You Can't Buy Cel: You Can't Buy Happiness

By Kim M Fernandez

Who is Celestino Fernández? Why does he matter? A young man who had he continued to live in Mexico would have had a sixth grade education at best, yet after moving to California, he ends up graduating from Stanford University with a Master's and PhD degrees in only three years, at age 26. What motivates one to accomplish so much so quickly? What

• Language: English
• Publisher: Kim M Fernandez, Author
• Release date: Jan 6, 2021
• ISBN: 9781087940304

Book preview

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You Can’t Buy Cel

You Can’t Buy Happiness

The first part of the title of this book comes directly from the last line of my campaign speech during my run for Santa Rosa High School Senior Class Secretary (Cel comes from the first part of Celestino). I was a junior at the time. It became my campaign slogan. The slogan was meant to be humorous as all three of my classmates and me were running under a combined ticket for all offices; we weren’t looking to change the world, or even the high school for that matter. After all, we were going to be officers for only the spring semester of our senior year. Let’s be realistic, and let’s have some fun, became our motto.

Now, the slogan seems more of one for my life. I have learned the value of hard work and that it is its own reward, money cannot buy this lesson. I have felt the prejudices and inequities of being a minority, but my attitude has often been, I’ll show them. Working harder than others has taken me further down the road of life than I ever expected, much further than any demographic projections would have predicted. At times I have endured great loss and sadness, yet no amount of others pushing for me to heal quicker could move me. I had to walk my own path. I have walked on the edge. I have taken risks. I have taken considerable criticism for some of my work. Naysayers are everywhere. I had disappointments in life and work but many, many more joys. Through all of these I have and continue to push on, to do it my way; to live my life. I have lived my life. It has been a good life. And still as my life continues, You can’t buy Cel.

The second part of the title originates in a special course I created on The Pursuit of Happiness and, more precisely, in the the social science research literature on happiness. Consummerist society, through every maketing message, tells us that the accumulation of wealth and material possesions will bring us happiness. Experience and research findings tell us otherwise. Beyond a certain amount of income and security around food and housing, additional wealth does NOT contribute to our happiness. Sure, money may contribute to our comfort, but comfort and happiness are two different things. There are many wealthy, comfortable people who are miserable. Deep, meaningful, long-lasting happiness can’t be purchased. No, you can’t buy happiness. What makes people happy? Some of the answers are in this book.

~ Celestino Fernández

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You Can’t Buy Cel

You Can’t Buy Happiness

By: Kim Fernández

Edited By: Celestino Fernández, Ph.D.

Cover Photo: Courtesy of the College of Social and Behavorial Sciences, University of Arizona

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Copyright © 2021

Kim Fernández

And

Celestino Fernández, Ph.D.

All rights reserved. ISBN 13:

978-1-0879-4030-4

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Acknowledgements

Many special people, particularly family and close friends, have made my life both interesting and enjoyable, even if sometimes quite challenging. Although all of these special people may not be mentioned in this book, they nonetheless have given depth and greater meaning to my life. Please know that I hold warm feelings for you. Still, I want to acknowledge and thank a few family members here.

A special thank you y un fuerte abrazo to my wife, Kim Fernández, for taking me up on a hopeful comment made in passing about her writing this book. Over the years, she had heard both friends and strangers comment that I should write my story and she knew that it is one of the things I wanted to do in retirement. However, although I had made some notes here and there, I was not getting around to it. Additionally, I like the way Kim writes, story-like, in a less academic style, and she writes quickly. Also, she was not averse to writing about my two ex-wives. Kim agreed to proceed and in no time drafted an outline for the book. As we prepared for a chapter, I would comment on the particular experiences coming up in that chapter, then Kim would write and when she was done, I would edit. Sometimes, when Kim was done with a chapter, she would read it to me. Hearing it aloud was helpful but not always easy as hearing the stories brought memories and emotions to life. Yeah, I’m sentimental. As we proceeded through the first and second drafts, we made notes of events or individuals that I wanted to include in the next draft, as well as of dates and other details that needed to be confirmed.

We let the complete first draft of the book sit for a couple of months as we were going to walk the Camino de Santiago de Compostela. After returning from this unique, challenging and memorable experience, we took it up again. First, there was more writing for Kim and editing for me. In the process of editing, I would recall stories and/or details that I wanted included and I would draft for Kim’s review. More than once, when I woke at my normal 4:00am, I’d be thinking about details that had not come to me earlier and I’d draft, often in longhand. Then it was time to select and add photographs; not an easy task as there were many to choose from.

Although Kim wanted some artistic license, my interest was simply that my story, as told in this book, be as accurate as possible, without embellishment; that it represents my truth, and without the intention of hurting anyone’s feelings. I believe Kim did an exceptional job. To be clear, however, I take responsibility for any innacuaries and shortcomings in the book; they were not intentional but simply the result of my faulty memory. Of course, there are many other experiences and/or details that could not be included simply due to space and/or my lack of recollection of the necessary details.

I also want to acknowledge and thank my parents, Celestino Fernández Fernández and Angelita Barragán de Fernández. There was never, ever any question that they loved me and supported me throughout my life, even when they did not agree with me or fully understood what I was up to. Although it has been years since they passed into eternal life, I still miss them. I miss the opportunities to share things and experiences with them, especially those that I know they would enjoy. It saddens me that they are not alive to read this book. Que en paz descansen.

Thank you to my children, as well, Kristina Marie Fernández and Celestino Fernández, III. In their own different ways, they have contributed to the joy and fullness of my life. I have enjoyed working, visiting and running with both of them. In addition, they have brought special grandchildren into Kim’s and my lives: Hayley Tucker, Croydon Ceder Rask, Leverett Lake Rask, and Celestino Chance Fernández, IV. Another Celestino! What more can I say?

