Category Archives: Community

Giving back to the community, whether it be local or global.

When women are present . . . things change

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I am a Woman
Phenomenally.
Phenomenal Woman,
that’s me.
– Maya Angelou, American poet, memoirist, actress, and American Civil Rights Movement activist

Eight of the nine women filmmakers at the San Francisco premiere of Lunafest.

Eight of the nine women filmmakers and one of the women who was featured in one of the films at the San Francisco premiere of Lunafest.

Last Thursday evening was the World Premiere of the Lunafest film festival in San Francisco. This year the Lunafest East Bay Organizing  Committee – this is my first year on the committee – was honored along with other organizations and individuals for their work in raising money for local nonprofits and for the Breast Cancer Fund, which is a beneficiary of Lunafest. On Wednesday I’ll blog about the nine short films that were chosen out of more than 900 films that were submitted for consideration, as well as the wonderful words of Jeanne Rizzo, RN, President and CEO of the Breast Cancer Fund. But in today’s blog I want to share the inspirational message of special guest, Dr. Stacy L. Smith.

Dr. Stacy Smith, associate professor at USC (photo by USC).

Dr. Stacy Smith, associate professor at USC (photo by USC).

First of all, a little more on Lunafest, a film festival by, for, and about women dedicated to building community through the power of film and through the power of the story:  The film festival was established in 2000 by LUNA, the makers of the Whole Nutrition Bar for Women, to “simultaneously promote women filmmakers, raise awareness for women’s issues, and support women’s nonprofit organizations throughout the U.S. and Canada.” The mission of Lunafest is to “celebrate and inspire women through the art of film and community fundraising.”

Second choice outfit for Lunafest: bright stripes in October.

Second choice outfit for Lunafest: bright stripes in October.

Dr. Stacy L. Smith is an Associate Professor and the Director of the Media, Diversity, and Social Change Initiative at the University of Southern California’s Annenberg School for Communication and Journalism. Her work “examines gender and race on-screen and behind the camera in cinematic content as well as barriers and opportunities facing woman and people of color in the entertainment industry.” She has authored numerous articles, reports, chapters, and papers, focusing on gender, race, hypersexualization of girls and women, and violence.

In her talk, Dr. Smith discussed studies she had done on speaking characters – defined as having at least one speaking line – in 100 of the top-grossing films per year. Data on characters were broken down by demographics, physical appearance, and occupation of the character. In 500 films, of the 21,000 characters, 71.6 percent were men and 28.4 percent were women. It should come as no surprise to many of us; however, when you consider that half of the U.S. population is women and nearly half of the workforce at 47 percent is women, it’s a disturbing to say the least. Dr. Smith noted that there has been no change in gender prevalence since 1976: Of 55 films from 1976 to 1990, only 28 percent were women; of 400 films from 1990 to 2006, only 27 percent were women; and of 500 films from 2007 to 2012, only 28 percent were women.

Anthropologie earrings and Tiffany ring and bracelet, my 50th birthday presents from David.

Anthropologie earrings and Tiffany ring and bracelet, my 50th birthday presents from David.

Dr. Smith also looked at the hypersexualization of male and female on-screen characters. Only 9.4 percent of men were partially nude, while 31 percent of women were shown on screen partially nude. Nearly 50 percent of women were identified as thin, while only 16.2 percent of male characters were thin. Dr. Smith posed this question to the audience: What is the solution to this representational crisis? Women! “When women are present, things change,” she declared.

Dr. Smith examined three major places in which the presence of women in certain positions made a difference. She looked at 820 films from 2002 to 2012 and found three areas of change. In the area of production, when men are directors, only 28 percent of key positions on the team were women. However, when the directors were female in indie films, the number of females in key positions rose to 44 percent. Second, when females directed, there were more girls/women on-screen but less sexualization. Finally, when females directed, the percent of on-screen characters for girls and women rose to 61.7 percent, with more stories about female competition and athleticism.

