Katy Butler: Knocking on Heaven’s Door

Give sorrow words; the grief that does not speak knits up the o-er wrought heart and bids it break.
– William Shakespeare, English poet and playwright, from Macbeth

Katy Butler at the Hillside Club.

Katy Butler at the Hillside Club.

This past Thursday, my friend Jane and I attended another Berkeley Arts & Letters event at the Hillside Club (2286 Cedar Street, Berkeley, 510.848.3227). Knocking On Heaven’s Door: The Path to a Better Way of Death, is a memoir by narrative journalist Katy Butler chronicling the deaths of her father and mother – one who died too late and the other who died too soon, respectively, according to Butler. An article she wrote in 2010, which was published in the New York Times Magazine, “What Broke My Father’s Heart,” became the opening of her exquisitely written book. The Wall Street Journal ran an excerpt about her mother in its pages on September 6th.

A Braided narrative structure
Having lost my father on Christmas night 1995 and my mother on January 3rd, 2012, I was interested in hearing Butler talk about losing her parents in very different ways. Being involved in the healthcare industry, I was equally interested in her discussion of how the medical world views the elderly and end-of-life issues. What I didn’t expect, and which was a pleasant, serendipitous surprise – because I’m neck-deep in the final revision of my novel – was learning about narrative structure.

Responding to audience questions.

Responding to audience questions.

Deirdre English, who teaches at the UC Berkeley Graduate School of Journalism and is a former editor-in-chief of Mother Jones, was the guest interviewer who happened to be an undergraduate college roommate of Butler’s for a brief time when they were at Wesleyan University in Middletown, CT. Knowing the premise, English brought up being intrigued by how Butler would approach the narrative structure. Butler admitted that she didn’t want to write a depressing story of her parents’ deaths, which she described as a downward staircase narrative. That story, she explained, “was only part of the truth.” The other narratives, which she braided in and which created upward staircase narratives, included her transformative relationship with her mother and her growth as a human being. She referenced Greek mythology and the seven basic plots, of which overcoming the monster constituted one of her braided narratives.

Setting the caregivers free
Despite the help of a home caregiver, Butler’s mother was the primary caregiver for her father, who had suffered a stroke at age 79 and declined in the next 10 years, the last five and a half years of which were artificially prolonged by a pacemaker. If you read the NYT Magazine piece, you’ll bear witness to the agony Butler and her mother endured during those difficult years and when it came time to make difficult decisions that would essentially set them all free. Butler talked about the opportunity in this spiritual ordeal of taking care of a parent’s death. Ten years of caregiving can break people, but Butler says it is also an opportunity to grow. When the body can no longer be healed, the spirit can be healed.

Set for a book event in Berkeley.

Set for a book event in Berkeley.

Her mother kept a journal at the advice of a hospice worker, and while it would be painful to read soon after her passing (during my mother’s six weeks in the ICU and the acute-care facility, I kept copies of my detailed e-mails to my husband and close friends; I have yet to read them because I know I will be thrust back into those very sad, very terrifying moments in time and I’m still not ready to go there), her words served as a release for her mother and are also an invaluable historical and emotional record for Butler.

In her memoir, Butler discusses the faults in the medical profession regarding end-of-life issues and in our world view of the elderly – how we need to move away from saving lives at all costs to alleviating suffering. In addition to this paradigm shift, patients and caregivers also need to educate themselves about what they want and what their options and rights are. For example, a year after her father’s stroke, the implantation of his pacemaker as a prerequisite to surgery for his hernia created more health risks and issues and also prolonged his life when “he was already suffering and not happy,” Butler said. The 10-year lifespan of the pacemaker battery meant that no matter what was happening to the rest of his organs, no matter the deterioration, his heart would keep ticking, his pacemaker would keep him alive. Butler believes we need to know all the pros and cons, and just as important, the alternatives to any medical intervention, especially in our older years.

Q&A: Stories of heartbreak and wonder
In the Q&A session, several people in the audience spoke up about their caregiving experiences as sons or daughters. There were a couple of women who work in the hospice industry, and they also go through these difficult journeys with many people’s mothers and fathers. One story that was particularly poignant was a woman who worked in hospice and represents Compassion & Choices, a nonprofit organization in the U.S. that advocates for patients’ rights and end-of-life choices. She worked for years with adults and spent the last five years working with dying children, who she says were “fantastic teachers.” These children asked a very important question to the hospice workers – and not their parents because they knew it was too difficult a question and too close for their parents – and that question was: “Does it hurt to die?” The woman explained that these children are in so much pain that they want to know if death can release them from their pain. It was also a way for them to learn through the answer that “dying was okay.”

