But it was the following year that I began to see this connection as something more, something that held a meaning I should respect. After a year of night school, where I had greatly improved my English, I was finally convinced by both Berta and Diego to enroll in a couple of classes at the community college. My English teacher at adult school had given me a math workbook with a teacher’s edition so I could check my work, and I had pored over that book faster than Berta read a People magazine. At the bakery, I worked the cash register regularly, and Betty was beginning to show me how to keep the books. But it was Diego who took me over to the college on his day off to help me fill out papers and show me around.
We walked the length of the campus, stopping by a field where a few horses were grazing—part of their equine program, we were informed. My heart rose to my throat as I thought of Manuel’s grin as he led those sorry beasts to me and Rosa. I gazed up at the blue sky and took a deep breath. It was peaceful here at Pierce Community College. I could see myself hurrying to class, maybe even studying on the grass with Luz by my side.
Math Problem #10: Math Placement Review!
1. Change to Mixed Numbers: 9/4
2. Change to Improper Fractions: 7 ¾
3. Simplify (reduce to lowest terms): 32/68
4. Multiply: 1 ½ × 2 ¾
5. Divide: 4 3/5 ÷ 2 ½
6. Berta and I have the combined age of 66. Berta is 32 years older than I am. How old is Berta? How old am I?
On the evening before I was to take the placement tests in English and math, I began to panic. How could I do this? I had never even gone beyond what they considered middle school here. I could not measure up to what would be expected. I was feeling so low, I almost didn’t turn on the news, which I faithfully watched in English every night as part of my adult school assignment. But finally, in part as a distraction, I closed my review books and switched on the TV.
And there she was again. Dolores. She had marched for ten days, one hundred and fifty miles, from Bakersfield to Sacramento in support of a bill for farm workers. In fact, she claimed that if the governor didn’t sign the bill, she would begin a fast in his office. There she stood behind the banner (“March for the Governor’s Signature”), so small, between two tall men, a straw hat shading her face. Dolores, who two years before had lain in a hospital bed just as I had, uncertain of her future; yet here she was, as determined as ever to take on this mighty feat.
The next day, I paid Itzel, the teenaged girl next door, sister to Isabel, twenty American dollars to watch Luz while I rode a bus to Pierce College to take the placement tests. I did so well on the math test that I was enrolled in college level math. Nothing was going to stop me, not even my daily struggle trying to decipher the meaning of rapidly spoken English.
A few months later, my math professor announced to the class that the highest score on our mid-term exam was mine—96%. I carried that exam home with great pride, placing it in the second-best place to my treasured box of stars—on Berta’s fridge. She boasted as much as Papá would have and made me feel like I had won a major award. The next week I awoke to find hanging beside my exam a news article with a beaming Dolores, hands clasped, her face lit with joy. Once again, she was in Los Angeles for a ceremony that honored her work and announced that she was the winner of the 2002 Puffin/Nation prize of $100,000. I sank onto the kitchen chair and gazed into her warm face. I felt such an intense connection, such a deep desire to meet her after all, to speak to her about Papá. I wasn’t sure what I would say, but I wanted so to see her. She had met Papá—and Lara—in their passionate youth. Her eyes had met theirs; I wanted ours to meet as well.
Berta and I followed her trail in Los Angeles, made a few phone calls, but she had already left.
More than a year later, this chance was placed in my hands, literally— by Diego. He and his new fiancée Julie had come over for Sunday dinner in mid-March. Luz, almost three years old now, flew to the door, throwing herself at him as usual. “Tio Day-go!” she squealed, as he scooped her up and tossed her in the air. Once safely nestled in his arms, she began to explore his pockets where she knew some treat was hidden.
So, by the time the leaflet got to my hands, it was wrinkled and torn. It announced a march for Cesar Chavez in a park in the northeast San Fernando Valley on a Sunday morning in two weeks. As I smoothed out the wrinkles, Diego leaned over my shoulder and pointed to the words, “Guest Speaker: Dolores Huerta.”
He offered to take the day off. Berta said she would go as well. But this had been our destination—Rosa and I—so I felt a strong
