Becoming C/S: Veteranos/Veteranas Remember
EXCERPT from Chapter One, “The Worst Day of My Life.” Autobiography of Esteban Torres As Told to Michael Sedano.
The day that changed my life forever started like every other school day. Mama heading for work and Grandma in the kitchen. Across the street, earliest daylight reflects off the white walls of my elementary school, making my mother a silhouette as she heads to the bus that takes her to work.
I can smell Gramma’s avena. She makes avena with canela sticks, canned milk, raisins, and chunks of piloncillo. She probably has buttered toast to dunk. Rise and shine! What a perfect way to begin another day of Fifth Grade.
Jaime, la Licha, Fudu, and I take turns at tetherball until the bell rings and we race into Mrs. Osborne’s classroom and take our seats. I’m in Row 2 behind Licha.
“EDWARD,” Mrs. Osborne announces.
The teacher has my attention just in how Mrs. Osborne says my name. Someone whispers, “uu.” Her teacher voice has an edge in it.
“Come to the front of the room, Edward.”
How would I know the teacher means to assassinate my character in front of my fellow fifth graders? What could I do if I knew?
This is one of those times that you live through once, then for the rest of your life, in school, at work, at social events, every time someone announces your name for no reason at all, you’re that little kid again, standing up in front of the room helpless, being wrongfully accused, everything a whirlwind.
Mrs. Osborne calls me a traitor, a traitor to the school, to my classmates, to myself. Over the weekend, Mrs. Osborne tells the class, someone destroyed the school’s Victory Garden, stole the fruit. The teacher tells the class “Edward was part of it.”
What can a fifth grader do? I stand there humiliated, tears running down my face. Mrs. Osborne is the teacher, she has absolute authority in her classroom, and anywhere on school grounds.
So she’s right.
In the eyes of my classmates staring at me standing there, on display alone at the front of the room, I am a traitor to the Victory Garden. I am worthless.
My friends look away when I look to them for support. Jenny Amador sticks her tongue out at me. Even Akiko frowns, looks away. Louie is laughing silently, pointing at me. For once, he’s not the one in trouble.
Look at those eyes looking back at me. Friends, que no? We played together this morning before the bell. I thought they know me better than to be looking at me with disgust. No one’s jumping up and saying “No, he’s not! Eddie’s not a traitor!”
I am on my own. What can I do but cry out of absolute powerlessness? I cry in front of the whole room standing there. A traitor.
You can imagine, after being called a Victory Garden destroyer, that was a crummy day of school. You can disappear in a crowd and I did.
As soon as the last bell rang, I ran across the street. Usually, I get a quesadilla and a glass of water so when I just head for my room my mom asks what’s wrong?
My mom taught me not to interrupt others because it’s rude, and besides, “get all the facts.” She reminds me not to open my mouth unless I have all the information and a plan. So I know how upset mom is when I no sooner say Mrs. Osborne called me a vandal and a traitor in front of the whole class, than mom interrupts.
“She said what?”
I didn’t have to start again because I know Mom heard me, so I kept going. How Mrs. Osborne called me up to the front of the room. Pointed at me. Told the class what I did. That I destroyed the school Victory Garden and stole all the food intended for the community.
My tears tell my mother how helpless I still feel. Powerlessness has to be the worst emotion in the world, but my mother has a stronger power.
"You tell Mrs. Osborne that I work hard for this family. I put food on the table. You have all the food that you need to eat, and you don't have to go steal food from school to eat.”
“You know that we don't allow you to do that, and you wouldn't do it. You tell her to apologize to you.”
Both of us took a breath. I was thinking hard and my mother had already thought it through.
“And if she doesn't apologize to you, you tell her that I'm going to come over to school and I'm going to beat the hell out of her."
It’s funny looking back on it because my mother would have done it. I didn’t want to be the fifth grader whose mother beat the hell out of the teacher.
Here is my life’s most crucial moment and I don’t realize what’s going on because I’m a scared eleven-year-old boy who doesn’t want his mom charging into the classroom and shaking Mrs. Osborne around like a Cantinflas puppet.
What’s happening is I’m taking a giant step into manhood, guided by my wise Latina mother. My mother says to take responsibility for the outcome by speaking for myself.
Speaking up for yourself is the main part of what I learned to do. There’s more to it, I learned.
Ask for help when you need help, give help when you can. Don’t expect thanks. Mom didn’t tell me that last part, it’s what I learned as an adult, in organizing and politics. Do a thing because it’s right. You don’t equivocate, go maybe yes, maybe no.
Above all, stand up for yourself.
Today I look back on my life and career in community service filled with Firsts and unique jobs: the First Chicano with a White House position; the First Chicano to organize South American auto workers; the First Chicano UNESCO Ambassador. I was one of only three California Mexican Americans in Congress, Ed Roybal, Marty Martinez, Esteban Torres. I was the only Chicano.
A reporter asked me one day, “Congressman, did you ever feel amazed to be this Chicano from East Los Angeles sitting in Paris as the United States representative to UNESCO?”