While the topic was really heavy, I came away from the reading enlightened and determined to get to the book and learn from it. Her writing has been described as exquisite, and it truly is. She is a master narrative journalist. I look forward to seeing how she braids the various narratives within the book. I also look forward to gathering wisdom and understanding and healing from her two very different experiences of loss and growth.

Velveteen, brocade, pearls, vintage pearls, and vintage Edwardian purse.

Velveteen, brocade, pearls, vintage pearls, and vintage Edwardian purse.

A Village in the Fields: Excerpt 2

There is no greater agony than bearing an untold story inside you. – Maya Angelou, American poet, memoirist, and American Civil Rights Movement leader

Getting ready for our family anniversary dinner tonight!

Getting ready for our family anniversary dinner tonight!

As I continue to work on the revision of my novel, I have absolutely no words for my blog. Hence, another excerpt from my novel, A Village in the Fields, for my blog post. Since today is my 15th wedding anniversary – yes, we have to endure the occasional Friday the 13th years – I chose this particular excerpt. To set up the scene, my protagonist, Fausto Empleo, is a young man working in a hotel in Los Angeles in the early 1930s. He lives with his five other cousins in a cramped apartment in Los Angeles, which was a common experience for many Filipino immigrants in America during this time. One of his cousins is suffering from tuberculosis and he and his cousins are enduring bigotry in and outside of their workplaces. But during this trying period in his life, Fausto meets a young Filipina immigrant who also works at the hotel and who, more importantly, reminds him of why he came to America in the first place:

They stood in the same position, eyes locked, even when the record ended and the needle jerked back and forth across its black glossy surface, making loud scratching sounds. She sighed. “My father played the guitar as part of our town’s rondalla. It was the best string band in the region.” She looked at Fausto, her smile fading. “Do you not like to listen to music?” She pulled away from him and replaced the records in a neat pile.

“I do not have time,” he said. “Where and when would I listen to music?”

“Right here!” she said. “We can listen every time they go to the doctor. You should make time, Fausto. You look too serious. It worries me. I should invite you to the theater to watch a movie with me so you can grow laugh lines here.” She ran her finger around the corners of his mouth, and added, “And remove your worry lines here.” She brushed her fingertips across his forehead.

Did she feel how hot his face had become? He stepped back. “I cannot afford to go to the movies. My cousin Cary says it is cheaper to hang around Hollywood and see the movie stars come out of their big cars and go into fancy restaurants to eat.”

“Oh, I do not care about movie stars. I like the people they pretend to be. I like the stories, the different worlds.” Her gaze drifted to the wall where the Italian plates from Mr. Calabria’s hometown of Palermo hung in a row. “When I am tired from studying and volunteering and working, I go to the movies. It makes me forget how hard things are here. When one of my patients died, I saw Charlie Chaplin’s City Lights. I was able to laugh again.” She laughed brightly now, as if remembering a scene from the movie, and adjusted the apron over her skirt. “Next time, come with me. It is only five cents. I know a place nearby where they serve a pork-chop dinner for thirty-five cents. We can have dinner and then walk to the movie theater.”

“I take care of my sickly cousin. I send money to my family. I cannot . . . .”

She pressed her lips together, petals folding, closing as if dusk had descended. “You are a good cousin and son, Fausto.” She offered him a smile. “When I come back from the movie theater, I will tell you what the story is about.”

After their shift on Mondays, she gave him her version of the movies she’d seen. Platinum Blonde pitted hardworking folks against corrupted wealthy people. In Tarzan, the Ape Man, civilized people were crueler than the brute Tarzan. She felt sorry for the monster in Frankenstein because the ignorant villagers misunderstood him. Listening to her was better than going to the movies, he told her; here, he could stare at her as she told the story, instead of sit in a dark theater. She laughed as if he had said something silly, but she was blushing. She always seemed cheerful, although there were times when he spied her near the broom closet brooding and looking sad for a moment.

One morning, he ran into her by the closet, her face shining like a full moon.

“What are you thinking about?” he whispered boldly in her ear in the shadows.

Salabat and basi.”

Fausto was puzzled. Why was she thinking about beverages?

