Check out my stop on the blog tour for The Road to Delano by John DeSimone!
by John DeSimone
Genre: Historical Fiction
Release Date: March 10th 2020
Rare Bird Books
Summary:
A high school senior, Jack Duncan dreams of playing college baseball and leaving the political turmoil of the agricultural town Delano behind. Ever since his father, a grape grower, died ten years earlier, he’s suspected that his mother has been hiding the truth from him about the suspicious circumstances surrounding the death. With his family’s property on the verge of a tax sale, Jack drives an old combine into town to sell it. On the road, an old friend of his father shows up with evidence that Jack’s father was murdered. Armed with this new information, Jack embarks on a mission to discover the entire truth, not just about his father but the corruption endemic in the Central Valley. When Jack’s girlfriend warns him not to do anything to jeopardize their post-graduation plans and refuses to help him, Jack turns to his best friend, Adrian, the son of a boycotting fieldworker who works closely with Cesar Chavez. The boys’ dangerous plan to rescue the Duncan family farm leaves Adrian in a catastrophic situation, and Jack must step up to the plate and rescue his family and his friend before he can make his escape from Delano. The Road to Delano is the path Jack and Adrian must take to find their strength, their duty, their destiny.
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Chapter 9
Organizing
T
|
he next morning, hours before dawn,
Adrian crouched under a lemon tree in the early morning dark, across the road
from Kolcinivitch Ranch. Cold pierced his clothes and skin, but it didn’t
penetrate deep enough to freeze the anger swelling inside him. He should be
home in his warm bed, blankets pulled over his head. But he dare not sleep, not
with Papa out here in the fields.
Adrian crouched under a lemon tree in the early morning dark, across the road
from Kolcinivitch Ranch. Cold pierced his clothes and skin, but it didn’t
penetrate deep enough to freeze the anger swelling inside him. He should be
home in his warm bed, blankets pulled over his head. But he dare not sleep, not
with Papa out here in the fields.
His legs stiffened, waiting for the signal to race into the
rows of grapes across the way. Behind him, more campesinos, all of them strikers, hid under branches. One of them
shuffled his feet on some leaves. Papa squatting just ahead half raised his
hand: Stay quiet. Stay low. Don’t be
seen.
rows of grapes across the way. Behind him, more campesinos, all of them strikers, hid under branches. One of them
shuffled his feet on some leaves. Papa squatting just ahead half raised his
hand: Stay quiet. Stay low. Don’t be
seen.
Adrian wanted to add what they all knew—If they find you in the fields, they’ll bust your head, stomp you into
the ground, then drag you off in handcuffs.
the ground, then drag you off in handcuffs.
Papa’s warning rolled through him: Never
fight back, mijo. Do not strike any
of the grower’s men even if they hit you. It will bring shame to la causa, what we work so hard for.
fight back, mijo. Do not strike any
of the grower’s men even if they hit you. It will bring shame to la causa, what we work so hard for.
He had met Cesar Chavez many times at Papa’s house meetings.
A saint in Papa’s eyes, a man with steel in his bones; power in his words. He
would have nothing to do with violent people. Papa believed in this nonviolence
of la causa the same way he prayed the rosary.
A saint in Papa’s eyes, a man with steel in his bones; power in his words. He
would have nothing to do with violent people. Papa believed in this nonviolence
of la causa the same way he prayed the rosary.
Shadows moved among the vines. Adrian squinted into the
darkness, searching the far shoulder of the road. Guards! Their cigarettes
glowed, and their laughter lingered in the air. They loafed among the vines,
waiting. He imagined they held their sticks cocked. They wanted to bust heads.
The guards were big, carried clubs, and didn’t care about anything but the
grapes. Adrian had no intention of getting caught. He had school, baseball,
Darcy, and his future giving him the strength to outrun any of those gordos.
darkness, searching the far shoulder of the road. Guards! Their cigarettes
glowed, and their laughter lingered in the air. They loafed among the vines,
waiting. He imagined they held their sticks cocked. They wanted to bust heads.
The guards were big, carried clubs, and didn’t care about anything but the
grapes. Adrian had no intention of getting caught. He had school, baseball,
Darcy, and his future giving him the strength to outrun any of those gordos.
Adrian doubted Chavez’s talk about turning the other cheek.
Could Adrian do that if one of those goons caught him and beat him? Could he not strike back? Where would it get him
in the end if he didn’t defend himself? So far it had earned his family charity
food, used clothes, and an ache in his belly.
Could Adrian do that if one of those goons caught him and beat him? Could he not strike back? Where would it get him
in the end if he didn’t defend himself? So far it had earned his family charity
food, used clothes, and an ache in his belly.
Papa, in jeans, and a dark jacket pulled over a sweatshirt,
kept his hand half raised. He kept his dark hair, sprinkled with gray, short,
and his sideburns high. It was almost time. The buses full of scabs would be here
soon. The strong smell of lemons brought on his hunger with a fury. For too
long, he’d eaten nothing but beans and rice. Not even a leg of chicken or a
piece of fruit. He could care less about vegetables, but damn, it wasn’t right
he couldn’t choose not to eat them.
