The Great Depression meant dislocation – along with brutal job and food shortages – not only for Americans but also for thousands of Mexicans and Mexican-Americans living in the United States.
As unemployment swung across the United States, Mexicans were seen as occupying hard-to-find jobs “belonging” to “real” Americans. As a consequence, the widespread prejudice often at play, became sharply apparent. Ripe rough bigotry, openly rampant before everyone. In North Platte, Nebraska, where the town’s modest Catholic population easily displayed itself, we high-schoolers had only one male and a handful of female Mexican students. Prejudice, usually only slyly present became obvious. On our football team the presence of a single Mexican player became vigorously apparent. As a youngster of previously slight size, Jose Flores had to take shavings of this racial hassle. Now his presence at right end was scrambled with his quickening teen-age growth. Abruptly tall, and obviously heavier and more important – stronger than most fellow players, his presence was unavoidable. To the sudden pleasure of our coach, Jose suddenly was making slamming tackles that stunned some opponent teams.
That same time his parents were dealing with the government’s abrupt declaration that it would be repatriating many immigrants back to Mexico. They were offered free train rides across the border. Then came other reports saying some Mexicans whose families were long-time legal U. S. citizens (the Flores family, for instance) were being deported simply for being Mexican. High-ranking Church officials talked with government officials in the state capital. My step-father said government reps vowed that long-resident Mexican families were immune from repatriation – though in practice, this was not always true. Surprisingly, my bigoted-inclined step-father declared he’d speak out for such local sugar-beet growing Mexican farmers. It was a matter of fairness wrapped in practical economics, he said.
About this time, Avrel Beatty, my tight friend, mentioned the havoc Jose Flores was making on the right side of the line to our ego-centric – and popular – quarterback Jim Murray. Our coach agreed with them, and praised the results of Jose’s rough new heft.
Jose, taking a practical teen-ager’s view, said he was just doing what he always did. In his family’s sugar-beet fields, working hard with the rest of his family. Except now, he could do it faster, easier. He’d always worked long hours planting and harvesting sugar beets – a tough job. And now, little, and then no sugar came from other sources.
As a result of hard field work, Jose soon was a vigorous ball player. School-yard bigotry thinned swiftly. That stuff only came from opposition teams complaining that “this spic guy” was readily banging banged up players as he hit – and went through – the line. On a play when Flores was to receive the quarterback’s hand-off, Avrel or I tried to protect him if the play made that possible.
Then, a racist gringo farmer tried to get the Flores family repatriated. Avrel, and I, plus the football team, and the town’s Catholics made life bumpy for that loathsome instigator. He said muscular young men visited his house at night to threaten him. Who could that be?
As a result of Flores family, startled by this unexpected response regarding the repatriation attempt, Avrel and I (and later, others) got sumptuous, exotic meals at the Floreshome.
It also prompted family talk of life in Mexico. That embraced events that marked the lives of the widespread Flores clan. Especially those indelibly touching their extended family still in Jalisco. Yet, we were to learn that, unexpectedly, many Mexicans living not far from Lake Chapala paid little attention to the area.
Actually, though the Flores family made their Mexico seem excitingly different than Nebraska, I hadn’t the slightest inkling what an impact it had – and would continue have – on my life and the lives of those I knew. Later, looking back, the influences of the Flores’ alone was rather slight in the mobility that was soon to cup my life. In great deal it was simply the impact of teen-age growth – meaning the roaring arrival of puberty. With those adventures, came the seemingly innocent influence of Avrel Beatty’s unexpected exploration of the “pocket book” and magazine display of North Platte’s cross-country bus depot. It’s three ample mobile racks displayed pocket books featuring the stunning adventures of juvenile rebels and delinquents of large U.S. cities. Not the best emotional and mental fodder for a couple of country youngsters plotting to out-smart their guardians.
(First of a two-part story.)