“I used to make my father salabat and basi, using sugar from our fields and herbs from our garden,” she explained. “My father loved to drink salabat, and I liked making it because the scent of fresh ginger root stayed on my fingers for days.” She stared at her white shoes. “I have not made salabat for a long time, even when I was home. My father lost his craving for anything sweet, anything with sugar in it.”

“That can happen,” he said. “I used to love bagoong, and now the fish smell upsets my stomach. I do not know why, but it does.”

“Yes.” She wiped her eyes with the corner of her apron and turned away. “We do not know why things like that happen.” She left him there, clutching mops to her chest.

***

One spring day, a few months later, she came looking for him as he was changing sheets. Her hair flowed down her shoulders, the ends curling at her waist, as luxurious as the mink stoles some of the female guests wore. She asked him to see a movie with her.

“Why? I always listen to you.” He pulled the dirty sheets off the bed with one strong, graceful tug, which he learned from her, and rolled them into a ball.

“I would like to see a comedy,” she announced, as tears gathered in her eyes.

“What is wrong?” He dropped the sheets to the floor and rushed to her side.

She withdrew an envelope from her apron pocket. “My father passed away.”

Fausto sat her on the bed. Two years ago her father had lost ownership of the land where his family had lived and grown sugarcane for generations. To remain on the property, he leased the land and shared half of his harvest. The landlord charged for the use of tools and animals, reducing their profit, and the agents cheated him when weighing the sugarcane. Even the Catholic priests, whom her father had asked to intervene on his behalf, turned him away, favoring the landlord’s bribes. The final blow was this year’s drought, which diminished his crops and prevented him from paying rent, fees, and taxes. Her family was evicted from their home and forced to live in the landlord’s hacienda, where her father and brothers earned less than ten centavos a day. Within a month of being forced off their land, her brothers pulled her father’s body out of Pampanga Bay.

“He was not a strong swimmer, yet he swam towards the sea,” she said in a flat voice. “My mother said he had lost his land, so there was nowhere else to go but the sea. My mother is scared, but she said she must be strong for our family. She and my sisters will find factory work in Manila, and my brothers will stay in the hacienda.”

“I am sorry,” Fausto whispered, taking her hand.

“They sent me here after we lost the land so I could help them. But I have been living foolishly here. I do not send enough money. I should not have gone to the movies or the restaurants. But it is so difficult here in the States. I am so homesick. I should go back, should I not?” She gently shook her hand and their fingers unraveled. She wiped her tears with the crumpled envelope, smearing her cheek with traces of black ink.

Fausto stroked her head, the crown of her glossy soft hair. She closed her eyes, her head tilting back. He combed out the tangles in her mane, his fingers touching her shoulder, the curve of her back. The ends of her hair fanned out across the bare mattress. “You are almost finished with your studies. If you go back now, without your degree, what good would that do? Do not waste what you have already done. I know it is hard, but you should finish your schooling and then go back. That is the best way.”

“And you? When are you going back?”

He thought of the letters his sisters had written on behalf of their mother, asking for more money. It was a way to show his father that he had made the right decision, his mother said. The money was also needed to help them through a meager harvest, pay for hired help in the fields so his sisters could attend school to become teachers, and send Cipriano to Manila to learn a trade. Could he not send more money? Fausto was happy to help his brother and sisters escape the fields. The news of their ambition eased his guilt. He doubled his monthly contribution, but it was getting harder trying to help pay for food and rent, and help sponsor his siblings’ education, let alone save for his education.

“I am still saving money for school. My American teacher back home told me a long time ago how important school is. When I finish college and work some more, then I will go back home,” he said, although his declaration felt like an outright lie. He hadn’t thought about school since the moment he stepped into the apartment on Hope Street.

“You are right. I should stay. We will both stay and be strong for one other. Maybe I will take more time to finish nursing school so I can work more hours here. We will both work hard and send more money.” Her voice grew stronger as she smoothed out the envelope. More ink rubbed off on her fingers, the addresses no longer legible. “When you send money to your family, I am sure you write nice letters to them. Will you help me write a letter to my family? Will you help me explain why I must stay here longer?”

He nodded. As he closed his eyes, he imagined rubbing the ink off her cheek. Their breathing became one. They remained seated on the edge of the bed, joined at the hip, until Mr. Calabria called them by name, breaking them apart. When Fausto opened his eyes, the room had gone dusky. Connie had dried her eyes. She leaned over and kissed him on the cheek. Her lips—the texture of rose petals—lingered on his skin. Then she kissed him on the lips, as fleeting as a memory. She stood up and walked out of the room, stepping with care over the crumpled sheets on the floor.

