Chicken Beaks Forever

About the Book

In the 1960's a depressed economy in the southwestern United States created an accelerated migration to California. Countless families pulled up stakes and looked with hope toward a land where jobs were plentiful and food affordable. Despite the trials and struggles, families found humor in everyday life. Unity became the foundation for strength and survival. This book retraces experiences of a Hispanic family leaving New Mexico and relocating in California.

THE LAND OF GOLD

On Labor Day weekend of 1968 my family traveled toward a dream we believed would be found or made in the land of gold. I had lived my entire life in Northern New Mexico and never traveled more than 150 miles in any direction. My parents had suffered a few financial setbacks and my father and eighteen year-old brother, Louie went to California to find work. Two months later, my father returned for the rest of the family.

My two younger brothers were soon asleep with the hum of the motor and movement of the car. My seventeen year-old sister, Marcella was irritable, but quiet. It had been a tiring day, renting and hitching the tiny U-haul trailer and stuffing our belongings, before driving three hours to the airport to pick up Dad. He had worked in the morning and taken a late flight from San Francisco to Albuquerque.

"How long will we be on the road?" asked Marcella.

"We should be in San Jose by Monday morning," said Dad.

It was a long trip, compounded by the slow speed we were forced to travel. The U-haul had signs painted on all sides that read 45 MPH. Dad violated the limit most of the time, but not by much.

Although there were six of us in the car, we were not crammed. Joseph, being only three, sat in front, between my parents. There were no seat belts to worry about at the time, so he was able to stretch out and sleep.

"Mejór ladeate (You'd better pull over)," said Mom, when she noticed the car weaving.

Dad drove the car off the shoulder of the highway where we'd be safe from traffic.

"Are we going to sleep in the car?" I asked.

"No," said Dad. "Vámos a sacar un colchón (Let's pull out a mattress)."

Dad and I unlocked the trailer and tossed a twin-size mattress on the ground. The night was dark, but warm and comfortable. The only noise was the occasional sound of passing cars. We stretched out, with a thin blanket and a couple of pillows. The rest of the family stayed in the car.

Dad shook me.

"Vámos (Let's go)." I felt a chill as Dad pulled off the blanket. I wanted to sleep longer. The darkness was disappearing.

"Ahorita paramos a comer (We'll stop to eat soon)," said Dad, starting the motor and pulling onto the highway. I envied Johnny and Joseph for their peaceful sleep. Marcella was curled up like a possum.

"Give me room," I said, claiming space with my elbows.

"Why don't you ride in the trailer?" grunted Marcella.

Dad looked at us through the rear-view mirror and I held my tongue. Although I was nearly sixteen years old, I knew better than to make Dad angry.

A few miles inside Arizona, we stopped at a service station. It had clean restrooms and an outside picnic table. We enjoyed Mom's baloney and green chile sandwiches and apples we'd picked from the trees back home. The morning chill gave way to a harsh sun.

"We have to get moving," said Dad. "We'll rest later, when the day gets hot."

We had never owned a vehicle with air conditioning and had never missed it - until now. The mid-afternoon sun beat on the car, threatening to melt the windows.

"It's like an oven in here," said Marcella. She rolled down her window and a gush of hot air assaulted us like a torch.

"Close it!" cackled Johnny. At eight years of age, his shrill voice annoyed everybody.

I had my shirt unbuttoned and watched the stream of perspiration trickle down my chest into my bellybutton.

One place where we stopped for gas had a thermometer with the picture of a hummingbird engraved on the glass. The temperature read 120 degrees in the shade.

"¿Tienen hambre (Are you guys hungry)?" asked Mom.

It was her subtle way of letting Dad know she was tired of being in the car.

We stopped on a frontage road in the outskirts of a place called Williams. There was a grassy area with trees and a refreshing breeze. This time the twin-size mattress was shared by everyone.

I couldn't figure out if Marcella was grumpy or sad. She was quieter than I'd ever seen and I decided to give her space.

I tried to entertain my little brothers so my parents could rest. We walked along a trail picking up rocks and looking for ground squirrels. At a little rise we discovered a dead puppy. Its mouth was open and all four legs stuck straight out. It was hard to imagine that it once bent its knees and ran and played. I wondered where its mama was. It was comforting to know my parents were nearby.

By nightfall we reached the California border. Everybody's mood changed for the better. There was laughter and cheering in the car's cramped quarters. Dad stopped at Needles and bought hamburgers to break the monotony of baloney sandwiches. There was no breeze. The suffocating night air made my chest feel tight.

"At least we're in California," said Dad. "We'll be at Tía Carolina's house soon. Louie will be waiting."

We were quickly disillusioned by the unforgiving terrain that continued for the next two hundred miles. I saw no difference between Arizona and Southern California.

"There's nothing but cactus and rocks," I said. "We haven't passed any buildings in hours."

"Ten paciencia (Be patient)," growled Dad.

In the middle of nowhere, we had to stop for agriculture inspection.

"Where are you coming from?" asked the man at the booth.

"New Mexico," said Dad.

"Where you headed?"

"San Jose."

"Do you have any fruit in the car?"

"Just a few apples," said Dad, showing him a grocery bag.

"Is that all of them?"

"That's it," said Dad.

"You'd better leave them here," said the man. "Move on."

Dad handed over the bag and we continued on our way. It was only a few apples, but I felt like we had given up half of what we owned.

I knew our destination had to be a very pleasant place because Dionne Warwick had made a song entitled 'Do You Know The Way To San Jose?' In it, she mentioned abundant space and friendly people. At the very least I pictured a modern city. I had also heard of Oakland and imagined that it must be a town filled with oak trees. And it was close to San Francisco. Maybe we'd get a chance to visit the land of hippies.

A couple hours before daybreak we passed a tiny town called Los Baños. Mom wanted to stop and stretch, but everything was closed. We opened the car windows to let in the cool breeze and aroma of alfalfa fields.

About the Author

Ben Romero was born and raised in Northern New Mexico, the fifth of seven children in a Hispanic, Catholic household. Romero is a part-time Adult Education teacher in an ESL program (English as a Second Language), and uses some of his writings as material for teaching.

He has spent the past twenty-nine years working for the US Postal Service and serves as Customer Relations Coordinator for the Central San Joaquin Valley. He received a Bachelor of Arts Degree in Management with a minor in Spanish from Fresno Pacific University in 1995.

Romero is a member of the Central California Hispanic Chamber of Commerce and is married to Evelyn Romero, his wife of thirty-three years. They have five children and four grandchildren.

Chicken Beaks Forever: An Hispanic Migration is the third of a three-book series. Other titles by Romero include Chicken Beaks: Growing Up Hispanic, Chicken Beaks Revisited: An Hispanic Adolescence, and Dance of the Chickens: An Anthology of Light-hearted Stories. Romero's fifth book, Chicken Chisme: The Fine Art of Gossip, will be available in late 2005. Visit www.benromero.com

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