Richard Rubio , lost in thought, walked slowly into his front yard. He was relaxed, although his body was bruised and sore from football practice. They had scrimmaged that day, for there was a game on Friday, and although there was little chance that he, as a scrub, would get into the game at all, he played as much during practice as the first string did. It was with the reserves that the regulars conditioned themselves and perfected their timing. Richard had almost quit when he realized that he would never make the first team, but upon reflection he knew that he enjoyed the contact and that the practice sessions took up a great deal of his time, of which there was too much for him at the moment.

The Rubio front yard was a large one, and Juan Rubio, had planted a vegetable garden. There were tomatoes there now, and chiles. The driveway and the back yard, where there was another garden, were neat and orderly. At the extreme end of the property was a chicken coop, newly whitewashed, and rabbit hutches.

He reached the end of the driveway and stepped onto the porch. Then he noticed that his sister Luz sat in a car in front of the house, talking to a boy from school whom he vaguely knew. Inside the house, he was suddenly filled with sorrow mingled with disgust, as he always was these days when he came home. Trash and garbage were on the floor; bedrooms were unkempt, with beds unmade. On the floor of the living room, where two of the girls slept, blankets and a mat still lay, reeking strongly of urine, because the girls still wet their beds at the ages of eight and ten. Only his bed was made up, because his mother could not neglect him. His clothes were pressed and in order in his closet, but elsewhere he saw a slip here, a brassiere there; odds and ends of clothing lay wherever the wearer decided to undress. In the kitchen, the sink was full of dishes, dirty water nearly overflowing onto the littered floor. The stove was caked with grease, its burners barely allowing enough gas to permit a flame to live.

He threw his books on his bed, then went to his mother and kissed her. She sat with one of his younger sisters between her legs, going through her hair with a fine comb. A louse cracked loudly between her thumbnails.

"Go!" he said to the little girl. "Go and bring my sisters here -- and Luz, too."

"But her head smells of coal oil," protested his mother. "She cannot go out among her neighbors smelling like that."

He was angry and impatient, and his voice was harsh. "Do you think that because our house is so filthy, we are the only ones in Santa Clara who have lice?" He turned to his little sister again and said, "Go!" She jumped to her feet and ran out the door.

The girls came into the house one by one. There was a frightened look in their faces, and they immediately began to clean the house. They knew what he wanted, for this was not the first time this had happened.

Where is Luz? he demanded.

"She won't come in," said one of the girls. "She said to tell you to go to hell."

He walked to the car very quickly, in a rage he had never known himself capable of feeling. He said calmly, however, and in Spanish, "Go inside and help your sisters, big lazy."

Don't bother me," she answered.
"What does he want?" asked the boy, from behind the wheel.
"He don't want me to be out here with you," she lied.
"Go take a shit," said the boy to Richard.

Richard opened the door and pulled her out onto the sidewalk. He slapped her twice, and she ran into the house screaming. The boy got out of his car, and he was big, powerful, Richard backed away toward the yard next door and took a brick from an abandoned incinerator.

Come on, you big son of a bitch," he said. "Come after me and I'll kill you!" The boy hesitated, then moved forward again. "That's it." said Richard, "come on and get your Goddamn head busted wide open." The boy went back to his car. "You're crazy!" he shouted. Crazier'n hell!"

That night, for the first time in months, they had dinner together in the old way. After dinner, his father sat on the rocker in the living room, listening to the Mexican station from Piedras Negras on short wave. When the kitchen was picked up, the girls sat around restlessly in the living room, and Richard knew they wanted to listen to something else, so he said to his father, "Let us go into the kitchen. I have a new novel in the Spanish I will read to you."

In the kitchen, around the table, his mother also sat down, and said, "It is a long time, little son, that you do not read to us." How blind she must be, he thought. Aloud he said, "It is called 'Crime and Punishment,' and it is about the Rusos in another time."