Transitional dressing for our Indian summer. Throw on a light jacket over a summer maxi.

Transitional dressing for our Indian summer. Throw on a light jacket over a summer maxi.

Ocean patterns with gold and horn accessories.

Ocean patterns with gold and horn accessories.

Birdhouse Jewelry earrings (NYC), Sundance cuff, and reclaimed vintage matchbox necklace from Uncommon Objects (Austin, Texas).

Birdhouse Jewelry earrings (NYC), Sundance cuff, and reclaimed vintage matchbox necklace from Uncommon Objects (Austin, Texas).

Behold the summer bouquets, Volume 6

Summer’s lease hath all too short a date.
– William Shakespeare, English poet and playwright

Our Indian summer arrived in late August and after two-plus weeks of hot weather is preparing to depart. How I wish it had come in July and stayed through August! My dahlia plants would still be blooming. Instead, I made my last bouquet of the season last week. My dahlias either have shriveled brown buds or no buds at all. The powdery white mildew has turned to dry, browning leaves.

A summer birthday bouquet for my old college roommate Susan.

A summer birthday bouquet for my old college roommate Susan.

While it’s September, autumn doesn’t begin until September 22nd. So technically it’s still summer and I have a few more bouquets to share. These bouquets were made with late-August blooms. If you compare these to ones from June, July, and early August, you’ll see how much smaller the blooms are. With fewer blooms, the bouquets themselves have shrunk. That said, they are still Nature’s gifts to behold and enjoy.

A petite bouquet of late-August flowers for my friend Soizic.

A petite bouquet of late-August flowers for my friend Soizic.

This is volume 6 and there will be one last edition before I hang up my clippers. Even before the dahlia stalks and leaves completely turn dry and brown like a field of season-ending corn stalks, I am thinking of where to move some of the tubers in other parts of the yard to give them more space and more sun and less wind.

A bouquet for the winning bidder of my Portola Middle School auction donation.

One of the last bouquets for the winning bidder of my Portola Middle School auction donation.

A gardener never sleeps, never stops thinking about seeds and bulbs and tubers, soil amendment and compost and fertilizer, ladybugs and hummingbirds–even when the season begrudgingly makes way for the next season.

A silk sheath as colorful as my summer garden.

A silk sheath as colorful as my summer garden.

I dream of a time when I have so many varieties of dahlias and other flowers that I can create bouquets that aren’t a mash-up of everything in the garden. Next season, next summer.

Carmela Rose necklace, Anthropologie ring and bangles, and Abacus earrings (Portland, ME).

Carmela Rose necklace, Anthropologie ring and bangles, and Abacus earrings (Portland, ME).

Harmonious accessories for a colorful silk sheath.

Harmonious accessories for a colorful silk sheath.

September 8, 1965: the Filipino farm workers and the Delano grape strikes

After all, it was the Filipinos who started this phase of the farmworkers movement when they alone sat down in the Delano grape fields back in 1965 and started what became known as the ‘farmworkers movement’ that eventually developed into the UFW.
– Philip Vera Cruz, Filipino American labor leader, farmworker, and leader in the Asian American civil rights movement, from Philip Vera Cruz: A Personal History of Filipino Immigrants and the Farmworkers Movement

Larry Itliong, circa 1960s.

Larry Itliong, circa 1960s.

Yesterday, September 8th, marked the 48th anniversary of the beginning of the Great Delano Grape Strikes, when hundreds of Filipino farmworkers walked out of the vineyards protesting inhumane working and living conditions. And yet, few Americans know of their contributions and their sacrifices in the history of the agricultural labor movement in this country.

In honor of this day and to celebrate the Filipinos’ historical significance, which coincides with the ongoing revision of my novel-in-progress, here is another excerpt from A Village in the Fields. In this chapter, my main character, Fausto Empleo, meets Larry Itliong, a real-life person who was an important Filipino labor leader and Cesar Chavez’s equal:

After dinner one evening, Prudencio took Fausto outside the mess hall, where Ayong was talking to a short pinoy. Fausto knew the man with the black horn-rimmed glasses and crew cut was Larry Itliong. He often had seen Larry talking to the pinoys in the camp. Prudencio had been threatening to introduce Fausto to him for weeks.

