Following the Calexico Comet to Cal

 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

                                                                     

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?

                                                                                           

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 know 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 couldn’t stop talking about Primo during those years. Sometimes, I’d attend games with them, the only kid in the car, or along with my cousin Junior, 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 towering Chicano in a UCLA football uniform. 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 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?

     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.