He read rapidly and they listened attentively, interrupting him only now and then with a surprised "Oh!" or "That is so true!" After two hours, he could not read fast enough for himself, and he wished that he could read all night to them, because it was certainty that he would not get another opportunity to read to them like this. They would never get to know the book, and he knew they were to miss something great. He knew also that they would never be this close together again. How he knew this he could not even guess, and that was sad in itself, besides their having to do without the book.

"There ware new Mexican people in town, Papa," he said. "In school today, there were two boys and a girl." "Yes, I know," said Juan Rubio. "Every year, more and more of us decide to remain here in the valley."
"They are funny," said Luz, who, along with two or three of the girls, had come into the kitchen.
They dress strangely," said Richard.
"In San Jose," said Juan Rubio, "on Saturday night during the summer, I have seen these youngsters in clown costumes. It is the fashion of Los Angeles."
"They are different from us," said Luz. "Even in their features they are different from us."
"They come from a different part of Mexico, that is all," said Consuelo, who knew of such things, for she herself was different from all of them, except for her son, and this because her great-grandfather had come from Yucatan.
"Well, at any rate, they are a coarse people," said Luz.
Richard and his father exchanged looks and laughed. She flushed in anger, and said in English to Richard, "Well, they ain't got nuthin' and they don't even talk good English."
He laughed louder, and his father laughed even though he did not know what she had said.

It was not until the following year that Richard knew that his town was changing as much as his family was. It was 1940 in Santa Clara, and, among other things, the Conscription Act had done its part in bringing about a change. It was not usual now to see soldiers walking downtown or to see someone of the town in uniform. He was aware that people liked soldiers now, and could still remember the old days, when a detachment of cavalry camped outside town for a few days or a unit of field artillery stayed at the university, and the worst thing one's sister could do was associate with a soldier. Soldiers were common, were drunkards, thieves, and rapers of girls, or something, to the people of Santa Clara, and the only uniforms with prestige in the town had been those of the CCC boys or of the American Legion during the Fourth of July celebration and the Easter-egg hunt. But now everybody loved a soldier, and he wondered how this had come about.

There were the soldiers, and there were also the Mexicans in ever-increasing numbers. The Mexican people Richard had known until now were those he saw only during the summer, and they were migrant families who seldom remained in Santa Clara longer than a month or two. The orbit of his existence was limited to the town, and actually to his immediate neighborhood, thereby preventing his association with the Mexican family which lived on the other side of town, across the tracks. In his wanderings into San Jose, he began to see more of what he called "the race." Many of the migrant workers who came up from southern California in the late spring and early summer now settled down in the valley. They bought two hundred pounds of flour and a hundred pounds of beans, and if they weathered the first winter, which was the most difficult, because the rains stopped agricultural workers from earning a living, they were settled for good.

As the Mexican population increased, Richard began to attend their dances and fiestas, and, in general, sought their company as much as possible, for these people were a strange lot to him. he was obsessed with a hunger to learn about them and from them. They had a burning contempt for people of different ancestry, whom they called Americans, and a marked hauteur toward Mexico and toward their parents for their old-country ways. The former feeling came from a sense of inferiority that is a prominent characteristic in any Mexican reared in Southern California; and the latter was an inexplicable compensation for that feeling. They needed to feel superior to something, which is a natural thing. The result was that they attempted to segregate themselves from both their cultures, and because truly a lost race. In their frantic desire to become different, they adopted a new mode of dress, a new manner, and even a new language. They used a polyglot speech made up of English and Spanish syllables, words, and sounds. This they incorporated into phrases and words that were unintelligible to anyone but themselves. Their Spanish became limited and their English more so. Their dress was unique to the point of being ludicrous. The black motif was predominant. The tight fitting cuffs on trouser legs that billowed at the knees made Richard think of some long-forgotten pasha in the faraway past, and the fingertip coat and highly lustrous shoes gave the wearer, when walking, the appearance of a strutting cock. Their hair was long and swept up to meet in the back, forming a ducktail. They spent hours training it to remain that way.