Did a boy have to be rich around here just to eat vegetables? Fruit and
vegetables grew out of the ground like weeds here, right there for the pulling.
But his whole family only ate union hall handouts. Everyone had to make
sacrifices for la causa, Papa would
say.
kept his hand half raised. He kept his dark hair, sprinkled with gray, short,
and his sideburns high. It was almost time. The buses full of scabs would be here
soon. The strong smell of lemons brought on his hunger with a fury. For too
long, he’d eaten nothing but beans and rice. Not even a leg of chicken or a
piece of fruit. He could care less about vegetables, but damn, it wasn’t right
he couldn’t choose not to eat them.
Did a boy have to be rich around here just to eat vegetables? Fruit and
vegetables grew out of the ground like weeds here, right there for the pulling.
But his whole family only ate union hall handouts. Everyone had to make
sacrifices for la causa, Papa would
say.
A dagger of light searched the dark. A brown and white
sheriff’s cruiser rolled by. Adrian huddled lower, his face near the dirt. They
had parked their cars far off the road between the trees. If the deputy found
them, he’d unleash his dog. They had to be gone before full daylight.
sheriff’s cruiser rolled by. Adrian huddled lower, his face near the dirt. They
had parked their cars far off the road between the trees. If the deputy found
them, he’d unleash his dog. They had to be gone before full daylight.
The courts had forbidden picketing the Kolcinivitch Ranch.
If Mexicans and Filipinos dared even walk the shoulder of a public road, they’d
get arrested. Damn gringo courts.
They didn’t care one bit about what happened in these fields as long as the
growers got their grapes picked. Adrian fought a rising bitterness.
If Mexicans and Filipinos dared even walk the shoulder of a public road, they’d
get arrested. Damn gringo courts.
They didn’t care one bit about what happened in these fields as long as the
growers got their grapes picked. Adrian fought a rising bitterness.
Gears ground in the distance, then a rumble of diesel.
Adrian gave Papa a furtive glance, catching his eye. He nodded toward the west.
The buses are here.
Adrian gave Papa a furtive glance, catching his eye. He nodded toward the west.
The buses are here.
Peones from Mexico
who didn’t know squat. They didn’t know they were stepping into a war. For
three years strikers had been getting arrested, beaten, harassed, and treated
like dirt. Neither did these scabs know they were being treated as less than a
piece of trash, sleeping on the ground like homeless bums, hunching over pits
to take a crap, and cooking over a fire some moldy beans and rice they had to
pay for with their own sweat.
who didn’t know squat. They didn’t know they were stepping into a war. For
three years strikers had been getting arrested, beaten, harassed, and treated
like dirt. Neither did these scabs know they were being treated as less than a
piece of trash, sleeping on the ground like homeless bums, hunching over pits
to take a crap, and cooking over a fire some moldy beans and rice they had to
pay for with their own sweat.
They wouldn’t know they were walking into a bad situation.
They were told they were going to well-paying jobs in America. Any work that
paid fifty or sixty cents an hour was a rich man’s wages for a peón.
They were told they were going to well-paying jobs in America. Any work that
paid fifty or sixty cents an hour was a rich man’s wages for a peón.
Having nothing rode a man hard—no land, no work, no way to
get married and have a family, no way to buy even one lousy beer. When growers
dumped them back across the border after they had picked the fields clean, they
would go home with some dollars in their pockets. They would buy some necessary
things and sit around their tables eating like rich men in a city of shacks.
They would hold their heads high as men did who had money. That’s what Papa
said they were thinking. That explained why they would traveled so far from
home to work a strange field in the early morning freeze— because they were
hungry.
get married and have a family, no way to buy even one lousy beer. When growers
dumped them back across the border after they had picked the fields clean, they
would go home with some dollars in their pockets. They would buy some necessary
things and sit around their tables eating like rich men in a city of shacks.
They would hold their heads high as men did who had money. That’s what Papa
said they were thinking. That explained why they would traveled so far from
home to work a strange field in the early morning freeze— because they were
hungry.
It is your job, Chavez had said
at one of his father’s house meetings, to
teach them. To organize them, to make them understand they must speak up for
themselves.
at one of his father’s house meetings, to
teach them. To organize them, to make them understand they must speak up for
themselves.
Brakes squealed, and buses turned into the farm road. This
northern section of the grape ranch across the way needed trimming and
bundling. Before spring the vines needed to be trimmed and tied up to the
trellis or clusters would grow scrawny and thin. They would then clear away the
trimmings and throw them into the burn pits. Hard work, but work that required some
skill and training so the grapes would ripen, sweet and liquid. Or else who
would buy them?
northern section of the grape ranch across the way needed trimming and
bundling. Before spring the vines needed to be trimmed and tied up to the
trellis or clusters would grow scrawny and thin. They would then clear away the
trimmings and throw them into the burn pits. Hard work, but work that required some
skill and training so the grapes would ripen, sweet and liquid. Or else who
would buy them?
