought it was time for him to move on. Yet he was stuck. But even more intense than the anger was the war I was fighting against a rising feeling of hopelessness. The only way I knew to combat it was to work myself to the bone and squeeze every cent out of every second. After two months of this extreme regimen, while refusing to spend any of my earnings, I had dropped to ninety-two pounds. My normally round face was drawn, with sunken cheeks, and I had to punch three holes in my belt to hold up my pants.
Uncle Fausto frequently pointed out that I needed new clothes. Finally, he announced that whether I liked it or not, we were going to go shopping on my last Sunday in Mendota. “Okay, Dr. Pacheco,” he said, as my cousins and I entered the men and boys’ store that sold an array of popular brands, “buy yourself a new wardrobe.”
I stood there frozen, not wanting to even look at the clothes, or worse, to spend a dime of what I’d earned. But how could I disobey my uncle, whose generosity had allowed me to prosper?
Seeing my paralysis, Uncle Fausto shrugged and proceeded to pick out two pairs of jeans and two shirts in my size that he knew I would like, and then headed for the cash register. When I argued that such items could be bought more cheaply in Mexico, he appeared not to be listening. “Doc,” he said, “give me your wallet.”
“No,” I refused.
“Freddy, give me your wallet.”
Tears streamed down my face. My cousins lowered their eyes. Finally, I gave in, removed the money, just over fifty dollars, and paid for the clothing that I desperately needed, and secretly wanted.
Uncle Fausto taught me an important lesson on that shopping trip. He wanted me to know that taking care of myself wasn’t selfish and that while sharing the fruits of my labor with others was admirable, hard work should bring a few personal rewards too. To put a fine point on that message, the next day, when he and my cousins took me to the Greyhound station, just before I boarded the bus, Uncle Fausto surprised me with the gift of his Walkman, complete with tapes of American rock and roll. He had seen me pricing tape players at the store and knew how badly I wanted one. It was one of the most generous presents I’d ever received.
One of the few gifts to rival it came within a day, upon my return home. When I stepped off the bus in Mexicali, Mamá burst into tears the moment she saw me—ninety-two pounds of skin and bones. But I told her that I had something for her that would make her feel better. When we were home, just the two of us in the kitchen, I reached into my right sock, under the ball of my foot, and removed the roll of bills that I had protected with every molecule of my energy on the bus ride back to Mexico. About fifty bucks less than one thousand dollars. The amazement and relief that shone on my mother’s face when I turned the money over to her—enough to feed us for a year and put money away for the future—was the greatest personal reward that I could have received.
I had been back from Mendota for nearly a year when my mother finally persuaded me to buy a pair of used boxing gloves so that I could realize my dream of working out at a gym in Mexicali. By then, I’d gained back the weight I’d lost, and before long, I was working my way up to lightweight status at 130 pounds. Part of my motivation, I confess, was that I was tired of having my butt kicked, being a target, and having to surround myself with bigger guys for protection. A part of me also entertained the idea of getting revenge against a particular punk who had embarrassed me many years earlier. Later, to my shame, I used my boxing skills outside the ring to call him out on the street and beat him badly—a wrong that would be on my conscience for years. I would then learn the truth of the Kaliman philosophy “Revenge is a poor counselor.”
But when I was pummeling the punching bag, all I knew was that life had been beating us down and I had to find a new way to respond. My stint as a boxer taught me that I could do more than bob and weave defensively in the face of a challenge; my training helped me fight back, even to be the aggressor when necessary. The first two of my three fights in the ring—which I won—easily confirmed this conclusion. But in the third and last fight, in which I faced a physically overpowering opponent who left me to taste my own blood, I wasn’t so sure—especially when he knocked me to my knees just before the bell in the last round. Still, I had a choice—to quit or to stand up and finish the fight, even in defeat. By choosing the latter option, I learned an essential lesson: it’s not defeat I should fear; more important than whether I won or lost was how I responded to being knocked down and thrown off balance.
Though this was my last official fight, boxing had given me what I needed at the time—an opportunity to hit back. I also discovered that, like those corner breaks that allowed me to recharge during fights, there were ways to recharge my batteries in other pursuits. Eye-opening! But I still had plenty of anger, as there was a need for a surrogate to blame for the misfortunes that had gone on for too long. Rather than taking my fight to the ring, however, I started reserving my anger and rebellion for the forces, institutions, and authorities that most controlled my life. At this time, the major injustice that ate at me was the ongoing bifurcation of the social classes in my country that devalued human beings in the bottom economic strata, as if only those at the top with political connections, wealth, and means were worthy of respect and opportunity. Part of my fight was not to allow those values to get to me.
Always, my grandparents provided a guiding light for how to respond productively to hardship. Now they were getting up in years and both battling serious illnesses. Though I understood in theory that they wouldn’t be around forever, Tata Juan and Nana Maria had always been so much larger than life that I couldn’t imagine their being taken from this world.
Yet on a day like any other day, one of my cousins arrived at the director’s office of my school to request that I be released from class, explaining that my grandfather—afflicted by metastatic