And the answer is "No". Not amazed. I think you’d be “amazed” if your results surprised you. I wasn’t surprised to be the First, or Only, Chicano in so many places in my life.
We belong. Punto. I happened to be the one.
It doesn’t matter that you’re The Only or The First, your foremost responsibility is to yourself. People will draw their own conclusions about you, about your raza, about your familia. Be effective and their opinions don’t matter.
Chapter Two: The Best Day of My Life: Same Day
The day after Mrs. Osborne assassinated my character in front of the whole world, I lay awake reliving my humiliation. Mom kissed me goodbye and didn’t say anything even though she knew I was awake. Gramma made avena but I just picked at the raisins.
I waited for the second bell then walked across the street to Rowan Avenue School. Mrs. Blanco in the office gave me a dirty look when I crossed the patio.
I walked down the hall past the third grade rooms. They had a new teacher, a man, in Mrs. McCartney’s room. The fourth grade wall had a map with little flags and strings leading to the countries kids came from. Everyone here came from somewhere else.
You know that song, “we’re all in our places with bright shiny faces?” Well, my classmates were already seated, including Mrs. Osborne. Except they weren’t being all shiny. Everyone was giving me dirty looks, including Mrs. Osborne.
But la Licha was looking away. She told Gilbert Manzano she likes me, now she doesn’t look at me. I am alone. As Mama says, no one else is going to do it, so it is time to stand up for myself.
When you’re scared, I learned much later giving speeches, no one knows your stomach is jumping and your knees are wobbling. Butterflies are flying into my throat as I walk up to Mrs. Osborne’s desk. I hope I will get through what I planned, lying there in the dark.
Teacher desks at Rowan Avenue Elementary School have a white line on the floor you’re not supposed to cross. I crossed it and my stomach touched the hard wooden edge of the desk. I don’t want the other kids to hear, but I don’t want to whisper. I aim to do as my mother says.
Licha and them have stopped messing around and the whole front row is watching me. Mrs. Osborne watches me, starts to say something when I step past the line, but she waits for me to speak first. I think of what my mother told me.
“Just walk right up to her and tell her,” Mama says, “speak up.”
I take a breath, hold it, let air run slowly out my nostrils so all I feel is the warm soft. All eyes are on me.
The only difficult part of speaking up comes just before you talk. Then you do it. Your muscles force the air up your dry throat as your lips begin to form a string of sounds you’ve already thought through. You open your mouth, the first words come out, and you’re committed.
“Mrs. Osborne, I have something to say.”
I had mentally rehearsed the opening words walking down the hall. They came out like practice.
I made the sentence come out like a statement, word for word, a little emphasis on “say.” Inside I was wary at how Mrs. Osborne would respond. I couldn’t read her face when she said to go on, what did I have to say?
I heard my mother’s voice telling me what to tell Mrs. Osborne and I used Mama's words, almost just like Mama expressed.
“I told my mother what you did yesterday. How you made me stand in front of everyone. How you said I stole the Victory Garden and was a traitor.”
I struggled not to cry again. I loved the Victory Garden. I was American, I supported the war effort, I wouldn’t do anything to hurt my country.
Mrs. Osborne looked at me over her glasses, she was biting her upper lip. I continued.
“My mother got mad that you would say that. She says to tell you she works to put food on the table and she makes sure I get fed. I don’t need to steal food.”
I would never do that, I added personally. I was mad and that just came out.
I am almost out of breath. No one talks to white people like this, especially a teacher. I inhale and finish saying what I planned to say.
“My mother says you need to apologize to me. She says if you don’t apologize she’s going to come here to school.”
I didn’t elaborate on what would happen after Mama got here. Mrs. Osborne didn’t ask.
“Wait a minute,” she told me.
“Class,” Mrs. Osborne called.
It wasn’t like yesterday when she called my name, but it was out of the blue. The kids who weren’t entremetidos already eavesdropping me and the teacher, looked up.
“Edward's here. You know what I told you about him yesterday? Well, I want to apologize to him. He didn't do that.”
“He really wasn't responsible, and he didn't do that."
That was my first First, in a life of them. I was the First Chicano at Rowan Avenue School to be wrongfully accused and vindicated in a public apology. For all anyone knows, that was the First Time in United States history.
That doesn’t matter. I was innocent, one of the good kids again.
Ever since that day, I've never been afraid to stand up for my rights. When you stand up for yourself, you’re standing up for somebody else's rights, too, because even if you’re the first, you will not be the only one who needs to confront injustice.
I learned to be eager to speak up, ready to talk matters out, whether negotiate in a conversation at a fancy restaurant or argue across the bargaining table.
Talk changes situations. Talk produces mutual understanding. Big stakes or local, having vocal advocates who speak up for equity and justice is a key to winning.
I have no idea how long my playground fame lasted at Rowan Avenue. When you’re in fifth grade so many new things are happening to your body and your mind that last week’s highlights flow away into good feelings and you concentrate on the moment.