I acknowledge my sisters, Luz María Lucha Segura and Blanca Estela Ramírez, and brother, Conrado Conrad Fernández. They, too, have contributed to the quality of my life; we have shared many experiences, some of which are in this book.

As Kim knows, Kathy Gouze and Jannie Cox, were also very instrumental in shaping my life; with Kathy being my first wife and mother to our two children and Jannie for her unrelenting reliability as a partner. Each of my three wives has been special in their own way and came into my life at the right time. I have loved all three and love you still, and I’m sorry for any hurt I caused. I hope you have forgiven me.

Thank you again, Güera, for being who you are and for our many special and enjoyable experiences, including the writing of this book. I look forward to sharing many more as our camino continues. Que Dios te cuide y te bendiga. Un fuerte abrazo, Anam cara.

~ Celestino Fernández

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Chapter 1 - Pursuing and Finding Happiness

Here's a little song I wrote

You might want to sing it note for note

Don’t worry, be happy

In every life we have some trouble

But when you worry you make it double

Don’t worry, be happy

Don’t worry, be happy now

~Partial lyrics to the international a cappella hit song, Don’t Worry, Be Happy, by Bobby McFerrin

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slight nervous distraction was interfering with my hearing as the tech was talking about the microphone as he strapped it to my back and wrapped the speaker around my ear so that the mouthpiece flopped about as I turned my head from one side to the other. My stomach feels slightly nauseous, even though I was careful to not eat anything for the last several hours. I know this feeling and I welcome it. It was right to feel a little nervous before any lecture. Certainly I don't want to ever feel jaded or bored with what I am doing and don't want to leave that feeling with any audience. For the past 43 years I have gotten so many excellent teaching reviews and earned the Distinguished Professor title, all because I work hard to prepare myself, keep my work current and my lectures fresh. I take a swig of water to clear my throat, pace a bit and take a few deeper breathes to feel calm. I remind myself of the hours of sitting at my desk working on this presentation and the hours of practice. I had spent many years of my life preparing and perfecting as I had always felt compelled to do more, do better than others, to cover all bases so there wouldn't be any room for naysayers to make claims that I, originally a poor Mexican, was anything less than. These thoughts energized me and my back straightened. I looked to the Heavens and crossed myself. I was ready.

The Fox Theater in downtown Tucson is a lovely piece of historic architecture, originally built in the late 1920's and opened in April 1930. After sitting empty for nearly 25 years, it was beautifully restored and re-opened in late 2005. All the murals, including the large open ceiling, were done in an art deco style with lots of gold leaf and jewel tones of amethyst, ruby, emerald and sapphire. Heavy, plush velvet and red-burgundy drapes formed the backdrop across the proscenium. How strange it was to see my smiling image projected so largely on the screen that was 38 feet wide by 16 ½ feet tall. The main floor and balcony held 1200 seats, all full, including one holding my younger brother, Conrad, who flew in from California for the lecture and with whom I had had a relaxing lunch and afternoon. Another 300 attendees were turned away and sent to a nearby building with an overflow hall to just watch a projection of me talking. Who knows how many are tuned into the live feed, besides my sisters, nieces and nephews in Santa Rosa, California. There are so many people with a hunger to learn more about Pursuing and Finding Happiness, the title of my lecture.

How can so many people be searching for happiness? All statistics show that globally, happiness is trending downward and other factors, such as depression, anxiety, loneliness and suicide are trending upward. I'd like to think that I wake up happy every day, but then I think of times when that was not always the case, like when we first came to the U.S. I was only eight years old. I didn't want to leave our home in Santa Ines, a small pueblo in central Mexico of less than 800 people, perhaps half were my relatives. Ah, Lindo Michoacán, the title of the song brings such warm memories, which made the stop at a Drive-In at the border town of Nogales, Arizona all the colder. My father had asked my sisters and me to be patient while the family was going through immigration and getting vaccinated (a practice common in those days because, heaven forbid, if we Mexicans should bring across any diseases with us). Dad had been driving my mother, older sister, younger sister and I for two days, with all of the clothes we owned, along with other essentials like blankets, stuffed in the two-toned, yellow and white, 1956 Ford Fairlane. Oh how Dad loved that car. He kept it for about 20 years. He was so proud to own such a car! No one in our town owned a car in those days. We, my sisters and I, sat in the back seat on top of suitcases and boxes of clothes; cheese my grandfather made sat beneath our feet. We were riding high, but not emotionally and when my Father, who had been in the States before, wanted to proudly treat us to American hamburgers at the drive-in, things quickly went downhill. We didn't like the look of these strange sandwiches; hell, we had never eaten sandwiches in our lives, and although hamburgers are common throughout Mexico today, indeed throughout the world, there were no hamburgers anywhere in Mexico in 1957. We had never seen round meat, all pressed together in a patty-form, yet easy to fall apart. In fact, in Santa Ines, we rarely ate beef, more chicken and pork than beef. Michoacán is known for carnitas. We didn’t like the taste of the strange meat and only nibbled on the bread. Then the French fries, what were they? Dad told us they were potatoes and we certainly knew potatoes but had never seen them in that shape or fried in oil, everything my Mom cooked was in pig lard and over an open fire. Americans only have smoked meats; we had smoked everything. There seemed to be some tomato, but it did not taste like the tomatoes I knew. But worst of all, the milk was cold! Not room temperature cold, freezing cold! I can still recall the first swig of that milk, enough to make my stomach turn. We had never had cold milk; no one in Santa Ines owned a refrigerator. Not Mom, not my sisters, nor I could eat the food or drink the milk. We knew milk was warm. Why, I knew from squeezing the teats on my Abuelo's cows when I often did when helping with the daily milking. If I was not helping, it was still warm, when back from the milking, a small barro (clay) pitcher was delivered to our house by my tío or madrina. The entire first introduction to things American left us cold, longing for the warmth back home. It was just the start of the long and painful culture shock to follow.

