Evangelina Takes Flight Page 14

  “I will be there to support Doctor Taylor,” she responds confidently. “He’s been good to me. And my children will get an education, right here in Seneca. Mario can watch the little ones.”

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Love Thy Neighbor

  November 13, 1911

  Mamá, Papá, Tía and I stand at the back of the crowded courtroom, which I’ve seen many times, but never with this many people in it, especially women!

  Now that I’m here I can take a good look around. A long rectangular table with carved legs and five stiff-looking tall-backed chairs face a podium in the front center of the room. A similar looking table and wooden chairs with U-shaped backs sit on a raised platform against the side wall, also pointed toward the podium so jurors can see everyone. A fancy gold-framed portrait of the Texas Governor, Oscar Branch Colquitt, hangs behind the front table on a dark paneled wall. Another portrait of President William H. Taft hangs behind the jurors’ table. An American flag drapes from a flagpole in the left front corner of the room. Flags are so much prettier when they flutter in the breeze. I like the American flag with all the stars, but the Mexican flag is more interesting. What other flag has an eagle with a snake in its mouth?

  There must be thirty rows of tightly packed chairs. Some people I recognize from the shops around town, but many I don’t. A few rows up from us, three men in sombreros and cowboy boots clump together against the wall. The man with the unlit cigar hanging from his lips works at the carnicería where Tía buys her meat. I don’t recognize the other two men.

  The man with the cigar approaches Papá. “Good evening, friends!”

  “¡Buenas noches, Guillermo!” Papá responds.

  “What do you think will happen here tonight?” Guillermo asks.

  “We’ll see, but this effort to keep our children out of school is groundless and ridiculous.” Papá announces.

  “I have three kids at home who should attend school. I’m here for them,” Guillermo explains. “My friends have children, too. Their wives made them come.”

  He nods toward his companions who walk up to Papá, shake his hand and introduce themselves as Armando Peña and Esteban Castañeda.

  The tortilla baker at the market on Washington Street stands just beyond them. Many Anglo customers shop there because everything’s cheaper there than in town. She speaks at least some English, because when she’s not making tortillas, she’s finding things for Anglo ladies or helping them pay up front, sometimes with money and sometimes with goods from home, like eggs, milk, butter, sausages or boxes of fruit and vegetables. A young boy sits cross-legged on the floor and runs a wooden train back and forth in front of her.

  In the public seating area Anglo ladies in full skirts and high-neck blouses swish their lacey fans to circulate the air, thick with cigar smoke, men’s cologne and dinner smells on people’s clothes. Some hold squirming toddlers or sleeping babies, and a few shush their older children. Most of the men wear jeans, button-up shirts and cowboy boots, but a few wear suits and bowties.

  Missus Abbot and Missus Clayton chat busily in the first row, their mouths a blur of motion. Old Mister Greer from the Post Office sits next to them. The family from the yellow house across from the entrance to Washington Street sits toward the back, near us. I’ve seen the man tending the yard. He looks asleep, but he can’t fool me. His eyes open a sliver as he sizes up his family, then closes his eyes again and pretends to snore softly. The woman fusses over the children. All but the smallest one go to my school.

  “Evangelina!” Doctor Taylor, calls, as he snakes his way through the crowd and grabs my outstretched hand with both of his. “So glad you came.”

  “Thank you,” I reply. “I scared.”

  “Don’t be! You have as much right to be here as everyone else. I’m glad to see your parents here.”

  He removes his hat and bows to my mother and aunt. “Hello, Mister and Missus de León and Missus Benavides. I am glad to see all of you.”

  My father shakes the doctor’s hand. “Hello, Doctor. We here to . . .”

  “Russell! How very good of you to come!” Judge O’Leary butts in and extends a plump hand to Doctor Taylor.

  I’ve seen him before, but always in his fancy robe. He’s the one who swatted Alfonso with the “Board of Education” for speaking Spanish at school.

  “A well-respected man in this community such as yourself should have his voice heard,” the Judge tells him. “Make sure to speak up when ole windbag Silver takes a breath!” He says, slapping Doctor Taylor on the back. “But why are you back here with these people?” The judge throws up his hands. “Don’t they know what we’ll be talkin’ about? Of course not!” he snorts. “They can’t read or write!” he says, looking sideways at Papá.

