went. We worked the first week: the grapes were pretty bad and we couldn’t make much. We all stayed off from school in order to make some money. Saturday we were to
be paid and we didn’t get paid. He came and said the winery hadn’t paid him. We’d have money next week. He gave us $10. My dad took the $10 and went to the store and bought $10 worth of groceries. So we worked another week and in the middle of the second week, my father was asking him for his last week’s pay, and he had the same excuse. This went on and we’d get $5 or $10 or $7 a week for about four weeks. For the whole family.
So one morning my father made the resolution no more work. If he doesn’t pay us, we won’t work. We got in a car and went over to see him. The house was empty. He had left. The winery said they had paid him and they showed us where they had paid him. This man had taken it.
Labor strikes were everywhere. We were one of the strikingest families, I guess. My dad didn’t like the conditions, and he began to agitate. Some families would follow, and we’d go elsewhere. Sometimes we’d come back. We couldn’t find a job elsewhere, so we’d come back. Sort of beg for a job. Employers would know and they would make it very humiliating … .
Did these strikes ever win?
Never.
We were among these families who always honored somebody else’s grievance. Somebody would have a personal grievance with the employer. He’d say I’m not gonna work for this man. Even though we were working, we’d honor it. We felt we had to. So we’d walk out, too. Because we were prepared to honor those things, we caused many of the things ourselves. If we were picking at a piece rate and we knew they were cheating on the weight, we wouldn’t stand for it. So we’d lose the job, and we’d go elsewhere. There were other families like that.
Sometimes when you had to come back, the contractor knew this … ?
They knew it, and they rubbed it in quite well. Sort of shameful to come back. We were trapped. We’d have to do it for a few days to get enough money to get enough gas.
One of the experiences I had. We went through Indio, California. Along the highway there were signs in most of the small restaurants that said “White Trade Only.” My dad read English, but he didn’t really know the meaning. He went in to get some coffee—a pot that he had, to get some coffee for my mother. He asked us not to come in, but we followed him anyway. And this young waitress said, “We don’t serve Mexicans here. Get out of here.” I was there, and I saw it and heard it. She paid no more attention. I’m sure for the rest of her life she never thought of it again. But every time we thought of it, it hurt us. So we got back in the car and we had a difficult time trying—in fact, we never got the coffee. These are sort of unimportant, but they’re … you remember ’em very well.
One time there was a little diner across the tracks in Brawley. We used to shine shoes after school. Saturday was a good day. We used to shine shoes for three cents, two cents. Hamburgers were then, as I remember, seven cents. There was this little diner all the way across town. The moment we stepped across the tracks, the police stopped us. They would let us go there, to what we called “the American town,” the Anglo town, with a shoe shine box. We went to this little place and we walked in.
There was this young waitress again. With either her boyfriend or someone close, because they were involved in conversation. And there was this familiar sign again, but we paid no attention to it. She looked up at us and she sort of—it wasn’t what she said, it was just a gesture. A sort of gesture of total rejection. Her hand, you know, and the way she turned her face away from us. She said: “Wattaya want?” So we told her we’d like to buy two hamburgers. She sort of laughed, a sarcastic sort of laugh. And she said, “Oh, we don’t sell to Mexicans. Why
be paid and we didn’t get paid. He came and said the winery hadn’t paid him. We’d have money next week. He gave us $10. My dad took the $10 and went to the store and bought $10 worth of groceries. So we worked another week and in the middle of the second week, my father was asking him for his last week’s pay, and he had the same excuse. This went on and we’d get $5 or $10 or $7 a week for about four weeks. For the whole family.
So one morning my father made the resolution no more work. If he doesn’t pay us, we won’t work. We got in a car and went over to see him. The house was empty. He had left. The winery said they had paid him and they showed us where they had paid him. This man had taken it.
Labor strikes were everywhere. We were one of the strikingest families, I guess. My dad didn’t like the conditions, and he began to agitate. Some families would follow, and we’d go elsewhere. Sometimes we’d come back. We couldn’t find a job elsewhere, so we’d come back. Sort of beg for a job. Employers would know and they would make it very humiliating … .
Did these strikes ever win?
Never.
We were among these families who always honored somebody else’s grievance. Somebody would have a personal grievance with the employer. He’d say I’m not gonna work for this man. Even though we were working, we’d honor it. We felt we had to. So we’d walk out, too. Because we were prepared to honor those things, we caused many of the things ourselves. If we were picking at a piece rate and we knew they were cheating on the weight, we wouldn’t stand for it. So we’d lose the job, and we’d go elsewhere. There were other families like that.
Sometimes when you had to come back, the contractor knew this … ?
They knew it, and they rubbed it in quite well. Sort of shameful to come back. We were trapped. We’d have to do it for a few days to get enough money to get enough gas.
One of the experiences I had. We went through Indio, California. Along the highway there were signs in most of the small restaurants that said “White Trade Only.” My dad read English, but he didn’t really know the meaning. He went in to get some coffee—a pot that he had, to get some coffee for my mother. He asked us not to come in, but we followed him anyway. And this young waitress said, “We don’t serve Mexicans here. Get out of here.” I was there, and I saw it and heard it. She paid no more attention. I’m sure for the rest of her life she never thought of it again. But every time we thought of it, it hurt us. So we got back in the car and we had a difficult time trying—in fact, we never got the coffee. These are sort of unimportant, but they’re … you remember ’em very well.
One time there was a little diner across the tracks in Brawley. We used to shine shoes after school. Saturday was a good day. We used to shine shoes for three cents, two cents. Hamburgers were then, as I remember, seven cents. There was this little diner all the way across town. The moment we stepped across the tracks, the police stopped us. They would let us go there, to what we called “the American town,” the Anglo town, with a shoe shine box. We went to this little place and we walked in.
There was this young waitress again. With either her boyfriend or someone close, because they were involved in conversation. And there was this familiar sign again, but we paid no attention to it. She looked up at us and she sort of—it wasn’t what she said, it was just a gesture. A sort of gesture of total rejection. Her hand, you know, and the way she turned her face away from us. She said: “Wattaya want?” So we told her we’d like to buy two hamburgers. She sort of laughed, a sarcastic sort of laugh. And she said, “Oh, we don’t sell to Mexicans. Why
Similar Books