Two days later, when we got to our final destination, Santa Rosa, California, we uncurled our cramped legs. Everything, I mean everything was so different, the food, the sights, the sounds, the smells, so many freeways, cars, big cities, row after row of houses, and so many people – everywhere, about 40,000 in Santa Rosa alone. All of it was frightening. Our house at 207 W. 3rd St. was owned by my father’s employers, the Bertoli(s), who lived a five-minute walk further west on the same street. Our house was a typical northern California home, wooden structure, with wood siding and steps leading up to a small front porch. It had two bedrooms, a living room, and a basement. Another room made up the kitchen and dining area, and lastly, a first for us, an indoor bathroom. The clothes washer (no dryer) was in the basement. Mom had to learn how to use the gas stove and clothes washer; there were no such things in Santa Ines. Even though the house had windows and we’d open them to get fresh air, we always felt like we were suffocating; most of our living in Santa Ines, even today, is done outdoors, even when one is in the house. It took time to adjust to living inside. It took years to adjust to the culture shock.

As a child, I clung to my Mother a lot more and didn't want to talk. Soon after our arrival, off to school we had to go. I had been to school in Santa Ines where the nuns carried me around and hugged me. They loved and held me so much that one time I peed myself while Mother Glafira was holding me so the nuns would stop carrying me. Would they want to hold me at my new school? My sisters and I held hands as we crossed the railroad tracks and walked the nine blocks to Roseland Elementary School on Sebastopol Road. It took us 15 minutes to walk to the end of the block, turn left, across a field (where the freeway is now) on dirt paths, then turn right a long block to the elementary school. I didn’t like going by the railroad tracks which are gone now, because that is where the hobos were and they scared me. We were the first children from Mexico to attend the school. So many days, I didn't want to go and asked my parents to send me back to Santa Ines to live with my grandparents. I cried but did what was asked of me. Based on my age, they put me in second grade. I just sat in class and when the other children all got up from their seats to say the pledge of allegiance; I also stood but said nothing. When the students got up to go out to the playground, so did I. No one tried to hold me but the teacher, Mrs. Albrecht, patted me on the shoulder and tried to sooth my fear. I could easily do the math problems on the board, since math was familiar. Slowly, I recognized that on Fridays, the words that were written on a corner of the chalk board all week would disappear and that as the teacher said them we were supposed to write them on our paper. I got quite good at spelling those words as I memorized them phonetically, even though I never knew how to pronounce them or what they meant. My parents saved all of our report cards, so I still have one of my 2nd Grade Report Cards where Mrs. Albrecht wrote a note that says, I don't know if he can speak, he has never said a word. What was I supposed to say and to whom? I could not speak English and not a soul at the school, except for my sisters, could speak Spanish. So much has changed since those early days of my schooling in the 1950’s as not long ago, I was curious and checked the enrollment statistics at Roseland Elementary; it is over 90% Latino, mostly of Mexican origin or ancestry.

It’s a beautiful October evening in Tucson and I need to listen for my cue, the Dean of the University of Arizona’s College of Social and Behavioral Sciences, John Paul Jones III (JP as he is commonly and affectionately known), is about 8 minutes into his introduction of me. The part where he introduces me is actually very short, but I understand he has to perform his Deanly duties and thank all the sponsors and recognize dignitaries. The Arizona Daily Star, Tucson Medical Center and the Magellan Circle, a group of individuals who donated money and need to be publicly recognized and thanked, all need their backs scratched. Now JP is introducing me and, of course, he mispronounces my name, Celestino Fernández, as Celestino Hernández. Usually, it's my first name that causes people to pause, mangle and mispronounce. On several occasions, I've even been called Fernando because people just gloss over my first name and make-up what they see from my last name, but this time, Hernández. Really? I have been at the University of Arizona for almost 40 years, including a time when I was JP's boss' boss back when he was a Director in the Geography Department and I was a Vice-President in Academic Affairs. JP and I get along well, so I know it was not a slight, but only his nerves that caused him to stumble. After all, this is the initial lecture in the new public lecture series that the College was using to showcase its academic breath and rigor, so I understand his nervousness. I am excited to be the lead speaker in the series that includes five lectures on happiness. The theme itself was inspired by a course I created and taught on happiness.

Now I hear the crowd clapping, John Paul is walking off stage and the American flag is waving on the big screen. The words to the Pre-Amble of the Declaration of Independence of the United States appear in front of the waving flag. President John F. Kennedy is heard reading the words. This is my cue and I walk on-stage as he finishes with, We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable Rights, that among these are Life, Liberty and the pursuit of Happiness. Once again, I think of how far I have come in this culture, since not speaking in 2nd grade.

The following morning Lydia Breunig, the event’s main organizer sent an email that said: You did a really remarkable job last night. We have heard nothing but good things about the event. People had a good time, were engaged, and left wanting more. Your energy, humor, and the hours of time you put into your presentation were critical to our success… You were the perfect person to kick off the first annual lecture series.  Thank you, thank you, thank you! Hopefully JP can relax now.

