Our community was populated by many rural Hispanics who spoke only Spanish. As a result, neighborhood children weren't doing well in school. To help five year-olds prepare for the first grade, San Jose Elementary developed a new program-kindergarten classes would be taught in Spanish with English vocabulary introduced one word at a time. It was a far kinder method of education than the make or break one Mom endured in Belen but its well intentioned purpose ended up backfiring on her.
It didn't help that Mom was unaware of the experimental nature of this special preschool. She thought Phillip was being taught in English and doing well, so when he brought a note home from his teacher saying he was performing poorly in class Mom was genuinely shocked. She immediately asked Phillip if he liked school. “Yeaah," he responded slowly and without much enthusiasm. Then his eyes brightened and he added, “especially recess.”
That answer didn't sit well with Mom. Feeling that something was very wrong she went the next morning to see the school counselor, bringing the note and Phillip along. The counselor, assuming Angelita Gonzales didn't speak English, explained in Spanish that Phillip was not talking in class.
"Does your son have trouble speaking at home?" he asked.
Still in the dark about the program, Mom was taken aback by his choice of language. However, as a matter of courtesy she also spoke in Spanish. “Not at all,” she replied. “My son speaks very well at home."
Educators should at least speak English at school, she thought to herself.
"Well, we’re trying to teach the children to speak English but your son hasn’t learned any words at all. In fact, he doesn’t respond even though we're speaking to him in Spanish. His teacher thinks he’s a slow learner and may be mentally retarded.”
In that moment Mom understood the problem, the teacher was addressing the children in Spanish. Since Phillip couldn’t figure out what was being said he was keeping quiet, in the same way he did when adults around him spoke Spanish. Mom was upset by what she was hearing. Like other Hispanic parents of her generation she wanted her children to be English speakers so they would receive a good education. Now the rules as she understood them had changed: the strict Anglo teachers who taught her in the 1930s had been replaced twenty years later by well meaning teachers who only spoke Spanish to her English speaking son.
"My son doesn’t speak Spanish, he only speaks English,” Mom said, trying to control her rising frustration. She insisted the counselor talk to her son in English.
"How old are you?" he asked Phillip. "I'm five years old." Surprised by the quick response, the counselor continued questioning Phillip, certain the little boy's answer was not proof of language proficiency. "Tell me your teacher's name." Phillip of course, easily answered every question put to him without hesitation or accent.
As a result of language testing school administrators decided to place Phillip in the first grade, skipping kindergarten altogether. Before that could happen the counselor expressed yet another concern...Phillip wouldn't do well in the higher grade, he was after all, only five years old. As it turned out he was up to the challenge and quickly became an excellent student as well as the best reader in class, vindicating all Mom’s efforts to integrate us into the English speaking world.
Going places in the car Phillip would demonstrate his knowledge by pointing at signs and announcing he could read them. “That sign says STOP. This one says ONE WAY. That billboard says RC COLA TASTES GOOD. This says FOR RENT.” Our parents were impressed with the fact that Phillip really could read and it became a point of pride for Dad at work. As usual, I was too little to do the same things as my older brother but I took note of Mom and Dad’s reaction and learning to read became something important to aim for.
Although Albuquerque has a pleasant climate most of the year New Mexico’s high desert locale also brings cold winters, sometimes with blinding snowstorms. On one of these frigid nights Dad came home from work bringing the storm in with him. It took an effort to push the door shut. Dad leaned against it shivering, his hat, face and coat frosted white. With a thickly gloved hand he pulled a book from inside his jacket and handed it to Phillip.
“Here,” he said. “This is for you so you can read to your brother.”
While Dad stood by the stove warming up Phillip and I examined the book together. Its drab grey fabric showed lots of wear but to my delight, a beautiful illustration of a turtle and rabbit was embossed on the cover. During dinner I listened as Dad told Mom where he’d gotten the book: he bragged to the barber at the VA about his smart son who was only five and already reading. Impressed, the barber gave Dad a book from a supply of magazines and children's books he kept in the shop.
After dinner Phillip and I sat comfortably on bed pillows we'd put on the floor for this special occasion.
"The Tortoise and the Hare," he began.
“What’s a hare?” I interrupted.
“It’s another word for rabbit,” Dad explained. He and Mom had stopped talking and were listening to Phillip, too.
"Well, why don't they just call it a rabbit?" I asked.
"Shhh," Phillip said. He started reading again but the word tortoise was also unfamiliar to me.
“That’s a turtle,” Phillip said before Dad could answer.
"Well, why don't they…"
"Shhh!" Phillip said, more sharply.
That over, I listened with growing fascination as my brother read each wonderful story. The next one, The Ant and the Cricket, was followed by The Little Red Hen. Outside, a fierce wind rattled the walls and windows of our small house but I no longer heard it. I'd been transported to a new and special place far away from Walter Street, the world of books and my imagination.
Phillip had just finished reading The Ugly Duckling when Mom told him to stop, it was getting late. Who’s tired? I thought, anxious to hear more. I could’ve listened to stories all night long.
From then on all I wanted was for Phillip to read to me. As soon as he walked in the door from school each day I’d hold the book out and ask him to read another story. The first couple of days he did. After we finished the stories I'd beg him to read them again. Phillip got so fed up he announced he wasn’t going to read to me anymore and he never did.
I was desperate to hear the stories. I thought about asking my parents but reading aloud to us wasn’t something they would normally do. They had their own concerns and seemed angry and on edge much of the time. That left only Grandma. The next time she came to babysit I handed her the storybook and waited hopefully for her to begin reading a story.
“Que bonito los animales,” she exclaimed before gently handing the book back. She couldn’t read English but I didn’t understand that.
I wanted so badly to get inside the stories but the words looked impossibly complex and yielded nothing. As maddening as it was I wasn’t going to give up. While Phillip was away at school each day I'd open the book and pretend to read. “Once upon a time,” I'd say as I paged through the chapters. Still, I knew it was not the same as being able to read a story. I asked my mother when I could go to school to learn to read like Phillip.
"You're not old enough to go to school yet, son. You'll have to wait another year," Mom explained, but as it turned out, it would be two long years before I could enroll in school and learn to read.
One morning I suddenly realized there was another way to enjoy the stories, I could illustrate them. I already had everything I needed. For paper I could use the grocery bags Mom saved to line the trash can and I still had Grandma's lead pencil. Each story had one illustration so I drew what I thought its sequel should be. Once I finished a drawing I carefully tore it from the grocery bag and smoothing it flat, put it in the book with its story.
Although I was little I felt a strong need to understand the world and to have an orderly environment so the straightforward messages in each story struck a chord: lead a good life, every action has a consequence. Be caring. The tale of the hardworking ant and the foolish cricket meant I’d have to work hard if I wanted to become secure. The ugly duckling grew into a beautiful swan so it was wrong to make fun of others based on looks. I had no idea what the stories in the Daffy Duck comic book were about but the little animals in the gray hardbound story book gave me an insight into universal truths which I appreciated and took to heart.
In our home there wasn’t much visual or mental stimulation so I didn’t arrive at my love for reading and art in a conventional or ideal way. We had a radio our parents listened to at night, something we all enjoyed, but we didn't have a television or telephone. There weren't books or crayons either, even with two children showing an early interest in art and reading because our parents believed we would get our education in school. Instead of discouraging me, my desire to become educated and to learn about myself as an artist increased.