“The presence of females can alter the status quo in women being silenced and sexualized,” Dr. Smith emphasized. She pointed out that Lunafest, which is shown in 150 cities and raises resources for local nonprofits, is the perfect platform to drive change to the status quo. “It’s the story of all of us, and it can affect the landscape of humanity,” she said. “When women are present, things change.” Dr. Smith encouraged us all to promote change locally, nationally, and globally. Check.

Outfit close-up.

Outfit close-up.

October is Anti-bullying Month: positively no bullying allowed

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I will fight bullying forever because my son will be eleven forever.
– Kirk Smalley, father of Ty Smalley, spokesperson for Stand for the Silent, an educational platform on anti-bullying

The documentary Bully was released in the U.S. in late March 2012. When it came out, David and I talked about going to see the film. As usual, many of the films that we wanted to watch came to theaters and went to DVD, including this film, and we forgot about it. I had an opportunity to see it after Jacob’s middle school PTSA screened it following our monthly meeting last night. I did not realize that October is Anti-Bullying Month. All kids at Jacob’s school will be seeing the film in one of their classes this month and will participate in a discussion about recognizing and standing up to bullying. It’s a good start to educating and making kids aware of this terrible behavior.

Giving your kids lots of hugs and lots of love gives them security and self-esteem.

Giving your kids lots of hugs and lots of love gives them security and sows seeds of self-esteem.

The few negative reviews of the documentary focused on the fact that director Lee Hirsch did not interview either the bullies or their parents. Perhaps this was due to the bullies and their parents not wanting to be filmed. At any rate, such an angle would certainly fill up a sequel, and maybe that’s not a bad thing. I didn’t realize that Jacob would be seeing the documentary in school; I brought both Jacob and Isabella to watch it. Given that we are dealing with bullying in Isabella’s school, albeit a different kind of bullying, I wanted them to see what other kids – the victims – were facing.

On the way home, we talked about not being a bully, seeking family and friends out when being bullied, and also standing up to bullies and not look the other way. I couldn’t help but tell them two stories from my childhood. In my farming hometown of Terra Bella, in the Central Valley of California, there was a girl in my class named Rosie B. She lived around the block from us. Her older parents were poor and reminded me, years later, of the Joads and the Okies from Steinbeck’s Grapes of Wrath. Rosie was slow, so people took her to be stupid. Her face looked disfigured, her mouth was pronounced with a big set of buck teeth. As you can guess, she was picked on, and as I look back, I can’t think of anyone with whom she hung out.

Isabella gives Bailey a hug on Bailey's last day before she died of old age, January 2011.

Nurture nurturing: Isabella gives Bailey a lot of TLC on Bailey’s last day before she died of old age, January 2011.

After lunchtime one day, our class was excused from the cafeteria to have recess on the playground, Rosie fell down the small flight of stairs. The kids never stopped pouring out of the cafeteria. It was a stampede. When she finally got up, she was scarred with a permanent limp. This was 1972. No lawsuit was filed; her parents had no voice. Teachers came upon the scene and I’m sure the principal was notified, but nothing ever happened. I don’t recall if our grade level was lectured or not. I was not part of the stampede, but I was the guilty silent who looked the other way. I ran into Rosie as an adult, when I was home from college, and she eagerly talked to me about how everything was okay now, as if seeing me, a childhood classmate, had compelled her to tell me she had survived. I remembered feeling relieved that she seemed to have turned out okay despite the bullying, but I failed to apologize to her face.

The other story was about Ross M. I met him at a church youth group when I was in either fifth or sixth grade. He was a pudgy boy who giggled a lot, chattered nonstop, and exhibited effeminate mannerisms, which at the time I did not associate with possibly being gay because I didn’t know what gay was back then in our rural community. We tolerated him, but nobody was ever mean to him. I didn’t stay in the youth group and so lost touch with Ross because he went to a different school in the next town over of Porterville. When I was a freshman at one of the high schools in Porterville, I was surprised to see Ross  – only I didn’t recognize him at first. He had slimmed down. He had also stopped laughing and smiling. He didn’t talk much, if at all, and I don’t know if he even had any friends. He was like a ghost, showing up for class and slipping out, unnoticed. I never reached out to him because he seemed like a stranger to me and he never gave any indication of recognition when he was near me. I never saw him again after graduation. It was only when I attended my 25th high school reunion that I noticed his picture among other pictures on a table with candles, memorializing classmates who were no longer with us. When I asked a good friend of mine from high school what had happened, she confirmed what I suspected: He had committed suicide. I don’t know when this happened, after high school, later in life. But one thing I suspect: He was likely bullied in elementary and middle schools.

