Dario Sanchez, Ray Cano, Georgie Saenz, Richard Sanchez
I came across this old photo as I was rummaging through my parents pictures. Since both my parents have gone to the "other side," my siblings and I are preparing to sell the house, the home we all grew up in, about 65 years of memories and possessions. My mom filled every nook and cranny with goodies she purchased from years of searching for treasures at garage sales, so imagine?
In 1954, my dad, his cousin, Rufino "Peanuts" Escarcega, and some friends took a road trip to Berkeley. All Westside boys, they were avid UCLA fans. But driving to the Bay Area to watch a college football game was no easy feat in the early 50s. I mean, there were no freeways, and if you drove along Highway 101 or 99, you were in it for the long haul, a twelve to fourteen hour drive--one way. I'd have to guess that the above picture was taken before they left, or maybe at a hotel after they arrived. Either way, they look like the celebration has begun.
They were all in their early 30s, still fresh from the military, young husbands and fathers, their entire lives ahead of them, though, by this time, the bottle had already taken control of some, like my dad, a lifelong struggle he finally won in his 60s.
As I studied the picture, I remembered my dad owned a 1953 light-green Chevy. The car in the photo is a '52 or '53, but I'm not sure if it's his. Of course, what got my attention were the words painted on the side, "Calexico, Comet, 'Primo" V. UCLA". Now, none of them was from Calexico, California, but one of them, or all of them, decided to play P.R. man and advertise their nearly half-way jaunt across the state of California.
I'm pretty sure it was 1954 because that was the year UCLA won the national football championship, going 9-0, the top team in the nation. But for my dad and for a lot of other Chicanos, this team was special. It was led by a Chicano kid, number 19, from Calexico, Primo Villanueva, whom the media, and his friends at UCLA, had dubbed the "Calexico Kid". Primo was a star running back, racking up 886 yards that year, the most of any UCLA running back. He also played first-string defensive back, going both ways, as they used to say.
In the 1950s, Chicano role models were desperately needed. If any Mexican characters appeared in movies, they were usually murders, rapists, bad hombres, or, possibly, a few good people, like Sal Mineo, who played a "good" Mexican in the movie "Giant". We'd come out of the 30s and 40s where the media portrayed Mexicans as General Kelly recently suggested "lazy" with the need to "get off their asses."
These images created by the media were everywhere. Yet, the reality in our community and culture was much different. Most of the men and women I looked up to, including my parents, relatives, and friends, were hardworking, honest, strong, loyal, and, to me, damn good-looking and beautiful Chicanas and Chicanos with solid American values. Unlike the thesis of the book Mexifornia, these men and women had no problem acculturating naturally into the U.S. system, even if the system didn't always make it easy for them.
Few Chicanos of my parents generation got off without having to serve in the military, unlike our current president, his sons, or even his father, or many of our legislators and their kids. They have no problem letting others go to war for them. So, when a kid like Primo Villanueva came along, an excellent student, the son of a protestant minister from a farming town, where Mexicans carried the bulk of heavy-lifting, working in the fields in temperatures that averaged 110 degrees, we rejoiced, going so far as jumping in a car with automatic-nothing and trekking across the state to witness an "adopted" hometown hero in action.
Larry Baez, Rufino "Peanuts" Escarcega, Richard and Dario Sanchez
As a kid, I remember Primo's name being synonymous for role model. Everybody talked about him. My dad and his friends would take me to see Primo play at the Coliseum. I was all of seven years old. In those days, at the end of the game, we could rush on to the field and talk to the players. My dad made sure we congratulated Primo after each game before he trotted off into the locker room. If that wasn't enough, we'd wait until after the players had showered and dressed, and as they walked out of the depths of the Coliseum, and headed toward the waiting buses, we'd all call, Primo! Primo! Primo! Of course, he'd wave and smile.
Coincidentally, my wife is from Calexico. Her brothers played football at Calexico High School, one played quarterback and received a scholarship to Dartmouth. They both knew about Primo's legacy. My brother-in-law told me the coach gave him Primo's helmet, mainly because they both had large heads. My father-in-law, who crossed the border from Mexicali to attend school in Calexico before anyone cared about walls or barriers, also played football for Calexico High School. He told me, as adults, he and his friends would drive from the Imperial Valley to watch Primo play in the Coliseum. During one trip, they got into a nasty car accident. They were badly cut and bruised. People on the scene advised they go to the hospital. And miss watching Primo play? He said they sat through the entire game covered in bandages.
When I first visited Calexico, I couldn't understand why the town had no tributes to Primo, or his younger brother Danny, who punted and kicked extra-points for UCLA, the Rams, and the Cowboys. Yet, Primo was the star, but no buildings, gymnasiums, of football fields bore his name, not even recently, when the city honored its past athletes. How could that be? Here was a native son who placed the name of his town in the national spotlight for four years. Before Primo, I'd never heard of Calexico. The city council and school board chose to name buildings and athletic facilities after administrators, or their own family members, for no other reason than being long-time members of the town. At least, the library was named after Enrique "Kiki" Camarena, another native-son, who met his death in the drug wars.
Racism is subtle. It comes about in the least expected ways, a glance, a word, or a snicker. Though today's leaders choose to make it more obvious. That's why, I believe, what our children learn or don't learn in school is crucial to their education. When one constantly hears voices demonizing a race, an ethnic group, or a gender, it takes its toll. I think that's why my father and his friends drove from Los Angeles, across the Central Coast to Berkeley, not just to watch a Chicano kid from faraway town play a football game but to let him know that they were there, offering support, and honoring him and his accomplishments, and maybe, just maybe, in acknowledging him, they were acknowledging themselves and their own communities.
Richard and Dario Sanchez, Freddie Santana, Larry Baez