September 8, 1965: the Filipino farm workers and the Delano grape strikes

After all, it was the Filipinos who started this phase of the farmworkers movement when they alone sat down in the Delano grape fields back in 1965 and started what became known as the ‘farmworkers movement’ that eventually developed into the UFW.
– Philip Vera Cruz, Filipino American labor leader, farmworker, and leader in the Asian American civil rights movement, from Philip Vera Cruz: A Personal History of Filipino Immigrants and the Farmworkers Movement

Larry Itliong, circa 1960s.

Larry Itliong, circa 1960s.

Yesterday, September 8th, marked the 48th anniversary of the beginning of the Great Delano Grape Strikes, when hundreds of Filipino farmworkers walked out of the vineyards protesting inhumane working and living conditions. And yet, few Americans know of their contributions and their sacrifices in the history of the agricultural labor movement in this country.

In honor of this day and to celebrate the Filipinos’ historical significance, which coincides with the ongoing revision of my novel-in-progress, here is another excerpt from A Village in the Fields. In this chapter, my main character, Fausto Empleo, meets Larry Itliong, a real-life person who was an important Filipino labor leader and Cesar Chavez’s equal:

After dinner one evening, Prudencio took Fausto outside the mess hall, where Ayong was talking to a short pinoy. Fausto knew the man with the black horn-rimmed glasses and crew cut was Larry Itliong. He often had seen Larry talking to the pinoys in the camp. Prudencio had been threatening to introduce Fausto to him for weeks.

“Larry, this is Fausto Empleo,” Prudencio said, when they reached Ayong’s side.

Smoke swirled in the air as Larry transferred his cigar from one hand to the other. He grasped Fausto’s hand in a vise as if he didn’t have three fingers missing and pumped it vigorously. “You’re from Ilocos Sur?” He spoke out the side of his mouth, as if the cigar were still dangling from the corner of his mouth. “I’m from Pangasinan, Ilocos Norte. Can I get you a cigar?” He frisked the pockets of his shirt and his corduroy pants, which were rolled at the cuff, even as Fausto shook his head.

“You want to know why I have not joined AWOC,” Fausto guessed.

Larry sized him up. “Prudencio says you would be good for the union.”

Fausto shot a look at Prudencio, who had stepped back, shoulder to shoulder with Ayong. “Maybe unions are not the answer to our problems in the field,” Fausto said. “I have been here long enough to see what happens after a strike is settled.”

Larry puffed on his cigar. His cheeks, dark and leathery, swelled with the effort. “Unions are not just about strikes. There are other benefits. There are many tools unions have to solve our problems,” he said as smoke billowed through his lips.

“But striking does not always pay.”

“If we do nothing, the growers in Delano will set our wages and they will never improve conditions in the fields and in the camps—conditions fit for a dog, not humans,” Larry said, squinting at him even as the haze cleared from his face. “We have to keep trying. I have been here for thirty-five years and I have seen progress from Salinas to the Coachella Valley, all the way to the canneries in Alaska. We have to do more now. There must be sacrifice—great sacrifice—if we want to succeed.”

“How is your union better than Cesar Chavez’s organization?” Fausto said.

Larry spit out bits of tobacco from his lips. “We have the strength of the A-F-L-C-I-O behind us and the funds to succeed. Chavez only has two hundred paying members. Those membership fees aren’t enough to do anything.”

“Larry’s been organizing for a long, long time,” Prudencio called out. “He’s a pinoy. He’ll take care of us.”

“I stand for every farm worker in these vineyards.” Larry straightened up, although he was still shorter than Fausto. “We work hard for Filipinos, Mexicans, blacks, whites, Arabs. But we Filipinos have never been given respect. We have always been exploited by everyone here—even after World War II, when Filipinos showed their salt and loyalty to the U-S-A. Some of us became labor leaders because we saw crimes committed against our countrymen and we won’t let it continue with our children. If we Filipinos want respect, we have to fight for it; we have to get it ourselves.”

His words were inspiring, but Fausto held back. Larry seemed to sense his reluctance.

“How long have you been working in the fields?” he wanted to know.

“I cut ‘gras in the Delta in the thirties until the War. I came here in nineteen fifty.”