As I was musing on-stage prior to the Fox Theater presentation, I am heartened and saddened at the same time by how many people are interested in the subject of Happiness. The lecture was in 2013 and I still run into people who attended and were impacted; they commonly say, I enjoyed the talk, but came away thinking about how I need to smile more often and spend more quality time with my family. Initially, I had been invited to speak because I had developed a course on The Pursuit of Happiness, a course that from its inception was hugely popular with students; for example, every spring when I taught the course, the auditorium was filled with over 500 students, and I often had a waiting list. Previously, I had been teaching a course on Popular Culture and knew that the students like all of us, were bombarded with advertising. All of the advertising has basically the same underlying message: Buy/do this and you’ll be HAPPY; and Buy a bigger or newer one and you'll be HAPPIER. Although many students generally didn't really believe these messages, I could tell that most were searching because they didn’t know what would bring them deep, lasting happiness. I started doing more research and found a good deal of solid material on happiness and wellbeing. I read in every field, beginning, of course, with my own, sociology and continuing in philosophy, psychology, history, religion, economics, political science, biology, neuroscience, literature, and poetry; you name it, anything having to do with happiness, I was reading it. My wife, Kim, wondered when I was going to stop reading about happiness, I had stacks and stacks of books, journal articles and videos on the floor by my desk in the home office, another stack on my nightstand and more stacks in my office at the University. I enlisted the assistance of Jessie Finch, a doctoral student in our program who had been serving as my RA (Research Assistant) and TA (Teaching Assistant), but other than Kim and Jessie, no one else was aware that I was thinking of creating a course on happiness.

In 2011, I submitted my new course curriculum for approval through all of the University’s levels, beginning with the School of Sociology, the College of Social and Behavioral Sciences, the General Education Committee, and finally the University-wide Undergraduate Council. The course would be interdisciplinary and fulfill all General Education requirements, including writing and diversity. The feedback was overwhelmingly favorable at every level of review and those that were involved in the process kept commenting to me, the course sounds really interesting, I want to take it, a comment I hear almost every time someone new learns of my course. The course was first offered in the spring semester of 2012. That January the UA News announced:

"The class, taught by UA sociology professor Celestino Fernández, examines the interplay between individual and social happiness by comparing happiness among ethnic, religious and other social groups.

‘I want students to understand that most of popular culture around the notion of happiness is based on myths,’ said Fernández, ….He added that the act of pursuing ‘material goods, does not result in happiness, which is what our consumerist culture would have us believe, particularly young people’…..Fernández said that happiness to him means finding your passion and making that a career, while having other interests to pursue.

‘Happiness, like most things in life, if we are lucky to live long and healthy, is about the long haul, the marathon, not immediate gratification’".

Some people thought the course was fluff, a common word in academia used by naysayers to try to discredit any new and particularly popular course they didn’t invent, but I didn’t care, the course had been reviewed and approved by all pertinent committees. Moreover, I knew the academic literature on happiness was rapidly growing and solid. The course, by its attendance, proved popular that first spring semester and soon at least four other departments copied and offered courses on happiness, but none were as successful as mine. I used to jokingly say that, They can copy my syllabus, but they can’t match my teaching! Now other universities, including Yale, offer courses on happiness and wellbeing.

Over the years that I offered the course, initially in collaboration with Jessie until she completed her doctorate and left for another university (where she also has taught the course), students gave me much positive feedback, including directly in person, on anonymous end-of-course evaluations and on the popular website, Rate My Professor: Professor Fernandez is passionate about what he teaches and that makes it so much more interesting. I would take this class again if I could. Or The subject matter in itself was amazing, and is taught very well by Professor Fernandez. Or Dr. Fernandez is AMAZING! and Love this class….I recommend to every major. More than one student has told me, that at the end of each class, they had to telephone their mother right away to tell them about the topics covered in the latest lecture because their mothers were so interested in the material. I used to joke with such students: Send your mother the syllabus and make her do the readings and the assignments. Many students have told me about their depression and how the course helped them to see what was important in their lives. One student even spoke in class for several minutes about how the required journal had helped her come to terms with the abuse she had received as a child, something that she had not been able to deal with even through years of counseling. When she finished talking, students spontaneously started clapping. I thanked her for her willingness to share and for her bravery in doing so.

Other students changed majors as a result of my class because they realized that their major had been selected for them, usually by parents, but it was not the major that was going to give their lives meaning and fulfillment, make them happy. One student wrote in her journal that she quit her job, inspired by my lecture and the readings on happiness and work and because life was too short to work at a job I hate, although it pays well. I emailed her immediately after reading this and asked how things were going since I was worried that she might have made a hasty or rash decision. She wrote back that she was, So happy having quit. I had more time to study for my finals, I did well and retained my scholarship, and then I got another job that I really love, even though it doesn’t pay as much as the previous one! I was both pleased and relieved.

On field assignments, in particular, one that asked them to smile at others throughout one day and to observe both themselves and others, Smile your natural smile, I told them, not a grin or a smirk, some reported back that coworkers were friendlier, smiled back or touched them on the shoulder, some even got hugs because you look so happy; all friendly, engaging gestures that they had not experienced before. The comments that endeared me the most were when students wrote that the course changed their lives in positive ways. Current and past students send me links to readings and video clips on happiness, as well as suggestions for songs I should play in class, since in every class I’d play a happiness song whose theme directly related to the main topic of that day’s class. Every semester, several students comment that the course should be required of all students. I knew I was onto something with this course and it was gratifying that students were benefitting from it.

Soon, the Happiness Lecture got wings, word got out and since it’s recorded on the internet there’s no telling how many people have seen the presentation, even during the 2020 Corona virus pandemic when people were quarantined in their homes, the University of Arizona was promoting people to watch it and avoid/counter anxiety and depression. I’ve been invited to give it, in modified form tailored to the audience (to audiences ranging from 25 to 1500), over 30 times, including throughout Arizona, in California, Washington, DC, Bucharest, Romania, as well as in Mexico, in Spanish, my first language, the language of Santa Ines.

Where Memories Are Stored

~By Celestino Fernández, Ph.D.