“Larry, this is Fausto Empleo,” Prudencio said, when they reached Ayong’s side.

Smoke swirled in the air as Larry transferred his cigar from one hand to the other. He grasped Fausto’s hand in a vise as if he didn’t have three fingers missing and pumped it vigorously. “You’re from Ilocos Sur?” He spoke out the side of his mouth, as if the cigar were still dangling from the corner of his mouth. “I’m from Pangasinan, Ilocos Norte. Can I get you a cigar?” He frisked the pockets of his shirt and his corduroy pants, which were rolled at the cuff, even as Fausto shook his head.

“You want to know why I have not joined AWOC,” Fausto guessed.

Larry sized him up. “Prudencio says you would be good for the union.”

Fausto shot a look at Prudencio, who had stepped back, shoulder to shoulder with Ayong. “Maybe unions are not the answer to our problems in the field,” Fausto said. “I have been here long enough to see what happens after a strike is settled.”

Larry puffed on his cigar. His cheeks, dark and leathery, swelled with the effort. “Unions are not just about strikes. There are other benefits. There are many tools unions have to solve our problems,” he said as smoke billowed through his lips.

“But striking does not always pay.”

“If we do nothing, the growers in Delano will set our wages and they will never improve conditions in the fields and in the camps—conditions fit for a dog, not humans,” Larry said, squinting at him even as the haze cleared from his face. “We have to keep trying. I have been here for thirty-five years and I have seen progress from Salinas to the Coachella Valley, all the way to the canneries in Alaska. We have to do more now. There must be sacrifice—great sacrifice—if we want to succeed.”

“How is your union better than Cesar Chavez’s organization?” Fausto said.

Larry spit out bits of tobacco from his lips. “We have the strength of the A-F-L-C-I-O behind us and the funds to succeed. Chavez only has two hundred paying members. Those membership fees aren’t enough to do anything.”

“Larry’s been organizing for a long, long time,” Prudencio called out. “He’s a pinoy. He’ll take care of us.”

“I stand for every farm worker in these vineyards.” Larry straightened up, although he was still shorter than Fausto. “We work hard for Filipinos, Mexicans, blacks, whites, Arabs. But we Filipinos have never been given respect. We have always been exploited by everyone here—even after World War II, when Filipinos showed their salt and loyalty to the U-S-A. Some of us became labor leaders because we saw crimes committed against our countrymen and we won’t let it continue with our children. If we Filipinos want respect, we have to fight for it; we have to get it ourselves.”

His words were inspiring, but Fausto held back. Larry seemed to sense his reluctance.

“How long have you been working in the fields?” he wanted to know.

“I cut ‘gras in the Delta in the thirties until the War. I came here in nineteen fifty.”

“What do you have to show for all those years in the fields?” Larry raked his good hand across his crew-cut hair. Shocked, Fausto said nothing, but Larry went on, “If you better the life of farm workers after you, would that effort make your life—not just here—worthy? Will all your struggles then not be in vain?”

It might be too late for him, Fausto thought, but he would fight for a better life for his children. He could say that now with certainty. He shot out his hand. “I am with you.”

Larry smiled, his broad nostrils stretching across his cheeks, the thin slashes of his moustache parting in the middle. He shook Fausto’s hand. Fausto tried to imagine how Larry had lost his fingers. It was his badge for the kind of life he’d led in America. He had been doing what Fausto should have been doing the moment he first worked in the fields—demanding respect. Larry strode off the campgrounds, his maimed hand looming larger than life in the gathering dusk.

Ripe Ribier grapes in September - the jewels in the fields.

Ripe Ribier grapes in September – the jewels in the fields.

Hail to Jane Addams on her 153rd birthday

The good we secure for ourselves is precarious and uncertain until it is secured for all of us and incorporated into our common life.
– Jane Addams, pioneer in settlement house movement, founder of Hull House, public philosopher, sociologist, author, pacifist, and leader in woman suffrage and world peace

An older Jane Addams (from the Chicago Gay and Lesbian Hall of Fame site).

An older Jane Addams (from the Chicago Gay and Lesbian Hall of Fame site).

Today is Jane Addams’s birthday. She was born in 1860 and died on May 21, 1935. I learned about Addams as a child, though I’m unsure whether I read about her in or outside the classroom. The only thing I can think of is that one of my female teachers in elementary school admired her and wanted us to read about her accomplishments. Then again, our library carried a series of old books about famous women who made important contributions in our country. These books highlighted an event in their childhoods that shaped who they eventually became. Pretty visionary reading for the early 1970s and in our tiny, rural school library, no less.