“What do you have to show for all those years in the fields?” Larry raked his good hand across his crew-cut hair. Shocked, Fausto said nothing, but Larry went on, “If you better the life of farm workers after you, would that effort make your life—not just here—worthy? Will all your struggles then not be in vain?”

It might be too late for him, Fausto thought, but he would fight for a better life for his children. He could say that now with certainty. He shot out his hand. “I am with you.”

Larry smiled, his broad nostrils stretching across his cheeks, the thin slashes of his moustache parting in the middle. He shook Fausto’s hand. Fausto tried to imagine how Larry had lost his fingers. It was his badge for the kind of life he’d led in America. He had been doing what Fausto should have been doing the moment he first worked in the fields—demanding respect. Larry strode off the campgrounds, his maimed hand looming larger than life in the gathering dusk.

Ripe Ribier grapes in September - the jewels in the fields.

Ripe Ribier grapes in September – the jewels in the fields.

Hail to Jane Addams on her 153rd birthday

The good we secure for ourselves is precarious and uncertain until it is secured for all of us and incorporated into our common life.
– Jane Addams, pioneer in settlement house movement, founder of Hull House, public philosopher, sociologist, author, pacifist, and leader in woman suffrage and world peace

An older Jane Addams (from the Chicago Gay and Lesbian Hall of Fame site).

An older Jane Addams (from the Chicago Gay and Lesbian Hall of Fame site).

Today is Jane Addams’s birthday. She was born in 1860 and died on May 21, 1935. I learned about Addams as a child, though I’m unsure whether I read about her in or outside the classroom. The only thing I can think of is that one of my female teachers in elementary school admired her and wanted us to read about her accomplishments. Then again, our library carried a series of old books about famous women who made important contributions in our country. These books highlighted an event in their childhoods that shaped who they eventually became. Pretty visionary reading for the early 1970s and in our tiny, rural school library, no less.

I remember Addams as the co-founder of Hull House, a settlement house, in the west side of Chicago. When it opened its doors in 1889, Addams and fellow co-founder Ellen Gates Starr welcomed the recently arrived European immigrants. Addams’s vision for the settlement house was to enable a community of university women to provide social and educational opportunities for working-class people in the neighborhoods. These women volunteers taught classes in art, domestic activities, history, literature, and other subjects. Hull House also offered lectures and concerts.

A young Jane Addams in 1878 (from www.swarthmore.edu).

A young Jane Addams in 1878 (from www.swarthmore.edu).

Addams advanced what she called the “three R’s” of settlement house movement: residence, research, and reform. She felt that creating a community with the neighbors, studying the causes of poverty, and educating the public were necessary in order to drive change through legislative and social reform. Addams was the quintessential Renaissance woman – volunteering as an on-call physician and taking on the role of midwife, nursing the sick, protecting  women of domestic abuse, and even preparing the dead for burial. She fought to shield children from child labor abuses and helped lead the movement for women’s rights, healthcare reform, and immigration policy. She was an advocate for playgrounds, founding the National Playground Association. She studied child behavior and understood the importance of creating a healthy environment in which children could thrive and a healthy foundation in which they could grow up to be productive citizens.

Jane Addams in midlife (from USEmbassy.gov).

Jane Addams in midlife (from USEmbassy.gov).

What is amazing to me is that Jane Addams suffered many childhood ailments. At the age of four, she was stricken with tuberculosis of the spine and Potts’s disease, which resulted in curvature of the spine and contributed to health issues that plagued her the rest of her life. After her father died unexpectedly and she received her inheritance, Jane Addams moved with her family from Cedarville, Illinois, to Philadelphia. She had a promising future studying medicine at the Woman’s Medical College of Philadelphia, but spinal surgery and a nervous breakdown sidelined her and kept her from finishing her education and receiving her medical degree. When her stepmother fell ill, the family moved back to Cedarville. (Side note: Her mother died in childbirth when she was two years old. She was the youngest of nine children, although by the time she was eight years old, she had lost three siblings in their infancy and another when at age 16.)

Dress boldly and go forth into the world with confidence.

Dress boldly and go forth into the world with confidence.