What else, besides blood,

runs through our veins?

Scientists say that the memory

is located in the brain

but those of us who have been uprooted,

like vegetables whose roots grow deep in the ground,

plucked from our natural environment

plucked from the rich dirt that nourished us

that gave us life and the security of home

plucked with our cultural roots left exposed,

dangling to dry

until transplanted in another soil, not our mother earth,

where some, the lucky, will survive.

Those of us who have been plucked and transplanted

we know, we know that our veins carry

not only our life blood but also our life memories

memories of another earth

of the dirt that helped form who we are today.

And on those occasions when we return to our native land

to the dirt of our youth

as we approach the place we instinctively call home

our hearts beat faster as the memories move through the veins

as the passion of our recollection awakens the memories

that the mind now, too, recollects

and the voice attempts to capture

even if only with a sigh.

The veins carry the memories

all of them, intact

they do not forget

they never forget

never.

July 22, 2002, Guadalajara, Mexico (written after a trip to Santa Ines)

Chapter 2 - The Values of Work

Once social change begins, it cannot be reversed. You cannot uneducate the person who has learned to read. You cannot humiliate the person who feels pride. You cannot oppress the people who are not afraid anymore. We have seen the future, and the future is ours.

~César Chávez

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have held a paying job since I was 8, when we moved to the U.S. I bent over to pick up so many apples and brush at the Bertolis’ Apple Orchard that I got stretch marks in the skin of my lower back. They have never gone away, nor has my love gone away to be outside, cleaning and maintaining my own yard. To this day, I maintain our property with its many plants and thirty or so fruit trees, our little orchard. I can’t hire someone else to do this work that I so love and need to connect me to both who I am and to the dirt under my feet, the current that flows in the sap of trees, and even to the sticky milk of weeds. Yes, I have learned the values of hard work and that hard work that one enjoys is gratifying and life-giving. My sisters, brother and I learned much about the value and dignity of work from both of our very hard-working parents. For many years, for example, my father worked seven days per week, on Wednesday through Sunday at one job and Monday-Tuesday, at another one.

The Bertolis, just saying their family name brings a smile. Not only their last name, but their first names were funny to us, too; Augustine, Goo or Mr. B was the head of the family, his brother was called Pud, I never learned his real name. There was Mrs. B, Goo’s wife, I don't think we ever called her anything else and we certainly didn't call her by her first name, Vivian. Goo and Mrs. B had five sons: Auggie, Cookie, Mark, Phil and Chally. When Mrs. B was upset, she used the boys’ formal first names, and sometimes the first, middle and last names. Over time, we learned their first names were actually: Augustine, Ralph, Marcus, Philip, and Joseph.

Mr. B had helped obtain first my Father and later the rest of our family's Green Cards, Permanent Resident Alien visas, as they are commonly known today when they are no longer green. It came to this after my father worked for a bilateral program set up between the U.S. and Mexican governments during World War II, when thousands of American men were overseas at the front and American women were working in the factories. The U.S. needed young men to work on the home front, primarily in agriculture. It was called the Bracero Program. The Bracero Program recruited nearly 4.6 million Mexican men, including my father, to work legally in the U.S. temporarily, primarily on farms but also on railroads and in factories.

…for the purpose of assisting in providing an adequate supply of workers for the production and harvesting of agricultural commodities.

~ portion of the Bracero Program Mission

The Bracero Program started in 1942 and was supposed to be in effect for four years. It proved so successful for both the U.S. and Mexico that it kept getting extended, finally ending in 1964 when the Mexican government refused to sign the extension because the U.S. would not agree to guaranteed hourly wages, housing and sanitation facilities for the Braceros. The term, Bracero, comes from the Spanish word brazos, meaning arms and referring to one who works using his arms, similar to the concept of manual labor, work done with the hands. After 22 years, the program ended, while successful because it helped the U.S. maintain its production with cheap labor during the war and afterwards and it helped Mexico with its under- and unemployment, it also had many failures, some that continue to haunt U.S. immigration policies today. Many employers found it easier to circumvent the cumbersome government paperwork, rules and regulations and just hire needed seasonal workers directly, paying them cash, under the table. Although the Bracero Program provided a livelihood for millions of Mexicans and their families, it was exploitative. For example, the program guaranteed a minimum wage of 30 cents an hour and part of the braceros’ earnings were to be put into a savings account in Mexico to be later accessed by the braceros. However, reality seldom matched the requirements. Braceros were told by recruiters that they would be guaranteed 30 cents an hour but when they arrived on the job they were seldom paid this amount and, as my father said, found themselves working 10-hour days at 21 or 23 cents an hour, or whatever the employer wished to pay them. Many employers took advantage of workers by threatening deportation. Workers, now dependent on U.S. wages to support families back home, often suffered slave-labor conditions. The American government did nothing to enforce the principles of the formal agreement. Braceros were prohibited from striking or negotiating wages. Also, although millions of braceros worked for many years, they never saw a single penny of the money that was supposedly in the savings account in Mexico. Apparently, the Mexican government used it for other purposes. Only in recent years have a handful of former braceros been able to recover some of their earnings. But my Father, like most braceros, never received a penny of this money for which he worked so hard.

I’m glad my Father dropped out of the Bracero program before the 1950s when things got worse as braceros were now processed through U.S. Reception Centers and required to pass a series of physical examinations, strip and be sprayed with DDT before being sent to their work sites.