  “Good evening, Your Honor,” Papá states clearly in English and extends his hand.

  The judge knits his eyebrows, mutters under his breath and looks away. His puffy jowls and round cheeks remind me of bread dough that’s risen too long.

  “Well, naturally, I believe in equal treatment under the law. That’s what I stan’ for, as ya know,” he boasts. “But these here people cross the border like waves of rats pourin’ outta floodin’ basement. Then they want food and a place to build their nests. Then,” he leans in, “they think they actually belong here! The good-standin’ reputation of this community is at risk, Russell. Now c’mon up front with me.”

  “Thank you, Your Honor,” Doctor Taylor replies, tipping his hat. “But as you well know, some of ‘these people,’ as you call them, are descendants of Mexican families who owned ranches in and around Seneca, long before any of us arrived. These are friends of mine, and I’m fortunate to have their fine company this evening.”

  Red splotches appear on the judge’s neck folds. “I don’t know what’s gotten inta ya.” He pokes his finger in Doctor Taylor’s chest. “Maybe you’re not feelin’ well. That must be it, ’cause if I din’t know better, I’d say you sound ill. Now you stop talkin’ nonsense afore you dig yourself inta a hole you can’t crawl outta. Now, if you’ll ’scuse me, the man of the hour jus’ walked in.”

  A low rumble of a hundred hushed conversations sweeps through the crowd. People twist their necks to see Frank Silver and his family come through the door.

  Rosemary struts past me.

  “Ahem,” I clear my throat.

  She stops, drops her mother’s hand, whips around and looks me up and down with a sneer.

  “Hola, Rosemary. How are you tonight?” I gush.

  “What are you doing here?” she snorts. “My God, you’re even stupider than I thought you were. Don’t you get it? Nobody wants you here.”

  “Thank you,” I respond with extra honey in my voice. “It’s so nice to see you, too, Rosemary.”

  She pivots with a toss of her hair and rejoins her family, swaggering regally down the middle aisle of the courtroom. The “man of the hour” shakes hands and waves at the crowd.

  “Hello everyone! Thank you for comin’!” he crows.

  Missus Silver extends her pale arm for dainty handshakes and a few pecks on the top of her petite hand. Rosemary’s brother, Frankie, runs ahead and flops on the ground cross-legged in the very front. Mother and daughter take their seats, cross their ankles and fuss with their dresses until they lay in perfect folds.

  Frank Silver steps behind the podium. Frankie scoots closer and watches his father like a dog eager for a bone.

  “Good evenin’, my fellow Senecans!” he starts.

  Behind him a line of staunch looking, stiff-backed men sit in their stiff-backed chairs behind the long formal table. Judge O’Leary is among them.

  “My distinguished fellow council members and I,” he says, gesturing toward the grim-faced men at the table, “can’t tell you how pleased we are to see you here. Your attendance demonstrates you care about this community as much as we do.”

  “That’s right!” a short stout man in a cowboy hat at the back of the room yells. “Those fil
thy foreigners are takin’ over our town and the good railroad jobs!”

  “Now hold on there, Samson,” Frank Silver insists. “Let’s review the facts ’fore we go judgin’ anyone. As a city councilmember and business owner, I base my opinions on fact, not gut feelins.”

  The audience bobs their puppet heads in approval.

  “Awright, les’ hear dem facts!” Samson shouts.

  “Well the question before us tonight is, should we allow the children of Mexicans and Negroes and Chinamen to attend the same school as our own precious young?”

  “No!” half the room hollers.

  “Hell no!” a man adds.

  Missus Abbot stands up and says, “If they don’t speak English, I can’t hardly teach ’em!”