Her brother-in-law performed surgery to straighten her back and advised her to travel instead of return to her studies. In 1883, she and her stepmother went to Europe for two years. It was at this time that she discovered that she didn’t have to become a physician to help the poor. But when she returned to the U.S., she also returned to the prison-like confines of young women of her socio-economic class and as a result she fell into despair. During this bleak period in her life, however, she turned to books and read many that influenced and shaped her ideas about democracy and socialism and the role of women. When she read  magazine article about the new concept of settlement houses in the summer of 1887, hope was restored, life became promising again and bigger than her expected role in society, and her future path was forged.

Bold and delicate: Carmela Rose necklace and earrings and Tiffany ring and bracelet.

Bold and delicate: Carmela Rose necklace and earrings and Tiffany ring and bracelet.

She overcame numerous medical and social adversities with all that she accomplished. She was the first female president of the National Conference of Social Work, created the National Federation of Settlements, and served as president of the Women’s International League for Peace and Freedom. Jane Addams was the first American woman to win the Nobel Peace Prize in 1931,albeit as a co-winner with a male educator and presidential advisor. If anything, Jane Addams embodies for me the woman who is all too human and as such, living in the suffocating and repressed Victorian era, endures a wandering of the desert, so to speak, before finding her purpose in life, finding her voice, and finding the strength to do something useful in the world, which was an ambition of hers when she was a teen.

As I struggle to find the time and the energy to finally accomplish what I had dreamed of an idealistic young woman, I look up to Jane Addams and admire what she was up against and overcame – at a time when the political and social worlds were solidly against her – and gather tremendous strength. My battles are insignificant and therefore easily vanquished. Happy Birthday, Jane Addams! May you inspire legions of young girls and women of all ages to find their place in the world and in so doing make the world a better place.

Pink, yellow, and black for our Indian summer.

Pink, yellow, and black for our Indian summer.

A Village in the Fields: an excerpt

The time to begin writing an article is when you have finished it to your satisfaction. By that time you begin to clearly and logically perceive what it is you really want to say.
– Mark Twain, pen name of Samuel Clemens, American author and humorist

The contemplative author pose: Navy lace, silk shorts, and soft peach sweater.

The contemplative author pose: Navy lace, silk shorts, and soft peach sweater.

My Labor Day Weekend is over, but not the last revision of my novel. It’s just that now I have to find any nook and cranny of free time to keep on writing. I realized last night that because I have been doing nothing but edit and revise, I don’t have a blog post. Then I thought to myself, why not post an excerpt from the current chapter I am revising?

So, here is an excerpt from Chapter 7 of my novel-in-progress, A Village in the Fields, the story of an elderly Filipino farm worker, Fausto Empleo, who realizes what he has lost and gained from his struggles in America – in the agricultural fields of California, particularly during and after the Great Delano Grape Strikes of the 1960s and 1970s. I am still fiddling with saying what my novel is about in one sentence!

In this excerpt, Fausto, who is living in a camp for grape pickers in Delano in the 1950s, satisfies his curiosity by introducing himself to an immigrant farm worker from Yemen. The grape growers strategically kept the different nationalities in separate bunkhouses, partly to isolate them and to foment distrust among the groups:

Ripe Ribier grapes in September - the jewels in the fields.

Ripe Ribier grapes in September – the jewels in the fields.

“What is Yemen like?” Fausto asked.

The man dabbed the last piece of bread in the remains of his stew and ate it. He wiped his mouth with the red-and-black checkered scarf he had pulled from his head. “Where I come from—the coast—it is hot and humid,” the man answered.

Fausto licked his parched lips. “Is Yemen hot like Delano?”

The man laughed. “Yes, but we have monsoons. Many families fish for their livelihood. We are at the mercy of the monsoons.”

“We have typhoons in the Philippines. That is where I came from. My name is Fausto Empleo.” He thrust out his hand, and the man shook it vigorously.

“I am Ahmed Mansur, the son of Mansur Ali Ibrahim.”

“How long have you been in the States?” Ahmed moved his lips, adding up the years. “Thirty-five years, maybe more.”

“Ai, thirty-five years!” Fausto slapped his hand on his haunch. Dust rose from his dungarees. “You came in the twenties. Same as me!”