Happiness is being loved and hugged a lot.

Happiness is being loved in a touchy-feely way.

My kids were quiet in the car as I concluded my stories. Of course, there is always a moral to an Enrado mom story for my kids. I told them not to look away when they know something is wrong, when they know someone is being bullied. They needed to stand up. I reminded them of the damage that bullying does. One of the kids in the documentary, Alex Libby, told his mother, when she found out about the extent of his being bullied, that if these kids who stabbed him with their pencils, pushed and punched him around, choked him, and smacked his head weren’t his “friends,” then what friends did he have? A heartbreaking thing for a mother to hear. Jacob piped up, “I would have been his friend.” And Isabella seconded the sentiment. Hearing them defend him made my heart sing. Nevertheless, I was worried about whatever happened to Alex because his path seemed destined to resemble Ty Smalley’s very sad ending, which was shown in the documentary. Thankfully, the documentary itself was, as Alex’s mother said in an interview months after it came out, a “gift.” The family took a financial hit moving from Sioux City, Iowa, to Edmond, Oklahoma. But now he has real friends and is a spokesman for anti-bullying. A much-needed happy epilogue!

After the screening, our middle school principal and parents talked about this complex social issue, ill, if you will. We talked about what we as parents could do. Here is my list: Raise empathetic children who understand justice and injustice. Teach them how to stand up for others. Be engaged in their daily lives and know what’s going on in their daily lives. Love them by the boatloads and let them know that you have their back.

Contemplation time while walking Rex.

Contemplation time while walking Rex.

As I was walking our dog Rex one morning several weeks ago, I had posed this question to myself: What would be the one thing I could give to my children so that they are successful in life? A fully paid for college education? An appreciation for higher learning? I shook my head. I was equating success with a profession, a college degree, doors opening, financial security. No. I would give my children self-confidence. A child who believes in him or herself will blossom into an adult who stands up for him or herself. Hurtful words will, as I told Isabella on our walk to school yesterday morning, “roll off her back like water on a duck.” He won’t allow himself to stay stuck in a job that he doesn’t like. She won’t allow herself to be in an abusive relationship. Neither will waste away their time in a coma in a dead-end life. A person with a healthy self-esteem will seek the light and surround themselves with similar people. And they will be empathetic. When they see someone bullied, they will feel bullied themselves and know it is not right – and then make it right.

Exude self-confidence and build self-confidence in your children.

Exude self-confidence and build self-confidence in your children.

October is Filipino American History Month, and another excerpt

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A person who does not look back to where he came from would not be able to reach his destination (English translation of Ang hindi lumingon sa pinanggalingan ay hindi makarating sa paroroonan.)
– Dr. Jose P. Rizal, Filipino revolutionary and national hero

Larry Itliong, circa 1960s.

Larry Itliong, circa 1960s.

This year’s theme of Filipino American History Month is “Hands That Built America: Filipino Americans in the Labor Movement.” It’s appropriate that October was the chosen month for this designation, as October 25th is Larry Itliong’s birthday, and this year is special because it is Itliong’s 100th birthday. Itliong was a Filipino American labor organizer who led the Filipino grape pickers out of the vineyards on September 8, 1965, in what was the beginning of the Great Delano Grape Strikes, which lasted into the 1970s.

My literary uniform: t-shirt, fitted jacket, jeans, and pumps.

My literary uniform: t-shirt, fitted jacket, jeans, and pumps.

In doing light research on Filipino American History Month, I came across the phrase, “No history, no self. Know history, know self,” which, according to a few sources I traced, is a very loose interpretation of Dr. Rizal’s quote from above. The phrase is particularly poignant for The Philippines, given its centuries of colonial status under Spain and then the United States. It’s a reminder of the importance of understanding all aspects of our heritage – the true culture, bondage, revolution, and finding oneself all over again, as painful as that is.