The girls were characterized by the extreme shortness of their skirts, which stopped well above the knees. Their jackets, too, were fingertip in length, coming within an inch of the skirt hem. Their hair reached below the shoulder in the back, and it was usually worn piled in front to form a huge pompadour.

The pachuco was born in El Paso, had gone west to Los Angeles, and was now moving north. To society, these zootsuiters were a menace, and the name alone classified them as undesirables, but Richard learned that there was much more to it than a mere group with a name. That in spite of their behavior, which was sensational at times and violent at others, they were simply a portion of a confused humanity, employing their self-segregation as a means of expression. And because theirs was a spontaneous, and not a planned, retaliation, he saw it as a vicissitude of society, obvious only because of its nature and comparative suddenness.

From the leggy, short-skirted girls, he learned that their morals were no different from those of what he considered good girls. What was under the scant covering was as inaccessible as it would be under the more conventional dress. He felt, in fact, that these girls were more difficult to reach. And from the boys he learned that their bitterness and hostile attitude toward "whites" was not merely a lark. They had learned hate through actual experience, with everything the word implied. They had not been as lucky as he, and showed the scars to prove it. And, later on, Richard say in retrospect that what happened to him in the city jail in San Jose was due more to the character of a handful of men than to the wide, almost organized attitude of a society, for just as the zootsuiters were blamed en masse for the actions of a few, they, in turn, blamed the other side for the very same reason.

As happens in most such groups, there were misunderstandings and disagreements over trivia. Pachucos fought among themselves, for the most part, and they fought hard. It was not unusual that a quarrel born on the streets or back alleys of a Los Angeles slum was settled in Santa Clara Valley. Richard understood them and partly sympathized, but their way of life was not entirely justified in his mind, for he felt that they were somehow reneging on life; this was the easiest thing for them to do. They, like his father, were defeated -- only more so, because they really never started to live. They, too, were but making a show of resistance.

Of the new friends Richard made, those who were native to San Jose were relegated to become casual acquaintances, for they were as Americanized as he, and did not interest him. The newcomers became the object of his explorations. He was avidly hungry to learn the ways of these people. It was not easy for him to approach them at first, because his clothes labeled him as an outsider, and, too, he had trouble understanding their speech. He must not ask questions, for fear of offending them; his deductions as to their character and makeup must come from close association. He was careful not to be patronizing or in any way act superior. And, most important, they must never suspect what he was doing. The most difficult moments for him were when he was doing the talking, for he was conscious that his Spanish was better than theirs. He learned enough of their vernacular to get along; he did not learn more, because he was always in a hurry about knowledge. Soon he counted a few boys as friends, but had a much harder time of it with the girls, because they considered him a traitor to his "race." Before he knew it, he found that he almost never spoke to them in English, and no longer defended the "whites," but rather, spoke disparagingly of them whenever possible. He also bought a suit to wear when in their company, not with such an extreme cut as those they wore. but removed enough from the conservative so he would not be considered a square. And he found himself a girl, who refused to dance the faster pieces with him, because he still jittered in the American manner. So they danced only to soft music while they kissed in the dimmed light, and that was the extent of their love-making. Or he stood behind her at the bar, with his arms around her as she sipped a Nehi, and felt strange because she was a Mexican and everyone around them was also Mexican, and felt stranger still from the knowledge that he felt strange. When the dance was over, he took her to where her parents were sitting and said goodnight to the entire family.

Whenever his new friends saw him in the company of his school acquaintances, they were courteously polite, but they later chastised him for fraternizing with what they called the enemy. Then Richard had misgivings, because he knew that his desire to become one of them was not a sincere one in that respect, yet upon reflection he realized that in truth he enjoyed their company and valued their friendship, and his sense of guilt was gone. He went along with everything they did, being careful only to keep away from serious trouble with no loss of prestige. Twice he entered the dreamworld induced by marihuana, and after the effect of the drug was expended, he was surprised to discover that he did not crave it, and was glad, for he could not afford a kick like that. As it was, life was too short for him to be able to do the many things he knew he still must do. The youths understood that he did not want it, and never pressed him.

