What's in a name?

What’s in a name?

The name my dad was given at birth by his parents was Afton Leroy.  But later in life (way before I was born) he would become known as “Cap” or “Cappy”.  Nobody called him Afton except his mother and father.  Even his siblings would come to call him “Cap”.  He earned the nickname and answered to it proudly from the time it was first uttered until his death in 1970.

 

A little history to explain how he earned the nickname—no---the “title” of “Cappy”.

The bracero program was introduced in 1942, a year after the U.S. entered the Second World War. The program, negotiated between the U.S. and Mexican governments, brought approximately 4.8 million Mexican contract laborers to work in the U.S., primarily as agricultural workers in California and Texas. The term “bracero” refers to those who work with their arms, from the Spanish word for arm “brazo.”

The Mexican American Bracero Agreement was signed on July 23, 1942, establishing the Mexican government as recruiters and the U.S. government as distributors of cheap and expendable labor. Mexico had declared war on the Axis powers one month before and was thus under pressure from the U.S. to help it overcome the wartime labor shortage. The majority of “braceros” were assigned to work in agriculture, though a significant minority, about one in four, were contracted to work on the railroads.

The government, newspapers and recruiters in Mexico sold the program through an intensive propaganda campaign. For example, an article titled “Impressions of a Worker,” printed in the Mexico City daily El Universal, quoted Antonio Corrales, who had allegedly just returned from working as a contract worker in California. “We work contentedly, eat with an appetite, amuse ourselves, send our families money, and even save,” he said.

He described the braceros as being “joyfully greeted by the North American farmers,” working eight-hour days in the “best possible conditions,” making exchanges of language lessons with American workers, earning abundant wages, having opportunities to save at least 25 percent of their earnings, and receiving a sympathetic welcome by Americans generally.  I'm thinking Mr. Corrales probably worked for my dad or someone like him.

This glowing picture contrasted sharply with the actual experience of most braceros.

Braceros were usually afraid to register official complaints, but they suffered from lack of consistent work, long work hours, earnings that barely covered expenses, unauthorized deductions from their pay, meager and poor-quality food rations, run-down and unsanitary housing, dangerous means of transportation, dangerous working conditions that led to disabling or fatal accidents, and even physical abuse, as well as severe racial discrimination.

As the foreman of a farm camp in the mid 1940’s, my dad was very attuned to the needs of the Mexicans that were, in some cases, being taken advantage of or at the very least being ignored in their simplest requests.  Requests like needed bathroom breaks, dietary needs and so on.  There are stories about workers arriving in the farms camps and being fed peanut butter and jelly sandwiches or hard-boiled eggs with toast and other “American” type meals, when what they were used to, and preferred, was meat, pork, rice, beans and masa and tortillas.  Dad would make sure that there were plenty of those foods on hand that he would provide (at cost) to those under his supervision. 

My mom told me the particulars but I don’t remember the logistics of how he was able to do this, but the point is that no one seemed to have any complaints against my father that were widespread among other camps during the same period.  In fact, once they found out Dad was an American citizen with dual citizenship in Mexico as a consequence of being born and raised in that country, they considered him a “compadre” who could help them with their (sometimes) difficult months away from home with good conversation, good food and a relaxed work environment.  It even made many of the workers more productive than they would be normally.

   

Even though they looked upon him as a friend, they also respected him in his authority as their foreman and many of them began calling him “El Capitan”.  To his American friends and family this was shortened to “Cap” or “Cappy”, which my dad wore as a badge of pride and honor until his death.  I am proud of the way my dad was always fair and honorable to everyone he met and the respect he showed to all, regardless of their heritage or status in life.  He never aspired to be anything but kind and generous to anyone he met and I never heard anyone speak ill of him, ever.  This is not to say he never showed anger.  He certainly did, but it was usually because he saw someone being mistreated or discriminated against  in some way.

 

I can only hope to leave the same legacy of love and respect for my brothers and sisters through Christ of this world to my children and their children.

A jog down memory lane

I don’t know what prompted me to remember this blog entry from August 15, 2010 but the fact that I did makes me think it is the Holy Spirit wanting me to share it.  I updated it to reflect the passage of time since then.

"Teacher, what must I do to gain eternal life?"

The young man in the Gospel reading of Matthew had led what he thought was a "good" life. Jesus' reply to him is that there is only "One who is good." God! If one wishes to enter into eternal life (heaven), one must keep the Commandments.

This he says he does. But Jesus, who sees what is in our hearts, knew that even though the young man kept the Commandments he was lacking, because the most important things in his life were his possessions, not God or His law. He left Jesus rather than follow "the way, the truth and the life."

Personally, I’m not prepared to sell everything I own and give it away. This would present a large number of practical problems, such as feeding, clothing and educating my family. I doubt that Jesus would view it as morally desirable to put the life and well-being of my family at risk.