In terms of Filipino American history in this country, in the last century-plus, more people need to know about the contributions of Filipino labor leaders and the many workers who brought food to America’s tables. Tying in both aspects of Filipino American History, I present another excerpt from my novel-in-progress, from Chapter 2. My protagonist, Fausto Empleo, is a boy in his hometown of San Esteban who dreams beyond the ricefields of his family’s legacy:

Grayling earrings (Jenny K, El Cerrito, CA), Wyler's necklace (Portland, ME), and Sundance rings and In God We Trust band (NYC).

Grayling earrings (Jenny K, El Cerrito, CA), Wyler’s necklace (Portland, ME), and Sundance rings and In God We Trust band (NYC).

Ever since Fausto’s father, Emiliano, began taking him to the ricefields to plant and harvest at the age of five—the same age his father and grandfather had begun to work—Fausto knew he would not follow in their footsteps. He would not get up before the sun rose and ride the carabao to the ricefields for the rest of his life. He would not harvest maguey and strip, wash, cure, and braid its fibers into rope and then haggle with agents over how many pesos could be paid for several kilos of maguey. Somehow, he would find a way to attend the American school in San Esteban. His uncles had allowed his older cousins, Macario, Caridad, Serapio, and Domingo, to go to school but only when they weren’t needed in the fields. They fell back a few grades until Uncle Johnny, Macario’s father, forced his son to quit for good, and Fausto’s other cousins quit soon after. Fausto would not quit. But first he had to find a way to get into school.

He couldn’t hang around the schoolhouse after classes to catch the American teacher’s attention because he came home from the fields after sundown, long after Miss Arnold had closed up the wooden building. He knew one student’s mother cleaned the schoolhouse on Saturdays. Fausto convinced his grandmother, his lelang, to stop by the schoolhouse on their way to the marketplace one Saturday morning and talked his way into cleaning the floors for five centavos. The musty odor gave him a coughing fit, but he rubbed the floors with petroleum-soaked banana leaves until the wood gleamed like the bow on Miss Arnold’s hat. His lelang agreed to keep his job a secret; Fausto told her he wanted to replace their sickly farm animals with the money he was making. He secretly hoped Miss Arnold would show up while he was working, but she never came.

No matter. When he finished polishing the floor, he opened up books stuffed on shelves that spanned the length of the room. He cut his fingertips along the edge of the pages, but he minded them less than the calluses on his palms. He copied the curves and lines from the books across the slate board, and stood back to admire his work for a few moments before quickly erasing it clean, all trace of chalk gone. He stared at the colorful pictures tacked on the walls, until his lelang returned, scolding him that his secret would be found out. The following week, he asked one of the girls from town who was attending school to help him write a sign. The next Saturday, he left it at the entrance of the schoolhouse: “Floor cleaned by Fausto Empleo.”

By the third Saturday, when nothing had happened, he realized he would have to introduce himself to Miss Arnold, without his mother and his lelang‘s knowledge, at St. Stephen’s, where the teacher and his family both worshipped. After mass he spied Miss Arnold greeting members of the congregation. The men craned their necks—she towered above them with a head piled high with brown hair—and saluted. “Good morning, Miss Arnold!” they said in lively voices. The women bowed and addressed her as la maestra. She strode across the gravel walkway, her big feet marching in dusty brown boots. It was a warm day and yet she wore a brown wool suit with a white blouse that covered her neck, a long-sleeved jacket, and a stiff skirt that puffed out. As she came closer, he saw the wrinkles in her sun-burnt face. Gray hairs poked out along her hairline like fine wire.

She would have walked by him if he hadn’t stepped into her path. “Miss Arnold, are your floors clean enough?” He shifted his feet, his toes curled in shoes that didn’t fit.

She studied his face for a moment before saying in a bright voice, “You must be Fausto Empleo! I see you leave your signature, like an artist.” She took Fausto’s hand and shook it vigorously. She didn’t seem to notice his calluses. Her own hands, as big as a man’s, were covered with brown blotches.