“When I left, there was so much unrest in Yemen, too much hardship for my family. I was looking to improve my fortune. I took a ship and came here to the Valley to work in the fields. I planned to save enough money to return to Mukalla, my hometown.” Ahmed stretched his legs and sat on an empty wooden crate bearing the label “Cuculich Farms.” “But I am still here,” he said, in a voice as hollow as the crate.

“Me, too. Me, too.”

“It is hard work in the fields, but what else is there for someone like me?”

Fausto couldn’t answer, his hands on his thighs, his palms open to the sky.

***

“Do you miss the Philippines? Do you miss your home?” he asked.

Fausto rubbed his neck where trickles of sweat made his skin itch. “Maybe I missed what it used to be or what it used to mean to me. But I have been here longer in the States than in the Philippines. My family is like a stranger to me. Imagine that!”

“I am afraid to imagine such things,” Ahmed said.

“What do you miss of your home?” Fausto wanted to know.

“Everything,” Ahmed whispered. He folded his fingers together like petals closing for the day. The rocky coast is like a school of ancient turtles sunning themselves by turquoise waters, he told Fausto. The city, crowded with stone buildings and chalk-white mosques, crawls up the base of wind-blasted hills. The whitewashed minarets soar and pierce the sharp blue sky. Ahmed imagined the wrinkles that have deepened around his mother’s eyes, which is not covered by her black chador. He is haunted by the memory of his father—alone in a boat bobbing off the coast, with hands as ragged as the nets he casts out into the deep waters.

***

One of my aunts still picking grapes in her 60s, summer 2005.

One of my aunts still picking grapes in her 60s, summer 2005.

Fausto held up a cluster of grapes. Ripe berries hung down from his fingers like strands of dark South Sea pearls, although these jewels lasted only weeks. That fact made the grapes more precious than any gem mined from the earth or harvested from the ocean. He laid the cluster in the crate by his feet. When he stood up, a sharp pain radiated from his hand, up his arm to his shoulder. He peeled off his cotton glove to massage his fingers and wrist, knead the length of his arm in a slow crawl. How could he forget? The long, hard work in the fields, the ache in his body, the low hourly rate reminded him daily of how costly and dear these grapes were.

Labor Day Weekend: a writer’s retreat

In order to write the book you want to write, in the end you have to become the person you need to become to write that book.
– Junot Diaz

Kayaking with dolphins in Morro Bay, Labor Day Weekend, September 2012.

Kayaking with dolphins in Morro Bay, Labor Day Weekend, September 2012.

For many years, I went down to my hometown of Terra Bella for the annual San Esteban Dance and festivities, which was held on Labor Day Weekend. David joined me, and then when the kids were born, going down there became one of our family traditions. San Esteban was the hometown of my father and many of his cousins who came to the United States from the Philippines in the 1920s, and relatives up and down California and even from Hawaii and Illinois would gather in our dusty little town to celebrate being a part of the social club that formed in 1955.

Mixing flaming orange and dusty pink.

Mixing flaming orange and dusty pink.

When my cousin Janet married her husband Tim, 13 years ago in the central coastal town of Cambria, we added another tradition.  David made a gourmet dinner to celebrate their anniversary on the Saturday evening of the long weekend when we came into town and stayed with them. We had been doing this for many years until last year, the first year after my mother’s passing away, when we decided to meet in Cambria for the long weekend and stay in a hostel. The highlight of that trip was kayaking in Morro Bay and watching a family of dolphins boldly play in the bay, with one breaching right in front of our kayak.

We planned to repeat the trip to Cambria, but we ended up adjusting to having Janet and Tim come visit us in the Bay Area. Family matters made us change course once again. This time, we were going to be staying put at home – something we haven’t done in years. While I was at first dismayed by the break in tradition, I also had a mission to accomplish in the month of September, and now I had an entire three days to make tremendous strides toward my goal.

Mixing pink hues and orange: Gorgeous & Green reclaimed vintage earrings (Berkeley, CA), Lava 9 ring (Berkeley, CA), and Anthropologie clear bangle.