So how to best look at this Gospel? There’s clearly an important distinction that Jesus is drawing. We all have “negative” and “positive” duties. The negative duties, such as not to kill or commit adultery, are the easiest to discern and allow for the drawing of clear lines. I think that Jesus was really speaking to the well-to-do of His time, many of whom were living in relative comfort and with the contentment that they’d managed to live their lives without killing or committing adultery. I can almost feel the smug superiority of them as they’d pass by the prostitutes and beggars thinking that they were surely headed to Heaven and the prostitutes and beggars were headed to Hell.

But Jesus’ message is that things are far from being that simple, because we have “positive” duties too; most especially to have compassion for those who weren’t born into circumstances as comfortable—or for those who have fallen on hard times. It’s not good enough to pass by the less fortunate without lending a helping hand and feeling compassion. In fact, it’s probably less forgivable than those who violate the negative duties. Who on Judgment Day will be viewed as worse? The beggars and prostitutes who were trying to feed their families the only way they knew how or the rich who walked by them and sneered in contempt and did nothing to help? We know the answer Jesus gave because of His words how He spent His earthly time. We can all learn from His example.

For a couple of years (the last 2 years that Mom lived in Lodi) I served as a Eucharistic Minister for St. Anne’s Church in Lodi.  I loved the experience.  I presented our Lord’s Body, Blood, Soul and Divinity to a few homebound Catholics, including Mom.  I was also fortunate to visit the hospital and distribute Communion there. 

After about a year, I had become pretty complacent in my “positive” duties as a Eucharistic Minister. This is not to say I regretted doing it, just that I had let it almost get routine.  Until I was presented by someone I’m pretty sure was a “plant” by the Holy Spirit to get me back on track and to remind me why I felt the call to be in pastoral care in the first place.

When I walked in the room, the old man was asleep. His daughter was staring out the window. I asked her, “Do you think he’ll want to wake up to partake of Holy Communion?” She replied, “I don’t know. I’ve just tried for 15 minutes to wake him to see if he’ll eat the lunch that was brought in, but I can’t rouse him.” But she tried again. This time, his eyes opened wide and I could see him zero in the cross I wear when visiting the hospital. She asked him something in a language that sounded similar to Spanish if he wanted the Eucharist. He couldn’t raise his bed to a sitting position fast enough! And he showed the biggest smile I’ve ever seen on a patient in a hospital! He thrust out his hand for mine, so I shook it. He would not let go, and kept talking a mile a minute in what his daughter said is Portugese and he was smiling the whole time, giving me a look as though he knew me and I could understand what he was saying.

He was jabbering non-stop (still holding onto my hand), then he laughed, and said, “no compriende, eh?” This I could interpret for myself. I replied (I hope) in his own language that no, I didn’t understand what he was saying. This made him laugh even harder, but did it stop his talking? No way! He went on for another 5 minutes! The funny thing is, what he was saying was almost melodious—it was beautiful! His daughter said his spare time was spent composing poems of prayer to Our Lady and her Son.  I had just been treated to an extemporaneous creation of one. Even though I couldn’t understand the words, somehow I know Mary and Jesus were pleased.  It reminded me of Mary’s own Maginificat!

We began the “communion service” and he became somber and reverent. When we got to the Lord’s Prayer, he spoke clearly and confidently. Up until then, and after the service, it was more of a mumble, as those who are not feeling well tend to do.

When we concluded the service, his daughter told me that he loved talking for hours about God, Jesus and Mary to anyone who would listen. I told her I felt the same way, but it would be easier if we both spoke the same languages! I turned to leave the room, and the old man pointed at my cross and said something. I asked his daughter what he was saying. She said he wanted to look at the cross I have around my neck and kiss it, if I would allow it.  He asked if Christ was on the cross. I explained that the image of Christ is not on this cross, because it was designed to identify me as a Eucharistic minister, not as a priest or deacon. I offered to let him kiss the crucifix that is on my rosary that I carry in my pocket at all times, but instead he pulled me close and kissed my EM cross while I was still wearing it! Then he gave me a blessing! His daughter was interpreting as best she could, but she said she does not speak the language very well herself—just enough to get by with her Dad. She said his message, however, was clear. He was thanking me for (his words) “visiting all the poor sick people in the hospital who need Christ to help them.” I almost cried. I told him that’s why I do what I do. I don’t only bring Christ in the Eucharist to comfort the sick, I am also looking for Christ in the people I meet. That day, I met Him. And I thank Him for reminding me what I must do to gain eternal life.

I am no longer a Eucharistic Minister because I just got way too busy with “life” and “work”, and Mom moved down to Simi.  I would like to get back into it after I formally retire in November.  I also feel like I need to answer a call to teach CCD that Alicia’s parish has sent out several times.  We’ll see.  I know I’ll have to find something to “wind down” from over 50 years in the workforce.