I still have my father's short-handled hoe that he and many laborers used in the fields. Workers bent over all day, with a 24-inch hoe, often for literally 10 back-breaking hours, sweating in the heat, without adequate food, not to mention facilities or home comforts, to make sure the weeds didn't grow between the furrows. The work often led to life-long disabilities. The, now-banned, finally in 1975, short-handled hoe was just one symbol of the protests led by human rights activist, César Chávez. In a excerpt from their book, The Fight in the Fields: César Chávez and the Farmworkers Movement (1997), Susan Ferris and Ricardo Sandoval state:

‘Growers look at human beings as implements. But if they had any consideration for the torture that people go through, they would give up the short-handled hoe,’ Cesar said in 1969. In the late 1960s and 1970s, el cortito, the short-handled hoe was the most potent symbol of all that was wrong with farmwork in California: The tool was unnecessary, and farmers in most other states had long switched to longer hoes. Growers argued that without the control the short hoe offered, thinning and weeding would be mishandled, crop losses would mount, and some farmers would go bankrupt.

Many Braceros were recruited directly from the more populous states in Mexico such as Jalisco, Guanajuato and Michoacán, as northern Mexico was sparsely populated in those days. My Father was the first from our town to sign up in 1942 but he wasn’t the first one from Santa Ines to work in the U.S. My great uncle, Tío Eliseo, our own Don Quijote because he not only looked like Don Quijote, tall and skinny, but also was a dreamer and visionary. He was quite admired in our small town as everyone knew he was a bright man of many ideas. Tío Eliseo loved to learn and read. I once interviewed Tío Eliseo, in 1982 when he was 89 years of age about his experiences in the U.S. He was a man with a third-grade education who loved to read anything and everything he could get his hands on. His vocabulary was extensive. He was wise and profound. At age 31, he went to Texas in 1924 and worked building the railroad for a couple of years. He returned to Santa Ines in 1926. The following year, in 1927, he went to Gary, Indiana, where he worked two years in a steel mill earning 44 cents per hour. He told me he had a passport (perhaps it was a visa) that allowed him to enter the U.S. twice. Tío Eliseo said the work in the steel mill was very difficult and he worked 10-hour days. He was pleased to have been able to save $1000.00 in the bank in Gary. However, he was injured on the job and the company refused to pay the hospital and medical bills. By the time he had healed, his savings had been depleted. He returned to work but only to make enough money to return to Mexico. In his own words, "Regresé más jodido de lo que me había ido".

Shortly after, Tío Eliseo tried going to the U.S. a third time, again due to economic need, but this time with a counterfeit document. He told me that he himself had changed the number of the original passport that allowed him to enter 2 times. He added a 1 in front of the 2, making it a 12. When he arrived at the border, the U.S. immigration agent asked him for his documents, the agent took the passport, tore it in four pieces and threw them on the ground. Tío Eliseo said, "Pienso que por allí tengo todavía los pedazos". His eyes teared up.

When the Bracero program started, Tío Eliseo tried going to the U.S. a fourth time but when he got to the border, he was denied a contract because he was missing some teeth. Tío Eliseo returned to Santa Ines resigned to the fact that he would never return to the U.S. Nonetheless, he wished he could visit and see the places where he worked and cities that he’s read so much about, such as San Francisco, California. I don’t know how much English Tío Eliseo had learned in the U.S. but even at his advanced age of 89, he often would inject a word in English during the interview. He concluded by commenting that at his age, he wasn’t going to have the opportunity to go to the U.S. again, saying: Sabes tú, la vejez no mata pero si chinga.

I published some of the information from the interviews with my Tío Eliseo and Dad in an academic journal in Guadalajara in 1982. And although Tío Eliseo had not entered the U.S. since 1928, he had opened the door for others, including his nephew, my Father. My Dad was very fond of Tío Eliseo and after he died, my Dad found a little statue of a skinny old man that resembles Tío Eliseo. My Dad hung it on the patio wall in the home in Santa Ines, where it still hangs today, and wrote in free-hand above it: Tío Eliseo.

In many ways, Papá was like his Tío, he enjoyed reading every night before he fell asleep, taught himself to speak and to read in English, he memorized poems, he could recall events with great detail and small talk often bored him. Dad was the second person from Santa Ines to immigrate to the U.S. In 1944, at age 21, he entered as a Bracero. My Father worked as a Bracero for several seasons in Montana, Nebraska and North Dakota. During that time, since he was literate, he’d spend part of his evenings writing letters for the other Braceros at the camp, mostly to their girlfriends, wives and mothers. They offered to pay him but he said he mostly did it for free because he, too, had a girlfriend back home (the woman whom he eventually married and became my mother) and knew how sad it felt to be so far away from her. At some of the campsites, he did earn extra pay from the other Braceros for cooking their evening meals. Spam from the can, was a campsite favorite. Even in old age, from time to time, my Father liked to buy a can and fry the diced Spam, cooked with onions, garlic and tomato. Frankly, I never tried Spam but Dad sure enjoyed it. During his seasonal work in the U.S., he saved money to pay for his own wedding to my Mother, plus enough to buy a small home in Santa Ines to start their new life. I think of Papá having worked in various states like North Dakota when he was a young man and then going to see his Granddaughter, Analis, graduate from the University of North Dakota when he was in his late 80’s. I wonder if he thought of the threads in his life as sewn by God and connecting in such mysteriously beautiful ways.

Dad also dropped out of the Bracero Program, because it was getting more competitive to get a contract but mostly he said he did not like working in the snow in the Midwest. By this time, the lure of going to El Norte was well established. Next he went to California without any documentation, as an indocumentado. He worked in Southern California in citrus groves, lemons and oranges. During his years as an indocumentado, he was apprehended by the Border Patrol at least six times. On one of these, he had to spend two months in a detention center and wondered if he would ever be freed. As he shared with me: "El tiempo allí no fue todo perdido. Me hice amigo con el cocinero y aprendí a cocinar".