Headlights flickered as shadows passed in front of the
parked buses. Workers lined up in the road. Papa squinted, tight-lipped,
peering into the vines. This had been his job, training pickers on this very
ranch. First, for Sugar Duncan, whom Papa nearly venerated, then for old man
Kolcinivitch, an irascible cabrón,
who had fired him. Twenty-seven years
of hard labor all ended three years ago. Now Adrian went to school with the
bite of hunger in his stomach. All for la causa.
parked buses. Workers lined up in the road. Papa squinted, tight-lipped,
peering into the vines. This had been his job, training pickers on this very
ranch. First, for Sugar Duncan, whom Papa nearly venerated, then for old man
Kolcinivitch, an irascible cabrón,
who had fired him. Twenty-seven years
of hard labor all ended three years ago. Now Adrian went to school with the
bite of hunger in his stomach. All for la causa.
A thin voice carried in the still morning; someone
instructed the scabs how to trim and bundle the vines. Papa would spend all day
with a group of workers, taking them by the hand, pointing out where to make
the cut—fast and clean to the branch. Then he would check their cuts, teach
them to bundle and tie the vines. What kind of work would these scabs do with
so little knowledge of the grapes?
instructed the scabs how to trim and bundle the vines. Papa would spend all day
with a group of workers, taking them by the hand, pointing out where to make
the cut—fast and clean to the branch. Then he would check their cuts, teach
them to bundle and tie the vines. What kind of work would these scabs do with
so little knowledge of the grapes?
Papa rose on his haunches to peer into the fields. How could
he be so calm, watching these burros
do his job? In the ultramarine light, the scabs filtered into the vines, ready
to work. Papa signaled for the men to spread out. Some went left. Others to the
right. Adrian and Papa scooted straight ahead. He patted the bundle of the
flyers under his jacket.
he be so calm, watching these burros
do his job? In the ultramarine light, the scabs filtered into the vines, ready
to work. Papa signaled for the men to spread out. Some went left. Others to the
right. Adrian and Papa scooted straight ahead. He patted the bundle of the
flyers under his jacket.
He was to give the scabs flyers about a union meeting where
they would learn about their rights. Some would never see a dime of their wage
before they were dumped back across the border. If they were sprayed on, they
would get sick. When they coughed up blood, they would need medicine. They
would need something to eat to keep up their strength.
they would learn about their rights. Some would never see a dime of their wage
before they were dumped back across the border. If they were sprayed on, they
would get sick. When they coughed up blood, they would need medicine. They
would need something to eat to keep up their strength.
Papa spoke to him with his eyes: Be careful, mijo. Those
eyes— confident and resolved—settled him.
eyes— confident and resolved—settled him.
“Remember what we have talked about.” His voice was low and
cautioning.
cautioning.
Adrian nodded.
“Two hours only to convince them of la causa, then you must
go to school.”
go to school.”
A vision flashed through Adrian’s mind—Papa lying in the dirt, a trickle of blood curling down the side of his
face, bruises under his eyes, and the dull pallor of a man on death’s doorstep.
face, bruises under his eyes, and the dull pallor of a man on death’s doorstep.
Adrian shook it off. They edged cautiously out from under
the branches. Adrian squirted across the road, light steps on the asphalt,
soundless in the morning echo, close behind Papa as the shadow of a cat, sleek
with cunning. It rose in his heart why he came here—I’ll kill anyone who hurts Papa.
the branches. Adrian squirted across the road, light steps on the asphalt,
soundless in the morning echo, close behind Papa as the shadow of a cat, sleek
with cunning. It rose in his heart why he came here—I’ll kill anyone who hurts Papa.
John DeSimone is a novelist,
memoirist, and editor. He’s co-authored bestselling memoirs, The Broken Circle: A memoir of escaping
Afghanistan, and others. He taught writing as an adjunct professor at Biola
University, and has worked as a freelance editor and writer for nearly twenty
years. His novel, The Road to Delano,
is a coming of age novel set during the Delano grape strike led by Cesar Chavez.
BookSirens said, “It’s more than a little Steinbeck, in a good way….” He lives
in Claremont, Ca, and can be found on the web at www.johndesimone.com
memoirist, and editor. He’s co-authored bestselling memoirs, The Broken Circle: A memoir of escaping
Afghanistan, and others. He taught writing as an adjunct professor at Biola
University, and has worked as a freelance editor and writer for nearly twenty
years. His novel, The Road to Delano,
is a coming of age novel set during the Delano grape strike led by Cesar Chavez.
BookSirens said, “It’s more than a little Steinbeck, in a good way….” He lives
in Claremont, Ca, and can be found on the web at www.johndesimone.com
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