“You look to be about seven years old, ready for school. Why are you cleaning my floor and not attending my class?” She bent down, her eyes level with his. She slid her glasses to the tip of her long nose. Her eyes were as clear as the sea off of San Esteban on a cloudless day.

He couldn’t stop staring. How could eyes that blue not see clearly? How could they not be dulled with age?

“I have to help my pa with our land.” He stole a glance past Miss Arnold. Father Miguel, in his starched white cassock, was greeting his mother and lelang. “My pa says I’m a good worker in the fields.”

“Oh, dear.” Miss Arnold held her cheek as if she had a toothache. “I’m sure you are a good worker, but you need to go to school! We teach industrial skills, not just reading and writing. The whole world is changing. You must realize we are living in a time of great progress. You can’t be left behind. School is for everybody.”

Fausto’s head swam. While even the laborers were teaching themselves English—American and English-speaking businessmen flooded the islands since the Spaniards had been driven out—what he knew was not enough. “I know about school,” he said, looking past the yellow-flowered gumamela bushes and acacia trees, in the direction of the schoolhouse. “After I clean the floors, I look at the books and the pictures on the walls,” he said, then cocked his head to one side. “But if you want to teach reading in English, you need books that have more words than pictures. We like to work hard.”

Miss Arnold pursed her lips, holding back a smile. Tiny wrinkles branched out around her mouth. “I will consider your practical suggestion, Fausto. Your work ethic will serve you well in school, and you would be a big help to me in the classroom. I strongly suggest you come to my class.” She sat on her haunches before him, her blue skirt billowing out and sweeping the ground. “A poet wrote about the difficult journey we Philippine teachers have had to undertake. The end of the poem says: ‘And let no petty doubts becloud your brain;/Remember, while you try to do your parts,/That, if one single spark of light you leave/Behind, your work will not have been in vain.'” She broke out grinning. “Fausto Empleo, you already exhibit a spark of light, but you can be more if you come to school. How exciting and rewarding that would be for you, your parents, and me—to be more!”

She promised to come to his house to request permission for him to join her classroom. After she left, he caught sight of his mother walking homeward, his baby brother joined at her hip, his sisters skipping behind her, his lelang trailing, eyeing him. Nearby, the town presidente‘s daughters greeted their American teacher with curtsies. The two girls, dressed in striped pandilings and kamisas as pale as their faces, were waiting for their calesa, which had pulled into the courtyard. The driver, a dark-skinned man, hoisted the girls to their seats. He sat in front and snapped his whip against the white horse’s flank. Fausto’s sisters called after him, and he ran to catch up, wincing in his shoes. He looked back as the glazed yellow wheels spun in circles and the red-painted calesa lurched forward, dipping in and out of the ruts beyond the arched entryway. It soon passed him and his family on the road, although he broke out into a lively gait, imagining he could outrun the horse.

Stripes and flames, tan and black.

Stripes and flames, tan and black.

100213 Filipino 4

Welcome autumn and October ball

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It breaks your heart. It is designed to break your heart. The game begins in the spring, when everything else begins again, and it blossoms in the summer, filling the afternoons and evenings, and then as soon as the chill rains come, it stops and leaves you to face the fall alone.
– Bartlett Giamatti, former President of Yale and Commissioner of Baseball, from “The Green Fields of the Mind”

Ready for a ballgame, in yellow, of course.

Ready for a ballgame, in yellow, of course, and two shades of denim.

Dating back to my childhood, fall, or autumn, has always been my favorite season. There’s something about the change of light, the air turning cool, the march of holidays and celebrations that lead me to my favorite holiday, which is Christmas. Deep, flaming fall colors of red and orange and gold, leaves turning and raining down, leaving a vibrant downy cushion around tree trunks. Jacket weather, boots, scarves, mugs of hot drinks like hot cocoa and Peppermint Schnapps, fireplaces, down comforters and flannel sheets, longer nights, cozy evenings in.