  “For that matter,” Frank Silver continues, “should we allow children of any foreigners inta our schools?” He cocks his head and squints as if deep in thought. “We’ve been mighty generous so far. That’s why we’ve got the Mexicans, the Irish, the Italians, the Jews, the Polish, the Lebanese and God knows what else taking over our town . . . and towns like ours all over the great state of Texas . . . and Arizona and California and New Mexico, too. Now, I’ve been readin’ the newspapers and even talked with a professor at the college over in Alden. He’s been studyin’ these issues and shared some very interesting facts with me. But first, let me start by sayin’ the obvious. Mexicans are a mongrel race. That’s a fact you can’t argue with. Not even you Samson!” Laughter erupts.

  “They’ve already banned ’em from the school in Loma,” Samson jeers. “Towns all over Texas are doin’ the same thing, and California, too! An’ after we ban ’em from the school, we should do it for the theater, public parks and restaurants! This was an upstandin’ town ’fore they showed up!”

  I tighten my throat and shut my eyes tight to keep the tears back.

  “Awright, Samson. Let’s just stick to the topic at hand, shall we? Where was I? Oh yes . . .” Frank Silver taps his chin. “The mongrel Mexican race. To be more accurate,” he prattles on, “they’ve been adulterated by centuries of intermarriage between the Spaniards and the inferior Indian race. This has produced a third, inferior, mixed race. Mixed breeds are feebleminded and incapable of making a living in a civilized society. Anglos, on the other hand, are the descendants of Adam and Eve, God’s chosen people.”

  He pulls a paper out of his pocket, unfolds it, puts on his spectacles and scans the page. “Professor Schmidt’s studies prove that Mexicans and other foreign students have eighty five percent of the IQs the Anglo students do and some even less.”

  “Schoolin’ ’em wit’ our own chillen is a waste a money!” a bald man in front insists.

  “And it holds our own chillen back!” another man pumps his fist in the air.

  “I couldn’t agree more, gentlemen,” Frank Silver replies. “And . . . ,” he starts, pointing a fat finger at the ceiling to make his next point, “foreign culture is backwards. We’ve witnessed it ourselves. The men come here, unskilled and unable to learn a real trade. The women just have more babies, addin’ to the problem!”

  “Make dem sinners go back to wherever dey came from!” shouts a woman holding a toddler on her hip.

  “I could go on and on, but I think this is a good time to pause and hear what you all have to say. My intention is not to monopolize the conversation.”

  People crane their necks and look around in hopes someone else will speak up.

  “Y’all came here for a reason,” Frank Silver says. “A democracy requires discussion, even opposin’ opinions. Whaddya wanta say?”

  “I have something,” Doctor Taylor volunteers.

  “Thank you for getting us started, Doc.”

  Just then, Judge O’Leary shoves his chair back, scrambles over to Frank Silver and whispers something in his ear. Frank Silver scratches his cheek and swallows. The lump in his throat bobs up and down.

  The judge stomps back to his seat, plunks down and whispers furiously to the other men.

  “I have here,” Doctor Taylor declares, “a piece of a paper.” He holds up the birth certificate. “A true fact rather than emotional outbursts.”

  “Is that right? What does that paper have to do with the discussion here tonight?” Frank Silver challenges.

  “I’ll get to that. But before I do, let me say this clearly. Your so-called facts are total rubbish, Frank.”

  “Hold on there!” Samson stands up and growls.

  “That’s a city councilman you’re talkin’ to!” the longfaced councilman next to Judge O’Leary reprimands the doctor.

  “Frank, I don’t care what that professor says,” Doctor Taylor scolds. “Do you know why the foreign born students scored lower on the IQ tests? Because the tests were administered in English to students who hadn’t had time yet to learn the language. How well would you score if you were given an IQ test written in German?”

  “But this is the United States of America and the language here is the King’s English,” Frank Silver scoffs.

  “All right, but let me ask you this, Frank. What language did your own father speak? Was it the King’s English? And what about your mother?”

  A tangle of voices lift up and fill the air. Even the sleepy man from the yellow house sits up and prattles at his wife.

  “What?” Frank Silver sputters. “What’re you getting at?” His eyes dart between his wife and the councilmen who sit forward in their seats. “I never even knew my father. He died when I was a babe in arms.” He wipes the back of his neck with a handkerchief.

  “Your father was Mexican, Frank. And your mother was from Spain.”

