How I became a Historian

I am periodically asked the questions, “Why did you become a teacher?” or “Why did you choose History as a major?” More fitting queries, however, would ask “How” I decided to become a teacher or focus on the study of History. This is because my decision was pragmatic. I did not have the complete privilege to choose.

Like so many of my Chicano peers, I was not prepared for college out of high school. A big chunk of my gente dropped out (at rates hovering just below or above 50%). I lost contact with many after the ninth grade. For much of my first two years at the community college, I took classes in English and Math that qualified me for transferrable courses to the university. Back then they were openly called remedial classes—I am not sure what they are called now. I was, however, honest with myself about my (in)abilities. So when I received a B grade in Western Civilization I said to myself, “Hey I can do this. I can read and write at a proficient level (I feel). I’ll major in History.”

My parents always encouraged me to go to college after all, even though mom has a Mexican grade school education and dad still wonders how he was granted an A.A. degree. I also knew that getting a university degree would make them happy. It would also buy me time from getting a job. Mom explained the deal as I approached the end of my senior year: “You continue your education or a trabajar!” It’s nice being one of two kids. So I became a History major because I believed it would enable me to survive in academe. After taking a Chicano Studies class at Moorpark College, I also sensed that the study of History could help me understand why very few Chicanas and Chicanos held positions of authority in and out of school.

Along the way I realized that I desired a career that offered significant security from unemployment. Memories of tension in the household when my dad was laid off from his job played a significant role in my decision to become an educator. Growing up, I was not aware of teachers being fired—at least not for carrying out their duties. Sure teachers worked side jobs to supplement their salaries, but they were always employed.

As a History major I also flirted with the notion of becoming a lawyer. Be a teacher or become a lawyer. What else does a History major do? I briefly joined Fresno State’s Chicanos In Law club. But after I received my LSAT score I knew the career of an esquire was not in the cards. “I will teach at the high school,” I said to myself. To enter a teacher credential program at the Cal. State all I needed to do was to pass the CBEST. How hard could that be? Well, it can be difficult if your math skills are not up to speed. I eventually passed the Math segment of the CBEST—only after taking a College Algebra class at Oxnard College as a post-baccalaureate. I felt validated by the world of standardized tests—a mundo that my people do very poorly in, for a host of reasons.

While I was at Fresno State I stopped by the office of a History professor who advised students on the social science waiver program for prospective teachers. He asked me to return as he had a migraine. I never did. After I compared the added course work required to become a social science teacher with that needed for a Masters degree, graduate school was more attractive. And it required no CBEST. I finalized this path as my undergraduate mentor-professor expressed his expectation for me to pursue a Masters. So I did. The life of a history professor appealed to me as I once read a career guidance article that stated that History professors had one the longest life expectancies. In addition to this, in regularly walking past the office of one of my favorite History professors I often saw him in his chair with his legs kicked up on his desk as he read a Chinese language newspaper. That’s when I said to myself, “That’s what I want to do.”

After I graduated with a Masters in History, I returned to Oxnard to search for work. I couldn’t teach because you needed a credential to do so in the K-12 system. So I worked for UPS unloading trailers and loading trucks. This was the most physically demanding work I ever experienced. I also went through a teacher mentorship program at the Ventura County Community College. I shadowed a History professor who taught Western Civilization classes. This experience helped me land my first full-time gig at Cypress College.

During one of my probationary evaluations at Cypress my boss encouraged me to obtain my doctorate. So I applied to the Claremont Graduate School. While I was at Fresno State my mentor spoke highly about its Ph.D. program. Claremont was not terribly far from Buena Park so I applied and was accepted.

To be continued.

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A Chicano Diet Private

There are two kinds of diet privates at Marine Corps Recruit Depot, San Diego: those that must lose weight and the others who are required to add more. I was considered a fat body even though I was a California Community College state runner up grappler at the 177 lbs. weight class in 1984. But according to the USMC body mass index, I was a panzón. So the Second Battalion platoon number of my gray recruit sweatshirt was ignominiously spray painted with two red bars marking me a diet private. During chow time the diet privates, fat and skinny bodies, lined up to present their trays to a DI (Drill Instructor) for approval. The fat bodies gave their bread, sweets, and delicious fatty food to the double-ration skinny body privates and they gave us their bland waxed beans, spinach, or corn. Before this, I never cared for vegetables but I came to like them.

Suffering from a sugar withdraw, I hid sugar packets into my cargo pockets and consumed the sucrose in the middle of night. Now I realize how addictive sugar can be. I am glad that I was never caught. If I had, I imagine an outcome similar to the scene in Full Metal Jacket when DI Hartman busted Private Pyle with a jelly doughnut in his footlocker during a pre-turn in inspection.

Ironically, I came to be proud of my diet private status. In my final PFT (Physical Fitness Test) I scored a maximum 300 points by finishing a 3 mile run under 18 minutes, kipping 20 pull-ups, and completing 100 abdominal crunches within 2 minutes. My score, however, was mixed up with that of a private with a lower score. But I knew better than to object. I learned early in the, then, 11 weeks of Marine basic training that anonymity was a virtue.

