I was startled one day in 1956 when I went grocery shopping with my grandfather, Jose Chavira. He asked me to read the labels on canned goods because he did not know how to read. Not long after that incident I learned that his English was fragmented and butchered.
My surprise was all the greater because Jose was born in Shafter, Texas and lived all his life in that state and California. Born October 27, 1896, my grandfather and his family lived on their ranch, many miles from the nearest school.
Doomed to illiteracy, he never learned more than a few English words because his neighbors, bosses and fellow workers spoke Spanish. However, he understood English.
In 1918, Maria Ramirez and Jose were married and soon after began a years-long stint as migrant cotton field workers. My aunt Elena was born, followed by my father, David. They recalled those years as back breaking
Here’s an excerpt from my book.
The heat and dust were ever-present, and the hours stretched from pre-dawn to late after-noon. More than once, the family was cheated out of earnings. In one terrifying incident, they narrowly survived a deadly tornado in Oklahoma. They sheltered in a storm cellar. Others were not so fortunate.
“I went into shock when I saw what the storm did,” María said. “All around were dead people, some of them torn into pieces. It was like a nightmare, and I felt I was going to lose my mind.”
During their infrequent stays in Sierra Blanca, Texas, young David and Elena attended the same Mexican school as had their mother. “I would go there to see how they were doing,” said my grandfather, “and they would be just singing songs. Sometimes, the teacher was off with a boyfriend, and the kids were alone. They weren’t getting any kind of education.”
Having struggled with the burden of illiteracy, José was determined that his children would receive an education. That, however, would require that the family move to a town or city with proper schools. And so, the Chaviras headed for El Paso, eighty miles west, where they used their small savings to rent a tiny, brick tenement apartment, popularly known as a presidio. They had no electricity; the only running water came through an outdoor communal tap. During the summer, the apartments became ovens; many residents slept outdoors for the relatively cooler temperature.
My grandfather had to find work, which was no easy task in a border town with perennially high unemployment. The year was 1929, and times would get dramatically harder with the onset of the Great Depression. Like many unemployed Mexicans, José went to a street corner, where day laborers were hired.
“I remember my first day out there,” my granddad said. “This mean-looking Gringo came by in a truck. He looked us over and picked a few, including me. He put us to work at a construction site, and I did my best to show I was a hard worker. If you looked weak or slow, the Gringo would tell you not to come back. He told me to return.”
My father once visited his father at his job: the Plaza Theater under construction. “I couldn’t believe what I was seeing,” he said. “My father was a hod carrier, with all these bricks stacked on his shoulder. He had to carry them up ramps to the upper stories. My father was drenched in sweat and dirt, and he was running—running! —up those ramps. It was worse than how an animal would work. I felt horrible. I was sorry to see what my dad went through. Seeing that also scared me. More than anything, I knew I had to avoid ever working like that. I was afraid that was the only work Mexicans could find, but I decided I would find a way to escape it.”
Ricardo Chavira Chicano 