Gary Soto - Jessie De La Cruz: A Profile of a United Farm Worker

CHAPTER 1
Hurtful Beginnings

CHAPTER 2
Between the Rows

CHAPTER 3
Family of her Own

CHAPTER 4
Hearing the Call of la Causa

CHAPTER 5
Speaking Out

CHAPTER 6
For the People

CHAPTER 7
A Farm of Their Own

CHAPTER 8
Jessie Today

APPENDIX
Will the Family Farm Survive in America?
Congressional Testimony of Jessie De La Cruz

I first met Jessie at a 1998 tardeada , an afternoon party, sponsored by the California Rural Legal Assistance. This took place in San Francisco during September, by far the warmest month in the city, and a pleasant breeze blew through the patio where the party was held. There was plenty to eat carne asada, enchiladas verdes, pollo en mole , and, of course, arroz, frijoles , and tortillas , plus three different kinds of salsa . Two lawyers from CRLA were recruited to tend bar, uncorking wine and wrenching open sodas and beers. Dr. Loco and His Rocking Jalapeo band played and the people, all farm workers or supporters of farm workers, danced cumbias, rancheras , and an occasional slow dance for the romantic. I watched the dancers as they slid across the floor, and then, unable to help myself, pulled my wife up for a quick round. Afterward, I ventured from table to table to gab, clink my soda in a sort of salud , and to pay my respects to people I dont see often, just at afternoon gatherings such as this. I was introduced to Jessie, who extended a hand and, smiling, said, Mucho gusto , Gary. I heard about you. I must have smiled from ear to ear. I felt strangely shy and I didnt know what to say but to tell her that I liked her earrings, a lame comment perhaps but nevertheless the truth. Each earring was a small, medallionlike emblem of the UFW the eagle of the United Farm Workers flag.

Later that afternoon, Jos Padilla, the director of CRLA , approached me and asked if I could give Jessie a ride to the Oakland bus terminal. She wanted to return to Fresno because she didnt like the hotel at which she was staying. I suggested to Jos that Jessie should stay with my wife and me. When he suggested the idea to Jessie, she said, Oh, that would be nice.

So started our friendship. We spent the evening sitting around our dining table, drinking coffee and talking of what we know bestour personal pasts. I told her about my time in the fields as a high school and college student, and my wife shared her past, particularly her own blister-raising years of chopping and picking cotton, turning grape trays, and tying vines in Decembers cold. Of course, my two years and Carolyns ten years in the fields didnt match Jessies years of field work spread over six decades. We knew this, so we kept our complaints about hard work to ourselves. Moreover, Jessie, a storyteller at heart, painted a picture for us of her childhood. We remained quiet. We let her talk, our elbows propped up on the table. What were we but two children in her presence? Then, rising from her chair, Carolyn said, Oh, Jessie, I want to show you some things. We moved to our bedroom and our chest of drawersI only raised my eyebrows in feigned interest when Carolyn showed Jessie some of the hats she had made.

The next morning Jessie and I drove to the store for groceries. We bought chiles and tomatoes, breakfast sausages, and milk. We had an American breakfast of eggs, hash browns, sausages, and toast, but not before Jessie whipped up a bowl of salsa , her contribution in the kitchen. After breakfast she wrote out her recipe for pollo en mole . All the while, Carolyn was sizing up Jessies headshe already had plans to make a hat for Jessie, something she does for special people. Late morning, Val Saucedo, mayor of Lindsay, a small town near Porterville (also a small town but with more stoplights), arrived to pick Jessie up. Jessie left with a copy of my novel called Jesse! She had to smile at the books title and remarked, I like the cover. We parted with hugs and reminders to keep in touch.

Weeks passed. I kept mulling over in my mind this chance meeting with Jessie. That one evening sitting across from each other, I had had a strange and unusual feeling that something largerthe spirit of Cesar Chavez, perhapshad brought us together for a look-see. She was looking at me, and I at her, and perhaps each of us was wondering about the course of events that had brought us face to face. Was it because we were Chicano? Valley people from the San Joaquin? Participants in the struggle of el movimiento? For another month I thought about Jessie and one day told Carolyn, then busily making a hat, that I wanted to write Jessies life story, although I was secretly scared that she might say no. That rejection would be harder on me than any rejection from a publisher. Oh, good, Carolyn said. Then we can give her her hat.

I called Jessie with my idea for a biography. She said, Oh, that would be nice. Then I spilled the beans and told her that Carolyn was finishing up a hat for her. Oh, thats really nice, too, she said, good-humoredly. Even before Jessie fit this gift on her head, I could see her wearing it, her name stitched in bright pink and the eagle of the UFW done in black. The hat would go well with her earrings, which jingle when she walks. People hear her when she is coming and hear her when she arrives. Her story has much to tell us, and these pages, brief as they are, attempt to show how one womans life became a part of la Causa . Few people know the generation born before the 1920s, as even fewer people remain to tell us. Its time to listen.