  “That’s a bald-faced lie!” Frank Silver yowls.

  “Lie?”

  Doctor Taylor steps behind the podium and forces Frank Silver to step back. “I’ll counter your bald-faced lies with a real fact. This,” the doctor holds up the paper defiantly, “is your birth certificate, Frank. But your name’s not Frank, is it?”

  I bite my lip. Mamá squeezes Papá’s arm. Their mouths hang open. Tía Cristina grins.

  “Your real name is Francisco Rubén Silva. Your father, José María Francisco Silva, was born in Mexico. Your mother, Elena Cruz, was born in the north of Spain.”

  God, please forgive me, but despite my usual desperate need for peace and predictability, I can’t wait to see where this goes.

  “According to your own initiative, Frank,” Doctor Taylor goes on, “as the child of a Mexican father and Spanish mother, your own children are of foreign parentage and would not be admitted to this town’s only school! Is that what you want?”

  “Frank Silver does not speak for me!” a pregnant woman stands up and shouts defiantly.

  The man next to her grips her dress sleeve and yanks her back down. “Sit down, Amy!” the man orders his wife.

  “Frank Silver does not speak for me either! Did Moses not, through the word of God, lead the Israelites out of Egypt?” says a young man in dark pants, suspenders and a striped cap. “Do we presume to play the role of God when we say who can and cannot live among us?”

  “Thank you, Missus Harris and Mister Sutherland,” Doctor Taylor says.

  He looks over people’s heads toward the back of the courtroom. “Evangelina,” he says, “will you come up here? These people should meet someone who’d be denied an education because of this backward proposal.”

  I search my parents’ faces in a panic. Tía frantically translates for them.

  “Go on, he’s calling for you.” Papá turns me forward by the shoulders and points to the podium.

  “Evangelina is fourteen years old,” Doctor Taylor announces, waving me forward.

  “Why is she going up there?” Rosemary asks her mother loud enough for everyone to hear.

  “Don’t let that Mexican go up there!” Missus Silver screams. “Who is she to address these good Christian people?”

  Old Mister Greer from the lumber store pats her hand. “Come on now, Joanna. Let the good doctor talk. Aft
er all, it sounds like your own husband is one of them mongrels he talked about.”

  “Shut your mouth!” Missus Silver shrieks.

  “Evangelina,” Doctor Taylor continues, “is the same age as my daughter would have been, had she survived childbirth. My wife, Susanna, and baby girl, Evelyn Rose, died fourteen years ago, God rest their souls. Evelyn would have lived a privileged life here and had every opportunity open to her, but it was not in the Lord’s plan. Now, why should this young lady be any different? Because she was born two hundred miles away? Because she speaks a language native to her country? She came to Texas with her family to escape the revolution. If your own family was in danger of being murdered, would you stay and wait for it to happen? Would you knowingly leave your loved ones in harm’s way?”

  Tía Cristina walks forward, smiles at the crowd confidently, moves to my side and wraps her arm around my waist. “Lift your head up,” she urges me. “Show them you are proud of who you are.”

  I lift my head up and see Rosemary bore into me with her snake eyes.

  “I’ve known many of you for years,” Doctor Taylor says to the crowd. “Heck! I delivered some of you myself! You’re good people with big hearts! Do you think foreigners love their families any less than you do? Do you think it was easy to leave their homes and risk their lives for the privilege of living in this town?”

  Frank Silver backs up slowly as if no one’s watching and slinks away quietly along the wall. Rosemary, her brother and mother tiptoe down the aisle they paraded in like peacocks twenty minutes ago. Missus Silver extends her arms around Rosemary and Frankie in a semi-circle to shield them from the watchful crowd as they disappear through the exit door. Four families, including the one from the yellow house, Missus Abbot, Missus Clayton, two white-haired women and the man named Samson follow them.

  “You should be ashamed of yourself, doctor!” one of the elderly women in a patchwork bonnet hisses as she makes her way out.

  “I appreciate your patience with me folks,” he says, smiling at the captivated crowd. “Just a few more points, and I’ll wrap up, I promise.