But the first day of autumn, which was yesterday, also brings us to the last days of baseball, when magic numbers are real. Since I moved back to the Bay Area in 1990, I have been a San Francisco Giants fan, following my father’s footsteps and heart, going to the wilderness that was Candlestick Park and watching games in the middle of summer wearing a jacket and still freezing! When I wasn’t at the games, I was raptly listening to the radio when Barry Bonds came to town and created a stir in a team that had largely been asleep. I remember the horrible slump, when all they had to do was win one game against the Atlanta Braves in 1993 and couldn’t, and ended up with more than 100 wins that season, second best in baseball, but without the benefit of the Wild Card, which hadn’t come into being yet. Despite their winning ways, we could go to Candlestick Park and move down to more desirable seats because only the hearty few attended games there. I watched the downtown stadium being built – PacBell Park, AT&T Park, following the mergers of telecommunications companies. Suddenly, the Giants were popular, and while the stadium was beautiful, we bemoaned the mobile phone crowd who filled up the stadium but couldn’t tell you what RISP stood for (runners in scoring position, just in case you didn’t know).

Mix washes of denim with colored denim and equally colorful accessories.

Mix washes of denim with colored denim and equally colorful accessories.

Lava 9 ring and earrings (Berkeley, CA).

Lava 9 ring and earrings (Berkeley, CA).

When I moved to the East Bay, I fiercely kept my loyalty to the Giants.  My husband has been an Oakland A’s fan since he was a kid. My son became an Oakland A’s fan. And then a funny thing happened. I watched the games with them, reminding me of how our family used to watch baseball on television during the hot summer evenings when I was a child and even through high school. I started to get to know the players. We went to a few more games, a handful of them walk-off wins. We didn’t realize what was happening at the time.

I knew the Oakland A’s had one of the lowest payrolls in the majors, and yet here they were winning games without a high-priced superstar, winning games with different heroes in different games. There were stories to break your heart. The relief pitcher whose wife gave birth and then lost the baby within hours. The veteran outfielder who is in the twilight of his career literally finds new legs in a small market. The Crash Davises who made it to the Show but could never make it to stay for good. Those are stories that make up the heart of a team. When they won the American League West Division on the last day of the regular season last year, sweeping the team who was in the lead, I thought to myself, this is magical, this is pretty special, but it likely won’t last because logic says teams like this don’t go all the way. So enjoy it while you can. So we did, and when they lost to the Detroit Tigers in the first round and my son cried, I told him, hey, this team is pretty special and you were part of that year. Celebrate what they accomplished. Celebrate the moment. Celebrate because it probably won’t happen next year. I was trying to be realistic. Baseball is a game of inches and feet, of probability and statistics, of first to last and last to first. And of magic and belief.

A memorable autumn day, September 22, 2013, in Oakland.

A memorable autumn day, September 22, 2013, in Oakland.

I’m glad I was wrong. We went to more games this year, saw everything else on television. It was fun to watch the games with my son. There were fewer walk-offs, but that’s because the team got better and gained more confidence. They stumbled in August and then came roaring back in September. We kept the faith and we were rewarded. They won a week before the regular season ended, and we were there to celebrate. Whatever happens, I tell my son, just enjoy it. That’s what baseball’s all about. Enjoy it, especially as autumn arrives with a division championship as a reward for all the hard work through spring and summer. Now I can welcome autumn, welcome my favorite season of the year, with October baseball. Congratulations, Oakland A’s! Respect the underdog! For the underdogs always have the most poetic stories, the ones that teach us about the heart of the matter and a whole lot of magic.

Let’s go, Oakland!
(and while we’re at it, let’s build a downtown stadium in Oakland)

Ready for the October classic!

Ready for the October classic!

A Village in the Fields: Excerpt 3

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Yes, I will be a writer and make all of you live again in my words.
– Carlos Bulosan, Filipino American novelist and poet, from America Is in the Heart: A Personal History

As I look ahead to the last two chapters, 13 and 14, of the final revision of my novel-in-progress, A Village in the Fields, I offer one scene from Chapter 3 in which my protagonist Fausto Empleo relates to his nurse and friend, Arturo Esperanza, his memories of coming to America:

No sleeves and shorts for the last gasp of our Indian summer in September.

No sleeves and shorts for the last gasp of our Indian summer in September.