I remember Addams as the co-founder of Hull House, a settlement house, in the west side of Chicago. When it opened its doors in 1889, Addams and fellow co-founder Ellen Gates Starr welcomed the recently arrived European immigrants. Addams’s vision for the settlement house was to enable a community of university women to provide social and educational opportunities for working-class people in the neighborhoods. These women volunteers taught classes in art, domestic activities, history, literature, and other subjects. Hull House also offered lectures and concerts.

A young Jane Addams in 1878 (from www.swarthmore.edu).

A young Jane Addams in 1878 (from www.swarthmore.edu).

Addams advanced what she called the “three R’s” of settlement house movement: residence, research, and reform. She felt that creating a community with the neighbors, studying the causes of poverty, and educating the public were necessary in order to drive change through legislative and social reform. Addams was the quintessential Renaissance woman – volunteering as an on-call physician and taking on the role of midwife, nursing the sick, protecting  women of domestic abuse, and even preparing the dead for burial. She fought to shield children from child labor abuses and helped lead the movement for women’s rights, healthcare reform, and immigration policy. She was an advocate for playgrounds, founding the National Playground Association. She studied child behavior and understood the importance of creating a healthy environment in which children could thrive and a healthy foundation in which they could grow up to be productive citizens.

Jane Addams in midlife (from USEmbassy.gov).

Jane Addams in midlife (from USEmbassy.gov).

What is amazing to me is that Jane Addams suffered many childhood ailments. At the age of four, she was stricken with tuberculosis of the spine and Potts’s disease, which resulted in curvature of the spine and contributed to health issues that plagued her the rest of her life. After her father died unexpectedly and she received her inheritance, Jane Addams moved with her family from Cedarville, Illinois, to Philadelphia. She had a promising future studying medicine at the Woman’s Medical College of Philadelphia, but spinal surgery and a nervous breakdown sidelined her and kept her from finishing her education and receiving her medical degree. When her stepmother fell ill, the family moved back to Cedarville. (Side note: Her mother died in childbirth when she was two years old. She was the youngest of nine children, although by the time she was eight years old, she had lost three siblings in their infancy and another when at age 16.)

Dress boldly and go forth into the world with confidence.

Dress boldly and go forth into the world with confidence.

Her brother-in-law performed surgery to straighten her back and advised her to travel instead of return to her studies. In 1883, she and her stepmother went to Europe for two years. It was at this time that she discovered that she didn’t have to become a physician to help the poor. But when she returned to the U.S., she also returned to the prison-like confines of young women of her socio-economic class and as a result she fell into despair. During this bleak period in her life, however, she turned to books and read many that influenced and shaped her ideas about democracy and socialism and the role of women. When she read  magazine article about the new concept of settlement houses in the summer of 1887, hope was restored, life became promising again and bigger than her expected role in society, and her future path was forged.

Bold and delicate: Carmela Rose necklace and earrings and Tiffany ring and bracelet.

Bold and delicate: Carmela Rose necklace and earrings and Tiffany ring and bracelet.

She overcame numerous medical and social adversities with all that she accomplished. She was the first female president of the National Conference of Social Work, created the National Federation of Settlements, and served as president of the Women’s International League for Peace and Freedom. Jane Addams was the first American woman to win the Nobel Peace Prize in 1931,albeit as a co-winner with a male educator and presidential advisor. If anything, Jane Addams embodies for me the woman who is all too human and as such, living in the suffocating and repressed Victorian era, endures a wandering of the desert, so to speak, before finding her purpose in life, finding her voice, and finding the strength to do something useful in the world, which was an ambition of hers when she was a teen.

As I struggle to find the time and the energy to finally accomplish what I had dreamed of an idealistic young woman, I look up to Jane Addams and admire what she was up against and overcame – at a time when the political and social worlds were solidly against her – and gather tremendous strength. My battles are insignificant and therefore easily vanquished. Happy Birthday, Jane Addams! May you inspire legions of young girls and women of all ages to find their place in the world and in so doing make the world a better place.

Pink, yellow, and black for our Indian summer.

Pink, yellow, and black for our Indian summer.

