Finding Norma Rae in West Texas
by Robert Rivera-Amezola
I stood just beneath the flagpole in front of the school building with my union poster held high above my head. It was about 8:15 in the morning—peak traffic time—as parents drove slowly passed me, craning to read the giant words on my sign I had only half an hour ago outlined in red marker: “Los salones necesitan clases con menos estudiantes!” (Children need smaller class size).
I was determined to be seen, and if approached, heard, especially by our Spanish-speaking parents who comprise nearly half of our population, but who seem to only grasp a fraction of the budget crisis that is plaguing this district and the state.
I couldn’t believe what I was doing. Prior to this year, my union membership meant little to me other than a prerequisite for teaching in Philadelphia and dental coverage. I suppose I took everything the union bargained for us in years gone by for granted. But here I was, smack in the middle of the schoolyard, Old Glory waving above me, my colleagues stationed at different areas around the building with their own signs, channeling the spirit of Norma Rae.
More than Norma Rae, it was the conversation I had with my father earlier in April during our Spring break that stoked my internal flame. At 73, my dad is fortunately a very healthy man, but as he enters the twilight of his life, I find myself more determined to spend as much time as I can with my parents. I decided to travel home to Texas and take my dad through a west Texas road trip that would recount the years he used to take me while I was just a little boy. My father was a sales representative for a large company whose market area encompassed the vast desert landscape of West Texas and southern New Mexico. As we journeyed, we remembered old stories. For instance, when we drove through McNary my father reminded me of the land that once belonged to his great grandfather—land that spanned both sides of the Rio Grande during a time when the calm river was nothing more than a drinking hole for grazing cattle. A Texas Ranger shot and killed him in response to the ambitions of a greedy Anglo rancher. My grandfather was just a little boy when he witnessed this and maintained a life-long aversion to learning the English language as a result.
At 73, my dad is fortunately a very healthy man,
but as he enters the twilight of his life,
I find myself more determined to spend
as much time as I can with my parents.
When we moved into Marfa, Texas, my dad remembered the difficult times he had as a Mexican-American negotiating with some of the white business people in the small towns he serviced. Small towns like Ft. Davis that still manifest the segregated past even among the dead. While in Ft. Davis, my father told me he wanted to visit a cemetery to see if he could find the tombstone of an old friend he heard had passed away. I noticed a marker pointing the way to a cemetery so we followed an old dusty road into a picturesque valley of hills to a far off gravesite. We disembarked from the rental car and began searching
“Look for Castañeda,” my dad called out. “If not look for her maiden name, Jimenez.”
He took one half of the tiny plot of land and I took the other half as a jackrabbit with huge looming ears bolted from a nearby brush into the desert hills ahead.
I began to read the names on the stones: Smith, Hutchinson, Allan, Jones. A warm wind picked up a bit of dust as it whipped against my face.
Robbins, Hanks, Roberts, Tomlinson.
I looked over towards my dad. His white, thinning hair tussled in the wind, as he squinted through jet-rimmed glasses to read the words on the tombstones. He is still a strong man, I thought. I was so glad we had this time together.
I just had to call out: “Daddy, I don’t think we’re in the right place.”
He slowly walked toward me, still inspecting markers as he did so. “You know what,” he declared, “I think you’re right.”
We hopped back into the car and recalled that we had seen another cemetery along the main highway. We were in no hurry to be anywhere so we made our way there. Though not as picturesque as the first cemetery, the one by the highway was more colorful. American flags staked the ground of each site and catholic saints kept vigil over the mounds of parched dirt. I noticed almost immediately the first name etched across the transept of a dilapidated cross: “Briones.”
“Yup. This is the one,” I said. We divided again and began our search.
Rios, Jimenez, Colon, Ramirez, Flores. They seemed to all be there. A few non-Hispanic names appeared here and there, but they were far fewer.
Finally, as we started to end our search and give up on the whole enterprise, I noticed at the far edge of the cemetery: Castañeda.
I called out to my dad. He ambled over. I stared at his face as he gazed upon the gleaming stone almost as if in a trance. He whispered, “You found it.”
I stared at his face as he gazed upon
the gleaming stone almost as if in a trance.
He whispered, “You found it.”
This was a woman my father knew from his days in high school. He introduced her to another friend of his who later became her husband.
The trip became a eulogy of sorts for a time my father once knew. In Alpine, Texas, a Mexican restaurant my father frequented was turned into a bank; small grocery stores my father once serviced in Pecos were now replaced by the sprawling Wal-Mart just outside of the tiny town. Once an assured car driver, my dad was no longer sure where anything was anymore.
On our way home our conversation continued. This time, perhaps resulting from an exhaustion of revisiting the past, he asked about my work in Philadelphia. I talked about my new role at school as a technology teacher, the fancy SMART boards at school, the digital stories I was producing with my tech savvy kids. All seemed a far cry from the small Texas dusty towns and the fading memories we were leaving behind.
Then I started talking about the financial troubles many schools are facing today and the demoralization teachers, including myself, were feeling. I wandered into a discussion about collective bargaining and the threat many units faced today.
He thought for a moment. He then said, “Papá belonged to a union, you know.”
I had forgotten about this fact. In my younger days while he was alive I guess I didn’t care.
“There were times my father thought his job was unfair,” he explained. “I remember months when my father was on strike and had no work and we had to be careful with our money. Papá always believed that the union had his best interest at heart. He trusted the union.”
My dad stared out the window of our maroon 4-door Chevy Aveo. An 18-wheeler whizzed by us causing our little car to shake a bit. I stared at the long straight road ahead of us with nothing but sun blanketing our vista. I was digesting the words my father just spoke.
“I remember when the union would give us bags of groceries just so that we could eat,” he continued.
“Yup. Papá really believed in the union.”
I can’t say that today I have the same unwavering loyalty for PFT (Philadelphia Federation of teachers) or unions in general that my grandfather once possessed while he was working for the copper refinery. But it was inspiring to hear about the ardor for social justice that informed my family’s history. I still don’t know where I personally stand politically on collective bargaining; nor am I sure how much involvement this will mean for me in the future. What I do think I came away with on this trip is the understanding that my membership to this larger union of teachers is all I have personally against very powerful corporate and political forces; and for many of us on the front lines in the classroom every minute of each day it is all the dignity we have.
So until there is a better solution, it won’t be Norma Rae I will be thinking about the next time I raise my PFT poster. It will be my father and grandfather before him I will think about. Their spirit, their struggles, and their legacy about what was right and fair and true will fuel my own search for social justice.
Robert Rivera-Amezola teaches technology at Willard Elementary School.