Mixing pink hues and orange: Gorgeous & Green reclaimed vintage earrings (Berkeley, CA), Lava 9 ring (Berkeley, CA), and Anthropologie clear bangle.

I wanted to revise my novel one last time over the summer but never got around to it. Work is starting to heat up this fall and I’ll be traveling again for business. But I’m determined to make good on finally finishing my novel this year. My college professor from Davis read my manuscript earlier this year and while he found much to admire, his main criticism was in the novel’s pacing. I wasn’t quite sure what he meant until I dove headlong into the manuscript. After spending the last couple of days in an intense writer’s retreat, I understand what he means and I am fixing the problem in earnest.

I must have spent 12 hours revising one chapter on Saturday, but I did so in a state of rapture and with a singular focus on technical precision. Wearing sweats, not showering all day, not knowing what the rest of the house looked like, not knowing what David and the kids were doing or not doing, and not caring, I was fully living in the world of my characters. I was refining their voices and making clearer the landscape in which they roamed. I was exquisitely enraptured. This is what it’s like to be a full-time writer–if only for the Labor Day Weekend.

Adding a vintage embroidered purse from L' Armoire (Berkeley, CA), and Mea Shadow perforated wedges.

Adding a vintage embroidered purse from L’ Armoire (Albany, CA), and Mea Shadow perforated wedges.

I am almost half-way through the last revision. When I sent out the 600-plus-page manuscript to literary agents back in 2005 and received all rejections, I bemoaned in particular one rejection in which the agent had excitedly requested the entire manuscript after the query only to say it basically didn’t fulfill her expectations. I had failed, you see. The story itself was compelling, but I did not execute on telling the story in an equally compelling way. That’s when I shut down for four years and didn’t write.

Definitely warm enough for shorts this Labor Day Weekend. Mixing lace and bold African patterns.

Definitely warm enough for shorts this Labor Day Weekend. Mixing lace and bold African patterns.

When I look back at the manuscript I sent out eight years, I am heartened because I didn’t execute then but I know I am doing so now. I am a better writer, with a clear perspective, and much-needed maturity. There is palpable power in that knowledge, in revising and replacing inadequate words, sentences, scenes with the right word, the concise sentence, the heartfelt scene, the right touch in all the right places. When I finish this final revision, I know that I can send the manuscript out into the world again with renewed faith and confidence. I’m nailing it.

I’m grateful for this Labor Day Weekend when I can call myself a writer again. Three days, a writer’s retreat (with a Friday Night girls’ night to watch a depressing French film with a good friend who happens to be French and an Oakland A’s baseball game thrown in on Monday) – is there anything more a writer can ask for? You can always ask for more full days for writing, but for now, I am grateful, I am satiated. One more day left.

Bold accessories on navy lace: Horn cuff from Kenya, a present from my sister Heidi; Sundance rings; In God We Trust banded ring (NYC); and reclaimed vintage matchbox and rosary necklace by Ren Lux Revival (Uncommon Objects, Austin).

Bold accessories on navy lace: Horn cuff from Kenya, a present from my sister Heidi; Sundance rings; In God We Trust banded ring (NYC); and reclaimed vintage matchbox and rosary necklace by Ren Lux Revival (Uncommon Objects, Austin).

Behold the summer bouquets, Volume 5

In joy or sadness flowers are our constant friends.
– Kakuzo Okahura, Japanese scholar, from The Book of Tea

Today was my last day of delivering my weekly summer bouquet to Nerissa, a fourth-grader mom who was the winning bidder of my flowers from my son’s middle school auction. Lest you think my garden is still abloom, these bouquets are from earlier in August when I could still eek out a few bouquets during the week.

Mid-August blooms still look great for this auction bouquet.

Mid-August blooms still look great for this auction bouquet.

This is the fourth year I have donated flowers from my garden for either our elementary school or middle school. They help to raise funds for the local schools and bring joy to the recipients. I, too, get a feel-good-deep-down-inside sensation every time I leave the bouquet on the porch. If you have a flower garden, think about doing such a deed for your local school or other worthy organization before the spring flowers sprout.

Blooms hardly able to contain themselves, nearly exploding out of the vase.

Blooms hardly able to contain themselves, nearly exploding out of the vase.