Fausto shrugged, trying to think of something. Before they could get on the ship headed for America, he and Benny had to take many tests in Manila. The blank-faced doctors poked Fausto’s and Benny’s testicles and penises with cold metal rods, and scribbled notes in silence. For a thick wad of pesos, the doctors handed over papers that declared Fausto and Benny “bacterially negative.” The two paid a handsome fee for the document that proclaimed them citizens of the Philippine Islands who could travel freely to America by way of the S.S. President Jackson.

He hadn’t spoken the ship’s name in decades. Son-of-a-gun, Fausto laughed, how the ship’s propeller rumbled the entire trip! It sat below the stern side of the third-class passenger section, but to Fausto it was lodged in his head like a great mechanical heartbeat gone mad. His bunk bed vibrated. In the dining saloon, cold bean-paste soup spilled out of their bowls. Knives and forks rattled menacingly against steel tables.

He didn’t know other Filipinos could travel outside of third class until he saw a group of them on deck one evening. The men, their hair slicked back and shiny with pomade, wore suits and bow ties. The women wore high-heeled shoes and hats that hugged their heads and sprouted feathers. Fausto asked one of the men where they were staying when they walked by. He hadn’t seen them, or any well-dressed Filipinos for that matter, in third class. The men and women exchanged glances.

“We speak Tagalog,” one of them said in English. “We are students— pensionados—not laborers. Can you not see by the way we are dressed, boy?”

Carmela Rose vintage earrings and Sundance ring and bracelet.

Carmela Rose vintage earrings and Sundance ring and bracelet.

The women laughed behind their gloved fingers. Benny grabbed Fausto’s arm so the two of them could leave, but Fausto stood his ground. The pensionados were trying to get into one of the social rooms, but the steward, who was Ilocano and as dark as cured tobacco leaves, shook his head. The man who had spoken to Fausto poked his finger at the steward. He spoke loudly enough in English for Fausto to hear. They were staying in second class and had the right to enter the smoking room. It was the third time they had been denied access. The pensionado removed his spectacles, as if to show off his fair skin or the lack of pinch marks on the bridge of his nose because his nose was narrow and delicate, not fleshy. The steward folded his arms, replying in Ilocano that only first-class guests could use the smoking room. Besides, he added, no matter how well they dressed or behaved, the white passengers would not welcome them.

“Speak Tagalog!” the pensionado barked to the steward, and turned on his heel.

The group retreated, approaching Fausto and Benny again. The pensionado brushed shoulders with Fausto. As they disappeared below deck, Fausto thought to go after the man, but Benny pulled him toward the nearest stairwell and pointed at the deck above where the first-class passengers had gathered.

As the S.S. President Jackson chugged away from the port of Hong Kong, the passengers gawked at the Chinese families whose sampans were being tossed about in the white water that churned beneath the propellers. Using their oars, mothers and fathers, elderly men and women, clashed with other sampans for position. The children reached out to the passengers, who waved and leaned over the rail, laughing. The families called out in their native dialect. One man torpedoed fruit into the water. A red apple struck a girl’s jaw. Only after she had eaten it whole did she massage the side of her face and lick the blood from the corner of her mouth.

Other passengers threw coins that disappeared in the froth, but it didn’t stop the men and boys from diving in. A fistful of coins came raining down, and Fausto and Benny gasped as a tiny boy kicked off the edge of the boat with frog-like legs. The rope knotted around his waist and attached to the sampan uncoiled in the air with a snap and was pulled tight. After a few moments, an older sibling yanked at the rope and the boy’s head popped up from the sea. Water flowed from his clothes and hair as he was pulled in. His arms and legs hung limp as seaweed over the side of the sampan. But he held up his hand. Silvery disks flashed between his fingers, and his brothers and sisters piled on top of him, hugging him and patting his head. The passengers clapped. The men whistled their approval. And then they all dispersed. Fausto lost sight of the boy. Soon, the S.S. President Jackson outran the sampans, although the mothers and fathers continued to row, refusing to return to shore, even as the sun dipped below the horizon.

Grape and maroon colors for September.

Grape and maroon colors for September, with belt featuring two tugging elephants.

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

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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.