I will be 74 in a few months, so it’s important to keep in mind that my life experiences are now historical. Sharing those experiences with others I hope provides people with perspective in today’s world. As an ethnic Mexican, I grew up in Pacoima, an impoverished, marginalized Los Angeles community. Here is the excerpt.
By early 1968, along with every other American youth, I was in turmoil. Now eighteen, I had to find a grown- up pursuit of some sort. Nearing high school graduation, my best friend Buster Scott and I agreed we would join the Army. A two-year stint would give us the chance to learn a job skill and get a better fix on what to do with the rest of our lives. We knew we would be deployed to Vietnam. We were unafraid of going off to war. Stupidly, we were sure that our rough and tumble Pacoima upbringing would allow us to dodge death, injury or psychological trauma. We would outfox the perils of war.
At some point, my dad asked about my post-high school plans. He was aghast, a rare emotion for him.
“The Army will send you to Vietnam, and you’ll come back dead or all messed up,” he said. “Go to college. The Army already has plenty of Mexicans.”
When I pointed out that he’d enlisted, he replied, “There was no opportunity for me to go to college. Only rich people could afford to go. It was a different time. Young Mexicans in El Paso couldn’t get good jobs even with a high school education. And this is a stupid war. The U.S. isn’t threatened like in World War Two. “
Seeing I would not take his advice, my dad offered a compromise. Go to community college for one semester. If I decided higher education wasn’t really for me, I could drop out and enlist.
“That way, you could go with my blessing.”
Getting his blessing struck me as out of character for him. He had never offered to bless anything I did. I ended up deciding there would be no harm in humoring him.
With reservations, I enrolled in Los Angeles Valley College, a two-year school, just weeks before the fall 1968 semester began. My abysmal high school education, I feared, left me scarcely prepared for what lay ahead.
Dr. Beebe, my freshman composition instructor, very nearly ended my college career three weeks into the semester. We were to write several essays during the course, and our final was to be a lengthy research paper, complete with footnotes and a bibliography. I had never produced anything like the paper Beebe described, with multiple sources and a meticulously detailed format. The only good news was that the topic was Mexico, which that year was hosting the Olympic Games.
The unwelcome news came when I received my first two essays, both with grades of F. Stunned and baffled, I struggled to understand how my essays could be worth nothing— the same as not turning in the papers. I had to find out what I’d done wrong, so I worked up the courage to speak with Beebe, an imposing redhead. Never had I taken the initiative to talk to a teacher about my classwork. Right after class one day, I nervously approached her.
“Dr. Beebe, do you have time to talk?” I asked in a quiet voice.”
She nodded.
“Dr. Beebe, I got Fs on my essays.” “Yes, I know,” she replied icily.
“Well, I’d like to know what’s my problem,” I said.
Looking irritated, she replied, “It’s obvious, you can’t write.”
I don’t recall saying anything. All I remember is walking out of the room, my face hot with embarrassment. Soon, I was overcome with anger at myself for having set foot on a college campus. I knew I was not college material, and so now that had been confirmed in humiliating fashion. No wonder there were so few minorities on campus, I thought. We’re too stupid to make it through college. I was on the brink of quitting college right after I had started.
Army, here I come, I thought.
My friend Buster enlisted in the Army and was killed in combat in Quang Tin province on June 3, 1970. He was 20 years old.
Ricardo Chavira Chicano 