Now the time came to withdraw a little. He thought it would be a painful thing, but they liked him, and their friendliness made everything natural. He, in his gratefulness, loved them for it.

I can be a part of everything, he thought, because I am the only one capable of controlling my destiny . . . Never --- no, never --- will I allow myself to become a part of a group -- to become classified, to lose my individuality . . . I will not become a follower, nor will I allow myself to become a leader, because I must be myself and accept for myself only that which I value , and not what is being valued by everyone else these days . . . like a Goddamn suit of clothes they're wearing this season or Cuban heels . . . a style in ethics. What shall we do to liven up the season this year of Our Lord 1940, you from the North, and you from the South, and you from the East, and you from the West? Be original, and for Chrissake speak up! Shall we make it a vogue to sacrifice virgins -- but, no, that's been done . . . . . What do you think of matricide or mother rape? No? Well --- wish we could deal with more personal things, such as prolonging the gestation period in the Homo sapiens; that would keep the married men hopping, no?

He thought this and other things, because the young are like that, and for them nothing is impossible; no, nothing is impossible, and this truism give impetus to the impulse to laugh at abstract bonds. This night he thought this, and could laugh at the simplicity with which he could render powerless obstacles in his search for life, he had returned to the Mexican dancehall for the first time in weeks, and the dance was fast coming to a close. The orchestra had blared out a jazzed-up version of "Home, Sweet Home" and was going through it again at a much slower tempo, giving the couples on the dance floor one last chance for the sensual embraces that would have to last them a week. Richard was dancing with his girl, leading with his leg and holding her slight body close against his, when one of his friends tapped him on the shoulder.

"We need some help," he said. "Will you meet us by the door after the dance?" The question was more of a command, and the speaker did not wait for an answer. The dance was over, and Richard kissed the girl goodbye and joined the group that was gathering conspicuously as the people poured out through the only exit.

"What goes?" he asked.

"We're going to get some guys tonight," answered the youth who had spoken to him earlier. He was twenty years old and was called the Rooster.

The Mexican people have an affinity for incongruous nicknames. In this group, there was Tuerto, who was not blind; Cacarizo, who was not pockmarked; Zurdo, who was not left-handed; and a drab little fellow who was called Slick. Only Chango was appropriately named. There was indeed something anthropoidal about him.

The Rooster said, "They beat hell out of my brother last night, because he was jiving with one of their girls. I just got the word that they'll be around tonight if we want trouble."

"Man," said Chango, "we want a mess of trouble."
"Know who they are?" asked the Tuerto.
"Yeah. It was those bastards from Ontario," said the Rooster.
"We had trouble with them before."
"Where they going to be?" asked Richard.

"That's what makes it good. Man, it's going to be real good," said the Rooster. "In the Orchard. No cops, no nothing. Only us."

"And the mud," said the Tuerto, The Orchard was a twelve-acre cherry grove in the new industrial district on the north side of the city.
"It'll be just as muddy for them," said the Rooster. "Let's go!"
They walked out and hurriedly got into the car. There were eight of them in Zurdo's sedan, and another three were to follow in a coupe. Richard sat in the back on Slick's lap. He was silent, afraid that they might discover the growing terror inside him. The Rooster took objects out of a gunnysack.

"Here, man, this is for you. Don't lose it," he said. It was a doubled-up bicycle chain, one end bound tightly with leather thongs to form a grip.

Richard held it in his hands and, for an unaccountable reason, said, "Thank you." Goddamn! he thought. What the hell did I get into? He wished they would get to their destination quickly, before his fear turned to panic. He had no idea who it was they were going to meet. Would there be three or thirty against them? He looked at the bludgeon in his hand and thought, Christ! Somebody could get killed!

The Tuerto passed a pint of whiskey back to them. Richard drank thirstly, then passed the bottle on.

