This story may veer off a bit, but does address perspectives on isolation. As an introvert, I usually manage alone time quite well, but there is much to learn.
The UFW had some simple housing available in a local apartment building in Calexico, where I had stayed the first time. It was pretty bleak, and soon one of my union contacts offered that I could stay at his place on the other side of the border, in Mexicali.
My friend John lived in the Grape House with other organizers in North Oakland, at the end of a street against a freeway. He and his buddy Ron introduced me to the United Farmworkers and the grape and lettuce boycotts, the black agila (eagle) on the red flag, community organizing, union songs in Spanish, La Causa and some really spicy food. We packed into a car for a rally in Watsonville where Cesar Chavez was rallying strikers and supporters, drove through lettuce and artichoke fields with new eyes, and I was hooked.
The UFW was a movement, full of hope and dedicated volunteers. While organizing people to join the union and strike if necessary to get it recognized, it also generated public support for boycotts of recalcitrant growers and offered services to its members. That included establishing medical clinics in the spirit of the free clinics sprouting across the country in the 1970’s. It ultimately occurred to me that I could be more useful getting a medical degree and working in a clinic, which I had the opportunity to attempt, than distributing leaflets in the Safeway parking lot.
Fast forward a few years, through a pre-med curriculum and first year of medical school, and I was ready to sign up as a volunteer at the Calexico Farmworker Clinic—as the name suggests, smack on the border of California and Mexico. My medical skills were meagre, but I took on other tasks at the clinic and concentrated on learning Spanish and soaking up the culture. “Familia” was strong, and I appreciated learning alternatives to my northern European upbringing. After another year or so of med school, I arranged an elective with the supervising physician and returned to Calexico to help, actually attending patients this time.
The UFW had some simple housing available in a local apartment building in Calexico, where I had stayed the first time. It was pretty bleak, and soon one of my union contacts offered that I could stay at his place on the other side of the border, in Mexicali. He and his girlfriend were away most of the time organizing in the fields, and the two-room concrete structure was available. It seems hard to believe now, but most of the staff at the clinic lived in Mexico and commuted daily to work across the border without much difficulty. In fact, Oscar and Christina’s house was just a block down from Yoli the nurse’s house, on a dusty road in the neighborhood of “Colonia Baja California”, just a half mile or so from the border crossing and easily walkable or bikeable. It sounded like a great opportunity and so I joined the daily migration and got to understand people’s lives much better than simply meeting them in the clinic.
Hearing that I had moved into the house down the road, Yoli invited me to dinner. Her house was no bigger than mine but was crammed wall to wall with beds to accommodate the dozen or so family members of all ages that called it home. There was barely room to squeeze down a narrow aisle between furniture. Her mother was in the tiny kitchen in the back, sending out beans and tortillas and food to anyone who cared to join in. People ate spread out across some of the living room beds or maybe stepped outside—whatever worked. I was amazed that Yoli was able to show up at work every day dressed immaculately, carefully coiffed and made up, despite her cramped and seemingly chaotic home life. It added a new perspective.
People were curious about my living situation, and I did my best with my still simple Spanish. Was I really living just down the street? Wasn’t there anyone else there? Really? How could I stand it? Wasn’t I terribly isolated? Not to worry, I was reassured with great sympathy–if I ever felt lonely, I was always welcome to come over and join in the crowd at Yoli’s house. “We’ve got plenty of room!”
Khati Hendry
Thanx Khati, for sharing more about your life – this time over the southern border – and your admirable work!
I’m reminded of the many Hispanic students in the New York inner-city school where I worked who lived in small quarters with large, extended families. What to me may have seemed problematic and regrettable, was for them a way of life and a welcome support system.
I got a lot more perspective through travel, and meeting and working and living with other people. I recommend it!
Just reading this opens my eyes. I too am amazed that you and thousands of others were able to so easily cross borders. How all our lives have changed since the treasonist madman came upon the scene. Your travels always seem to entail aiding others which I find so inspiring. Being somewhat of a hermit myself, I could imagine what Yoli’s house was like.
Yes, how quickly we forget what it was like to be able to go out on the tarmac to wave goodbye to people on a plane, get on a plane or boat or into buildings without going through security checks, crossing into Mexico or Canada with only a driver’s license.
Khati:
Your fine narrative connected with me deeply. I had worked in a migrant farmer’s camp in Goshen, was very familiar with Cesar Chavez , and experienced similar experiences in the homes of many people. Your Retrospect provided me with a greater appreciation of my own encounters.
Thanks.
Thanks Richard. I’m sure your experiences in the migrant camp made an impression and changed some things about how you viewed the world. As did numerous other experiences—I am always amazed by the situations you managed to be in.
Such an interesting perspective, Khati. While most of us think living with so many others would be chaos, your friends worried your were lonely. Very different cultural expectations.
It took me by surprise, and opened my eyes too.
A marvelous perspective on the difference between your life, living alone and that of Yoli’s cramped house, where “we’ve got plenty of room”. What generosity of spirit to always welcome you, despite what we view as cramped living space. And yes, how things have changed at the border! And I do remember when we could go to the airport and just visit people at the gate, if they had a long wait between planes. My, how times have changed!
Thanks Betsy. Times certainly have changed, but the difference in perspective maybe not so much.
A very sweet story that brings 3-D flesh and personality to the concept of people “organizing” and being involved in a “movement.” It also calls to mind that my very first political action my freshman year at Harvard was picketing the Broadway Supermarket as part of the grape boycott–after attending an SDS meeting where a quiet but forceful UFW rep with a thick accent had told us all about the conditions at the Giumarra farms in California.
Y que viva la huelga! I learned so much. It stood me in good stead when we had to organize our own union at work years later too. It is always about people.
An insightful and moving account of your work with the Chavez movement and, specifically, the Calexico Clinic, Khati. Your piece reminds me of how we can find solitude and peace while in the midst of a crowd, especially if we feel we are using our talents to help others. Thanks for sharing this.
Thanks Jim. There are many ways to find meaning, which can lead to peace and happiness, alone or in a crowd. But I think that almost always meaning comes from a sense of connection.
I loved your description of the atmosphere at Yoli’s. My ‘hood in Chicago is majority immigrant, mostly from Mexico, although quite a number of Peruvian restaurants dot the streetscape. I am always charmed by their emphasis on family, friends and community.
I felt fortunate indeed to be accepted into that welcoming community. I worked for many years in a community health center that had a primarily Spanish-speaking population, and most from Mexico or Central America. It was a pleasure.