On his next crossing, in the mid-1959s, he ventured further north, knowing that the Migra tended to concentrate closer to the U.S.-Mexico border.

Papá was lonely and missed all of his family. He was a faithful writer. When working in the U.S., he wrote my Mother weekly and oftentimes, he’d include a postcard with the letter for her and/or postcards for my sisters and me. Although all of the letters are gone, my cousin salvaged some postcards that my Mom or Dad threw in the trash one day as they were aging and cleaning out things they thought wouldn’t matter to anyone anymore. Here’s what a few of the postcards said:

Undated: Angelita, Siento mucho que no hayas ido a Uruapan. Pero ni modo. Saludos a Tino [me] y Luci [my older sister Lucha]. Espero letras de ti. Tu hermano y querido. (His signatura) (Angelita, I’m very sorry that you were not able to go to Uruapan, but oh well. Greetings to Tino and Lucha. I await words from you. Your brother and lover.)

July 26, 1944. Image of Rattle Snake Creek in Montana. Prieta [my Mom], Conserva esta como un recuerdo de tu novio cuando estuve en Montana. Tuyo hasta la tumba. (Darling, Keep this as a remembrance of your boyfriend when I was in Montana. Yours until death.) Followed by a poem:

Gratitud es mi flor

La que corte para ti

Del jardín de mi alma

Por ser la mejor

Gratitude is the flower

That I picked for you

From the garden of my soul

For being the most beautiful

September 19, 1944. Image of A beautiful lake in the mountains. Mi Angelita, Conserva esta como un triste recuerdo de tu novio ausente. Tuyo. (His signatura) (My Angelita, Keep this as a sad remembrance of your absent boyfriend. Yours truly.)

Undated postcard of "Interior view of the tasting room of the Italian Swiss Colony Winery in Asti, CA, but the U.S. Postal Service stamp dates it as December 6, 1953. Angeles, Acepta esta como un recuerdo mío del día 6 del corriente [current month] que estuve en la guaineria de Asti. Tuyo. (His signatura) Angelita, Accept this as a remembrance of me on the 6th of the current month when I was in the Asti winery. Yours truly.)

August 13, 1956. Image of a doe with three fawns. Para ti Chacho [me] como un recuerdo de tu papi que no te olvida. (His signatura) (For Tino, as a remembrance of your Papá that never forgets you.)

August 14, 1956 postcard of Golden Gate Bridge. Para ti Angeles como un recuerdo de tu esposo que te quiere. Tuyo. (His signatura) (For you Angelita, as a remembrance of your husband that loves you. Yours truly.)

September 1, 1956. Image of the parade in Santa Rosa, CA. Para el Chacho [me] junto con un abrazo de tu papi que te quiere. (His signatura) (For Tino, along with a hug from your Papá who loves you.)

September 12, 1956. Postcard of the Drive-Thru Tree in Chandelier, CA. Para mi Angeles [my Mom] con todo mi cariño. Tuyo. (His signatura) (For my Angelita with all my affection. Yours truly.)

September 27, 1956. Image of a bobcat in a tree. Para el Chacho [me]. Su papi. (His signatura) (For Tino, from your Papá.)

As Papá, also named Celestino, migrated further north, he met Augustine Bertoli, an Italian of immigrant parents who had apple orchards Sebastopol, California (and later also in Santa Rosa). My Father said that he arrived in Santa Rosa one afternoon about 5:00pm and by 8:00am the next day he had a job. Something I didn’t inherit from Dad was his height. He was over 6' and tall, quite tall as compared to many Mexicans. His hands were very large. He could hold 3-4 large apples in each hand. He climbed 8’ and 10' wooden ladders. The bottom rungs were wide and swooped to a narrow top. One leg swung forward out from the middle to steady the ladder and allow for maneuverability into the trees. Basically, the tree branches helped hold you up. My Father would stand on the ladders and pick 3 or 4 apples in each hand and slide them into the canvas sack (one of his old bags is still in our home in Santa Ines) strapped across his shoulder that hung to one side of the body, and when the bag was full he’d go down the ladder to unlatch the sack bottom and let the apples slide slowly, gently into small wooden boxes, ever so carefully so they wouldn’t bruise as hand-picked apples were later cleaned and sorted in the packing house for delivery to produce outlets or directly to grocery stores. Then back up the ladder for more apples. He did this for 8-10 hours daily during the harvest season, pretty much all summer and early fall. Mr. B needed my Papá and he came to respect him, too. He didn't want Dad to go home to Santa Ines and not come back. So, Mr. B helped my Dad get Green Cards for the rest of the family and that's how we all came to work for him and his family.

Our work in the orchards followed the seasons. Spring began as the apple trees blossomed, it was row after row of naked trees covered in a delicate filigree of pink lace and the new green leaves. The sight caused one to stop and take a few breaths to appreciate the beauty. We all enjoyed the colorful orchards and based on the blossoms tried to predict the size of the crop. Was it going to be a bumper crop? We all hoped for such. Spring was time to thin the apples from the trees so the remaining would grow larger, spray for bugs, prop limbs so they would not break from the weight as the apples grew, spread hay on the main roads so there would be less dust when we were hauling the harvest to the packing house, and other general preparation for when the weather started to warm up and the apples got large and sweet enough (State of California inspectors had to approve) for the harvest to begin. Mr. and Mrs. B’s boys and I joined Dad and the other workers (Mexicans and Filipinos) after school and all day during the summer, oftentimes working until dusk.