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Sir, Yes, Sir.

In the summer of 1985, I decided to follow a friend, who followed his brother, into the United States Marine Corps as a reservist. For those who do not know, Marine reservists experience the same basic training (boot camp) as regular, enlisted recruits. The first night of boot camp was one of the most traumatic experiences of my life. After a long day of signing paper work, invasive physical exams, and interminable waiting at MEPS (Military Entrance Processing Station) somewhere in the Los Angeles region, I was bused with other recruits to San Diego. Upon arrival at the dead of night, a Drill Instructor (DI) boarded the bus and barked, “YOU ARE NOW AT THE UNITED STATES MARINE CORP RECRUIT DEPOT AT SAN DIEGO. THE FIRST AND LAST WORDS OUT OF YOUR MOUTH WILL BE SIR, YES, SIR. DO YOU UNDERSTAND?!”

We instinctively yelled back, “Sir, Yes, Sir.” The DI then yelled at us to get off the bus and stand on yellow foot prints on the ground. A host of other DIs met us where we stood and yelled directly into our faces in rapid fire as we stood on the foot prints just before our hair being completely shaven from our heads. I think the fact that this took place during the late evening made this extremely disorienting. I did not sleep at all that night. I wanted to contact the lawyer I did not have to get me out of the there.

Whenever I get together with fellow Marines, we never fail to exchange endless boot camp stories. For non-Marines click on this link of the movie The Boys in Company C to get a small sense of the greeting Marine recruits receive at Parris Island or San Diego. Viewer discretion advised.

Con Safos

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Not only in Berkeley or in East Los Angeles—also in Oxnard

The LA Times printed today the informative column of Hector Tobar on the Chicano Moratorium protest march of August 29, 1970. The piece highlighted Rosalio Muñoz’s organization of the protest and the exhibition commemorating this historical event at the Mexican Cultural Institute next to Olvera Street in downtown Los Angeles. Check it out. Both the column and exhibit.

Tobar concludes his essay by writing, “‘One tourist who went there recently told Muñoz: ‘I thought these things only happened in Berkeley.’ No ma'am, he answered. They also happened in East Los Angeles.”

So, anti-war protest occurred in many communities, one of them in the City of Oxnard. Twenty-two days later, on September 20, close to 1,000 Chicanos and Chicanas and their supporters also protested the Vietnam War by taking it to the streets. Organized by persons such as Ricardo Carmona, Roberto Flores, and other Brown Berets, the people of Chiques listened to the anti-war speeches of Muñoz, Blase Bonpane, Roberto Aliasa, and others.

Con safos

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diary of a husky kid

My boy had his first run in with a school yard bully recently. Which took me back to my days as a “husky” (read: chunky Chicano) kid. Before my first real run in with such a tormentor, I remember my old man showing me how to defend myself. I am not the smartest person, but I can take directions. “Put your fists just in front of your face, Frankie.” Ok? “No, look at me. Hands at temple height with your left leading your right. Get in this stance. Bend your knees and jab. Jab, jab, jab. Fast and hard. Like Ali and Mando Ramos.” So I did and practiced in the garage regularly.

Then the day came at Driffill Elementary when I was in the 4th grade. An even fatter, shorter, and mean (half Mexican-Japanese-American) Jimmy I. started picking on me in the hallway in front of girl classmates. Feebly, I said, “Stop it.” Emboldened by this weak protest, Jimmy I. was getting ready to attack. Without saying another word, I methodically staggered my stance, bent my knees (à la Bruce Lee), and raised my dukes just like dad showed me. Fat Jimmy I. rushed forward. Jab. Jimmy I., stunned, stepped back. Nose reddened and angered, he tried again. Jab. Jab, jab. I struck on target. Jimmy I. retreated looked at me, for a moment, and those around us and ran home crying.

I held my own. But I felt kind of bad since Jimmy I’s. mom was my Little League team mother. Well this is how I remember it.

Con Safos,

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Americana Condiment

The family ate at Doc Brown’s Chicken last week at Universal Studios and discovered that El Tapatio sauce is as iconic a condiment as ketchup and mustard. This is yet another sign that facets of Mexican culture (i.e., breakfast burritos, tortillas, pollo that’s loco) is redefining markers of Americana.

The issue of condiments also reminds me of how Eric, a Chicano-MEChista student of mine at Cypress College, once giggled and blushed when I mentioned the word condiments during a lecture.

Con Safos,

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Sundown Towns

An oral history interviewee last week indicated that at one time the City of Oxnard was a Sundown Town. To verify this phenomenon I asked another long time Oxnardian of Mexican descent about this and he indicated that he was not aware of such an ordinance. But he did express that by the actions of the Oxnard Police Department that, "we (Mexican Americans and Mexicans) knew that we did not have any business over there (i.e. the White residential area of the city)." When I shared this with my Osher class today at California State University Channel Islands, a student indicated that Burbank was such a city. James Loewen has a book titled Sundown Towns: A Hidden Dimension of American Racism. This book is next on my reading list.

Con Safos

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