"You want some, Chango?" asked the Rooster.

"That's stuff's not for me, man, I stick to yesca," he answered. Four jerky rasps came from him as he inhaled, reluctant to allow the least bit of smoke to escape him, receiving the full force of the drug in a hurry. He offered the cigarette, but they all refused it. Then he carefully put it out, and placed the butt in a small matchbox.

It seem to Richard that they had been riding for hours when finally they arrived at Orchard. They backed the car under the trees, leaving the motor idling because they might have to leave in a hurry. The rest of the gang did not arrive; the Rooster said, "Those sons of bitches aren't coming!"

"Let's wait a few minutes," said the Tuerto. "Maybe they'll show up."

"No, they won't come," said the Rooster, in a calm voice now. He unzipped his pants legs and rolled them up to his knees. "Goddamn mud," he said, almost good-naturedly. "Come on!" They followed him in to the Orchard. When they were approximately in the center of the tract, they stopped. "Here they come," whispered the Rooster.

Richard could not hear a thing. He was more afraid, but had stopped shaking. In spite of his fear, his mind was alert. He strained every sense, in order not to miss any part of this experience. He wanted to retain everything that was about to happen. He was surprised at the way the Rooster had taken command from the moment they left the dancehall. Richard had never thought of any one of the boys being considered a leader, and now they were all following the Rooster, and Richard fell naturally in line. The guy's like ice, he thought. Like a Goddamn piece of ice!

Suddenly forms took shape in the darkness before him.

And just as suddenly he was in the kaleidoscopic swirl of the fight. He felt blows on his face and body, as if from a distance, and he flayed viciously with the chain. There was a deadly quietness to the struggle. He was conscious that some of the fallen were moaning, and a voice screamed. "The son of a bitch broke my arm!" And that was all he heard for a while, because he was lying on the ground with his face in the mud.

They half-dragged, half-carried him to the car. It had bogged down in the mud, and they put him in the back while they tried to make it move. They could see headlights behind them, beyond the trees.

"We have to get the hell out of here," said the Rooster. "They got help. Push! Push!" Richard opened the door and fell out of the car. He got up and stumbled crazily in the darkness. He was grabbed and violently thrown in again. They could hear the sound of a large group coming toward them from the Orchard.

"Let's cut out!" shouted the Tuerto. "Leave it here!"

"No!" said the Rooster. "They'll tear it apart!" The car slithered onto the sidewalk and the wheels finally got traction. In a moment, they were moving down the street.

Richard held his hands to his head. "Jesus!" he exclaimed. "The cabron threw me with the shithouse."

"It was a bat," said the Rooster.

"What?"

"He hit you with a Goddamn baseball bat!"

They took Richard home, and the Rooster helped him to his door. "Better rub some lard on your head," he told him.
"All right, Say, you were right, Rooster. Those other cats didn't show at all."
"You have to expect at least a couple of guys to chicken out on a deal like this," said the Rooster. "You did real good, man. I knew you'd do good."

Richard looked at his friend thoughtfully for a moment. In the dim light, his dark hair, Medusa-like, curled from his collar in back almost to his eyebrows. He wondered what errant knight from Castile had traveled four thousand miles to mate with a daughter of Cuahtemoc to produce this strain. "How did you know?" he asked.

"Because I could tell it meant so much to you," said the Rooster.

"When I saw them coming, it looked like there were a hundred of them."

"There were only about fifteen. You're okay, Richard. Any time you want something, just let me know."

Richard felt humble in his gratification. He understood the friendship that was being offered. "I'll tell you, Rooster," he said. "I've never been afraid as much as I was tonight." He thought, If he knows this, perhaps he won't feel the sense of obligation.

"Hell, that's no news. We all were."

"Did we beat them?" asked Richard.

"Yeah, we beat them," answered the Rooster. "We beat them real good!"

And that, for Richard Rubio, was the finest moment of a most happy night.
[1959]

written by Jose Antonio Villareal

from "Pocho"
© 1959