A Village in the Fields: an excerpt

The time to begin writing an article is when you have finished it to your satisfaction. By that time you begin to clearly and logically perceive what it is you really want to say.
– Mark Twain, pen name of Samuel Clemens, American author and humorist

The contemplative author pose: Navy lace, silk shorts, and soft peach sweater.

The contemplative author pose: Navy lace, silk shorts, and soft peach sweater.

My Labor Day Weekend is over, but not the last revision of my novel. It’s just that now I have to find any nook and cranny of free time to keep on writing. I realized last night that because I have been doing nothing but edit and revise, I don’t have a blog post. Then I thought to myself, why not post an excerpt from the current chapter I am revising?

So, here is an excerpt from Chapter 7 of my novel-in-progress, A Village in the Fields, the story of an elderly Filipino farm worker, Fausto Empleo, who realizes what he has lost and gained from his struggles in America – in the agricultural fields of California, particularly during and after the Great Delano Grape Strikes of the 1960s and 1970s. I am still fiddling with saying what my novel is about in one sentence!

In this excerpt, Fausto, who is living in a camp for grape pickers in Delano in the 1950s, satisfies his curiosity by introducing himself to an immigrant farm worker from Yemen. The grape growers strategically kept the different nationalities in separate bunkhouses, partly to isolate them and to foment distrust among the groups:

Ripe Ribier grapes in September - the jewels in the fields.

Ripe Ribier grapes in September – the jewels in the fields.

“What is Yemen like?” Fausto asked.

The man dabbed the last piece of bread in the remains of his stew and ate it. He wiped his mouth with the red-and-black checkered scarf he had pulled from his head. “Where I come from—the coast—it is hot and humid,” the man answered.

Fausto licked his parched lips. “Is Yemen hot like Delano?”

The man laughed. “Yes, but we have monsoons. Many families fish for their livelihood. We are at the mercy of the monsoons.”

“We have typhoons in the Philippines. That is where I came from. My name is Fausto Empleo.” He thrust out his hand, and the man shook it vigorously.

“I am Ahmed Mansur, the son of Mansur Ali Ibrahim.”

“How long have you been in the States?” Ahmed moved his lips, adding up the years. “Thirty-five years, maybe more.”

“Ai, thirty-five years!” Fausto slapped his hand on his haunch. Dust rose from his dungarees. “You came in the twenties. Same as me!”

“When I left, there was so much unrest in Yemen, too much hardship for my family. I was looking to improve my fortune. I took a ship and came here to the Valley to work in the fields. I planned to save enough money to return to Mukalla, my hometown.” Ahmed stretched his legs and sat on an empty wooden crate bearing the label “Cuculich Farms.” “But I am still here,” he said, in a voice as hollow as the crate.

“Me, too. Me, too.”

“It is hard work in the fields, but what else is there for someone like me?”

Fausto couldn’t answer, his hands on his thighs, his palms open to the sky.

***

“Do you miss the Philippines? Do you miss your home?” he asked.

Fausto rubbed his neck where trickles of sweat made his skin itch. “Maybe I missed what it used to be or what it used to mean to me. But I have been here longer in the States than in the Philippines. My family is like a stranger to me. Imagine that!”

“I am afraid to imagine such things,” Ahmed said.

“What do you miss of your home?” Fausto wanted to know.

“Everything,” Ahmed whispered. He folded his fingers together like petals closing for the day. The rocky coast is like a school of ancient turtles sunning themselves by turquoise waters, he told Fausto. The city, crowded with stone buildings and chalk-white mosques, crawls up the base of wind-blasted hills. The whitewashed minarets soar and pierce the sharp blue sky. Ahmed imagined the wrinkles that have deepened around his mother’s eyes, which is not covered by her black chador. He is haunted by the memory of his father—alone in a boat bobbing off the coast, with hands as ragged as the nets he casts out into the deep waters.

***

One of my aunts still picking grapes in her 60s, summer 2005.

One of my aunts still picking grapes in her 60s, summer 2005.

Fausto held up a cluster of grapes. Ripe berries hung down from his fingers like strands of dark South Sea pearls, although these jewels lasted only weeks. That fact made the grapes more precious than any gem mined from the earth or harvested from the ocean. He laid the cluster in the crate by his feet. When he stood up, a sharp pain radiated from his hand, up his arm to his shoulder. He peeled off his cotton glove to massage his fingers and wrist, knead the length of his arm in a slow crawl. How could he forget? The long, hard work in the fields, the ache in his body, the low hourly rate reminded him daily of how costly and dear these grapes were.