Our community was populated by many rural Hispanics who spoke only Spanish. Neighborhood children weren't doing well in school so San Jose Elementary developed a pilot kindergarten program to help five year olds prepare for first grade. Teachers conducted these classes completely in Spanish, introducing English vocabulary one word at a time. Although it was a far kinder method of education than the make or break one Mom endured in Belen, its well intentioned purpose ended up backfiring on her.
Mom wasn’t aware of the experimental nature of the preschool program so she assumed Phillip was being taught in English and that he was doing well. So when Phillip brought a note home from his teacher which said he was performing poorly in class she was shocked. She asked Phillip if he liked school.
“Uh huh. "he responded. Then his eyes brightened, “especially recess.”
Mom went the next morning to see the school counselor and brought the note and Phillip along. The counselor, assuming Mom didn't speak English, explained to her in Spanish that Phillip was not talking in class.
"Does your son have trouble speaking at home?" he asked.
As a matter of courtesy Mom also used 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.
The counselor continued as if he hadn't heard her. "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.”
Suddenly Mom understood the problem—the teacher was addressing the children in Spanish. Since Phillip couldn’t figure out what was being said, he just kept quiet, in the same way he did when adults around him spoke Spanish.
Mom was upset by what she was hearing. Like many other Hispanic parents of her generation she made sure her children were English speakers so they would receive a good education but somehow the rules as she knew them had changed. The strict Anglo teachers who taught her in the 1930s had been replaced twenty years later by well meaning teachers who spoke in Spanish to her English speaking son.
My son doesn’t speak Spanish,” Mom said, trying to control her rising frustration, “he only speaks English,” and she insisted the surprised counselor talk to Phillip in English.
As a result of language testing Phillip was immediately placed in the first grade. Although it was conducted in English the counselor expressed another concern-that Phillip wouldn't do well-afterall, he was only five years old. But it was the only choice available since all the pre-first classes were conducted in Spanish. As it turned out Phillip was up to the challenge. He quickly became an excellent student as well as the best reader in class, vindicating my mother'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 and with a thickly gloved hand he pulled a book from inside his jacket.
“Here,” he said, handing it to Phillip. “This is for you and your brother so you can read to him.”
While Dad stood by the stove warming up Phillip and I examined the book together. The 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 it: the barber at the VA heard Dad talking about his smart son who was only five and already reading. He 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. I listened in fascination as Phillip read the title of the first story aloud, The Tortoise and the Hare.
“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 and continued to read.
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 loudly.
The next story was The Ant and the Cricket followed by The Little Red Hen. Outside, a fierce snow storm was blowing but I no longer heard the wind rattling the window panes because I wasn’t at home; I’d been transported to a new and special place, the world of books and my imagination.
Phillip had just finished reading The Ugly Duckling when Mom told him to stop because it was getting late.
Who’s tired? I thought, not me. 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. When we finished the stories I pleaded with him to read them again. My brother got so fed up with my begging he announced he wasn’t going to read to me anymore and he never did again. I was desperate to hear the stories yet I didn’t feel I could ask my parents, it wasn’t something they would normally do. Besides, they had their own concerns and seemed on edge much of the time. That left Grandma. The next time she came to baby sit I handed her the storybook and waited hopefully.
“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 to get inside the stories but the words looked impossibly complex and yielded nothing. It was maddening but I wasn’t going to give up. While Phillip was away at school each day I opened the book and pretended I could read. “Once upon a time,” I would say as I paged through the chapters.
One morning I suddenly realized there was another way I could enjoy the stories...I could illustrate them. I had everything I needed, too. 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 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 saying but the little animals in the gray hardbound story book gave me an insight into universal truths which I appreciated and took to heart.
There wasn’t a lot of visual or mental stimulation in our home 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 there was no television or telephone at home. Neither were there books or crayons, 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. Both art and reading would become my lifelong passions.