Taking care of dahlias in the fall into the winter
As we turn the corner on September, I know to leave the dahlias alone to completely dry out their stalks and leaves for the next two months. Don’t cut them down to the ground when they no longer flower; they need the rest of the plant to feed the tubers. That’s why I don’t like to look at the garden in the fall. It’s too sad to see everything turn brown and wither.

A mid-August bouquet for the auction.

A mid-August bouquet for the auction. Still going strong….

Living in California, I don’t dig up the tubers. But this winter I’m going to put down a plastic covering to protect them from the rain. I covered my chocolate cosmos last winter, and not only did they survive but they rewarded me with an abundance of tall, healthy blooms.

A silk and velveteen shift full of deep, vibrant flowers.

A silk and velveteen shift full of deep, vibrant flowers.

Next spring, while the tulips are up and the tubers are getting ready to sprout, I’ll lightly fertilize, take care to weed by hand, and rid of the pinchers and cucumber beetles that plagued them this year before they can multiply and do damage. And I’ll be environmentally sound in my approach, using my fingers.

Ayala Bar necklace (Jewish Contemporary Museum, San Francisco), Carmela Rose earrings, Sundance stone ring, Tiffany basket weave ring, Hill Tribe silver cuff.

Ayala Bar necklace (Jewish Contemporary Museum, San Francisco), Carmela Rose earrings, Sundance stone ring, Tiffany basket weave ring, Hill Tribe silver cuff.

And I’ll dream about when they come up again in late spring, and like miracles in a blink they become bushy, then tall and bushy, bearing beautiful blooms – for me to share, for me to give away, Nature’s gifts.

Add silver pointy pumps and vintage Whiting & Davis silver mesh evening bag to your bouquet of flowers.

Add silver pointy pumps and vintage Whiting & Davis silver mesh evening bag to your bouquet of flowers.

Blog housekeeping notes

When we did not move or speak, there was no proof that we were there at all.
– Marilynne Robinson, American novelist, from [one of my all-time favorite novels] Housekeeping

You can't beat a combination like electric pink and baby blue.

You can’t beat a combination like electric pink and baby blue.

I’ve been meaning to post a blog about technical issues, but I couldn’t muster up the enthusiasm to write about blog housekeeping. But it’s time to just do it and check it off my list.

First, good news: My blog post on The Pollination Project was noted in the press page on the foundation’s website in July. If you missed the post itself, click here to read about the wonderful things this foundation funds.

On August 21, Waterlily of Portland, Maine, also shared my blog post about their wonderful conscious trade boutique. On August 16th, Se Vende Imports shared the same blog post, which included my visit to their equally wonderful import boutique. If you missed that blog post, you can get to it here. It is one of my favorite posts that I have written thus far for The Dress at 50.

Second, as if you didn’t know, you can’t post a comment on my blog. For a brief while when I first launched my blog in December, people could comment, and then they couldn’t. I sought the help of a WordPress guru, who couldn’t find the root of the problem. We concluded that the best solution was to install an outside commenting app. Disqus worked marvelously for a month or two – and then friends told me they couldn’t comment. Forgotten passwords, passwords not being accepted, comments actually being accepted but they never got to me to be moderated and never made it on the blog, and so on. Overcome by frustration, they all gave up. I’m not sure why it’s not working for my site, but I have a solution to share.

Against a velveteen blouse: Lava 9 earrings and ring (Berkeley, CA), Anthropologie bangle, and a three-strand necklace by Israeli jewelry designer Ayala Bar (Contemporary Jewish Museum, San Francisco).

Against a velveteen blouse: Lava 9 earrings and ring (Berkeley, CA), Anthropologie bangle, and a three-strand necklace by Israeli jewelry designer Ayala Bar (Contemporary Jewish Museum, San Francisco).

I created a Facebook page in late spring, and while I don’t post every blog I write, I put up a fair number of them. So if you can’t post on the actual blog, you can post via Facebook. You can access my Facebook page here – or www.facebook.com/thedressat50.

That’s it for the housekeeping news – for now. Enjoy your Monday!

Throw in baby-blue and tortoise print matching readers....

Throw in baby-blue and tortoise print matching readers….