When I was younger, my job, along with my Mother and two sisters, was to pick the apples that fell to the ground. We worked in the dirt all day. This work has become a comfort to me and has led to my feeling very close to the earth. Working in nature keeps me, well, grounded (pun fully intended). We harvested the ground apples in five-gallon plastic buckets that we dumped into a bin; these apples were delivered to one of three canneries in Sebastopol for making applesauce, juice and dried apples. My Mother once had a miscarriage in the orchard and had to be rushed to the hospital. My sisters and I never knew if the baby was male or female. Mamá was shortly back to work. Since my Dad was the only one paid by the hour and the rest of us were paid piecemeal, ten cents a box (25 boxes to a bin), it was important to our livelihood that all of us be on the job and harvest as many apples as possible.

But getting back to the spring season, soon we would be propping up all the limbs that needed help to support the weight of heavy fruit, but first we had to thin the fruit. We went up the ladders, working over each tree, sloughing off the tiny apples to the ground, until the ground was literally covered in a blanket of beautiful miniature green apples. All were so perfect, but all for naught as they were left on the ground to shrivel and rot. If we got off work early, I'd play basketball with the boys until late in the evening, until Mrs. B yelled for them to come inside for dinner. You have to go home now, little Cel, she called to me. I was Little Cel for a number of reasons, including the fact that my Father was Big Cel. Cel was our shortened American name in the U.S., whereas in Mexico and with all my relatives I’m known as Tino. Also, I was Little Cel because I never let anyone call me Junior; although I have the same first name as my Father, and I’m very proud of that, in the Mexican tradition of using both parents’ surname, there is no need for such thing as a Jr. Moreover, I simply never thought of myself as a Jr. My birth and registered name in Mexico is Celestino Fernández Barragán (Fernández from my father and Barragán from my mother). In the U.S. we had to give up the Barragán because in 1957 using both surnames was confusing to the American system, that is, official records of any kind, including school and health.

Because I was always working after school and physically tired when I got home, very early on, I structured my days to wake up early to do whatever school homework was due or to study for that day's exams. This pattern carried me from elementary through high school and into college. I still wake out of habit at about 4:00am every day and enjoy my quiet time; I’m most productive in the morning and enjoy seeing the dawning of the new day. Rising early and playing basketball are two joys that started early in my life. I play basketball three mornings a week, at 5:30am, because, thank God, at age 70, at the time of this writing, I’m still able to and it gives me such enjoyment. I don’t care about the score, which team wins or loses, I just enjoy playing, the teamwork, making a good pass, running back and forth on the court and, yes, occasionally making a 3-point shot to win the game.

In summers, we worked long days, Monday through Saturday, and started early, packing lunches before our drive to Sebastopol to be on the job at 7:00am. We had to wear sweatshirts and if we were picking off the trees, we would get soaked as we worked in the trees wet with fog. Later in the morning, usually by 10:00am, the fog would lift and the sun would get us to shed our sweatshirts, but we were still wet with sweat. We harvested the early apples, Gravensteins (ah, the best apples for pies), then the Red and Golden Delicious, then the Roman Beauties, followed by the Greenies and Grannies. It was a busy time through summer and continued into fall. In addition to apples, there were also plums, prunes and walnuts. In Pud’s young orchard, before the apple trees got large, we planted and harvested rhubarb, tomatoes, bell peppers and artichokes in between the rows of apple trees. That’s how I got to love homemade rhubarb and strawberry pies, preferably on the tart side, which I used to make (don’t tell Kim or she’ll want me to cook). Our whole family enjoyed artichokes, a new treat, that Pud used to give us. We’d eat the leaves with melted butter or mayonnaise.

Every so often, the Migra would come to the ranch. My Mother would have us gather together and the agents took us to our car, which my Dad always parked by the barn, out of the way of the areas where work equipment needed access, so we could show them our micas, our papers, which Mom always kept in her purse. It was always a hassle because although they would drive us in the paddy wagon to the car, they never drove us back so we had to walk. This stuff took so much time and we were losing money as we got paid by the bushels of apples picked. We still had a lot of work to do before the end of the day and raced against sundown. These experiences continued to just hammer into us that we didn't belong, just because of where we were born and our looks and language.

As my sisters got older, they and Mom got other jobs and stopped working in the orchards. Two of the Bertoli boys also moved on, Augie, the oldest, got married and began selling real estate, and Cookie went off to college at the University of San Francisco. These changes led to my promotion which basically meant that I would work more directly with Mr. B and the other boys. Our jobs included picking apples from the tree (usually for only a couple hours at the beginning of the day), delivering empty boxes to where Papá and the other pickers were harvesting, bringing in the harvested apples for packing that afternoon, delivering apples to the cannery, and any other job that needed to be done. Right after lunch, about 12:30pm, we’d begin packing. My job was to dump the apples, ever so carefully so they would not bruise, into the machine that cleaned and polished them, mostly cleaned as the Bertolis did not like putting fake wax on them. We all liked the look of the apples in their own natural colorful skins. I had to keep the belt full so that the sorter and packers, mostly Mr. and Mrs. B, would always have enough fruit without wasting time. About 5 or 5:30pm, we were done; Mrs. B would leave immediately so that she could begin to prepare dinner. We stayed and loaded the flatbed truck to deliver the apples to the Produce Center in South San Francisco, and maybe load some boxes on the flatbed pickup to deliver to a grocery store in Santa Rosa; long days of work.

During the prune season, also in the summer, after finishing our work at the ranch, we’d drive back to Santa Rosa to load the boxes of prunes that the pickers had harvested that day. We were tired by the end of the day of working in the apples and yet still had to load boxes and boxes of prunes, which are much heavier than apples, onto a flatbed truck. When we were younger, it took two of us to lift a box of prunes onto the truck. One of the benefits of all this heavy lifting throughout the harvest season was that by the end of summer, the Bertoli boys and I were quite buff and we’d like to go around the orchards shirtless, until Mrs. B would see us and yell at us to put our shirts on, "You too,