Note: DEI is about stories, and ours are under attack, so I thought it would be a good time to repost this story, a story about the U.S. and its people, our people, our elders. by Daniel Cano
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| Following the Calexico Comet to UC Berkeley |
Recently, I came across some old black and
white photos of my dad and his friends, Larry Baez, Freddie Santana, and my
uncle Rufino Escarcega. In one photo, I see a car, maybe a 1952 or ’53 light
colored Chevy. It could be my dad’s 1953 light-green Chevy. I don’t know for
sure. On the driver’s door, someone painted the words: “CALEXICO, Comet ‘Primo’
UCLA.”
Kneeling beside the driver’s door, I see
Dario Sanchez, I think. It’s a small photo. Beside Dario, standing to the rear,
it looks like my dad. Beside him in the foreground is Georgie Saenz, and behind
Georgie is Richard Sanchez, Dario’s younger brother, all hearty UCLA fans, most
of them veterans, and the first generation of Chicanos, proud Mexican Americans.
They pose next to Primo’s name, UCLA’s star running and defensive back. Primo,
short for Primitivo, his father’s name.
I try to put it all into context. I wish
my dad was here to tell me the story. I’m sure it’s 1954, the year UCLA won the
National College Football Championship. My dad and his friends travelled to
Berkeley to watch Primo and UCLA battle Cal. A couple of things…. Now, a road
trip to Berkeley doesn’t seem much to us today. But in the early 1950s, without
freeways or major highways, that was one hellava drive.
To reach the San Fernando Valley from West
L.A., you had to wind around the Santa Monica Mountains along the Sepulveda
Pass, in a car with no power anything. To cross the Valley, you had to grind
your way up Sepulveda Blvd, stopping at red lights through every little
settlement in San Fernando, Sherman Oaks, Van Nuys, Reseda, Pacoima, Sylmar,
etc. etc. 1954 was only twenty years after the great Okie migration west, which
meant crossing the San Joaquin Valley was a major achievement, not just a
weekend romp. There were few hotels, gas stations, restaurants, or facilities
for travelers, especially if you were a dark-skin Mexican, forget about it.
As I study the photograph, I think: man, UCLA
football must have been a powerful draw to get them to make that journey. Then
I remember, it wasn’t just UCLA football, it was Primo Villanueva, and the
pride my dad and his friends had in the kid who came from a small border town down
south. I mean, Primo played for one of the greatest football coaches to ever
walk the sidelines, Red Sanders. What must it have been like for Primo, a
minister’s son, a kid from a small farming town where racism was rampant and poverty
was a way of life, to know a football icon wanted him to move to Los Angeles
and play for his team, UCLA, in the heart of Los Angeles, Hollywood, bright
lights, big city?
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| One of the all-time greats, Primo Villanueva |
To many of us Chicanos in Los Angeles,
even non-UCLA fans, Primo was king. He’d dominated high school football in
Calexico, the Imperial Valley, and San Diego County. At UCLA, he became an idol
to thousands of kids across Los Angeles and California, and at a time when
Chicano kids needed someone to look up to. When the media flooded us in the
‘50s with images of Mexicans as rapists, murderers, thieves, and slackers,
Primo showed the true side of our community, where the majority were law-abiding,
hardworking folks contributing to the development of this country, striving to
educate their kids, and give them a good life.
Primo, as a running back, led UCLA’s offense
with 886 yards. If that wasn’t enough, he also played defensive back, and helped
take the Bruins to a national championship, an undefeated season, 9-0. The kid
was barely 19. He held his own among UCLA’s superstars, powerhouse athletes
like Jack Elena, Jim Salisbury, and Bob Davenport, names known in college
football across the country. We aren’t talking about good athletes here. We are
talking about the best in the country.
My dad and his friends couldn’t stop talking about Primo
during those years. Sometimes, I’d attend games with them, the only kid in the
car, or my cousin Junior squeezing in, as they made their way each Saturday night
to the Coliseum, an hour drive, easy, in those days, from West L.A. After the
game, the fans rushed on to the field to touch or shake hands with the gargantuan
players. One time, my dad pushed his way through the crowd, so I could gawk up
at the Chicano in cleats and full pads towering over us. After the field had
emptied, my dad and his friends waited for the players to walk up the ramp, out
of the Coliseum, and into the adoring fans, shaking hands and giving
autographs. I can still hear my dad and his friends yelling, as if they were
kids, “Primo! Primo! Primo!” He’d always smile and wave at them. They never
missed a home game.
Coincidentally, my wife hails from
Calexico, California. Her brothers played high school football, and, of course,
I had to ask them if they knew Primo. Her oldest brother, who received a
football and academic scholarship to Dartmouth, told me when he played for Calexico High
School, the coach gave him Primo’s helmet, mainly because it was the largest.
My father-in-law, who also played high school football in Calexico, told me
that fans would caravan from Calexico each season to watch Primo play. He said
that on one trip, he and his friends got into a bad car accident, but even that
didn’t stop them from attending the game. They sat the Coliseum, wrapped in
bandages, watching Primo pull out another victory.
I have visited Calexico over the years
disappointed that there is little recognition of Primo, or his younger brother
Danny, a punter and field goal kicker, for UCLA, the Los Angeles Rams, and the
Dallas Cowboys. I would have thought for sure the high school might be named
after Primo, or if not, at least the high school football field, gym, even a
swimming pool. After all, Primo was an All-American football star. But no,
nothing, no mention of the man. Most public facilities are named after…who
knows, ex principals, superintendents, parents of city council or school board
members?
Then I heard Primo Villanueva hadn’t even
been inducted into the UCLA Football Hall of Fame. How could that be? What was
I missing here, the Calexico Comet who led UCLA to its only national football championship? Then, I heard a rumor that nominees and inductees, or those who nominated them, were expected to donate or raise big bucks for the university, just like a buying a star on the Hollywood Walk of Fame, nothing comes for free, not even for excellence.
What I do know is that
Chicano(a)/Latino(a) Studies, and all fields of study, should not be solely
about scholars digging into esoteric, antiquated intellectual issues. It should
be about people, their stories, and their contributions to Chicano/Latino
culture, whether academic, musical, film, literature, art, athletics, or any
other human endeavor. Chicano Studies should uplift the community, as well as
show the difficulties and obstacles we’ve faced. To me, forgotten names of men
like Primo Villanueva, Art Aragon, and Leo Carrillo, and women like Dolores del
Rio, Isela Vega, and Linda Ronstadt, through their life’s work, have earned a
place in the academy. Students should know about them.
For me, anyway, I will always consider
Chicano Studies as having begun with my father’s stories, and those men and
women of his generation who lived to tell them.
