Going Against the Grain

By John Edward Kyle

Going Against the Grain is a memoir of childhood abuse and redemption – of the ways individuals and institutions can help us transform ourselves. In my case, I credit my grandmother’s teachings, friends at school who showed me how families could and should behave, and the United States Marine Corps, which gave me a means of escape. Going Against the Grain is also a memoir of learning from the past and overcoming it – of being an involved father to my sons, the kind of father I wish I’d had.
My fight for survival in childhood left me with a profound feeling about the importance of standing up for what is right. Going Against the Grain is about that too, and about the toll standing up for what is right can take on a person and a marriage. When corrupt and inept officials at the Small Business Administration lured me into signing a contract they knew would cause the downfall of my business, and then gained from my loss, I could not let the issue rest. I fought them with everything I had. When government agencies I worked for decided not to push too hard in the effort to aid minority businesses, I fought for greater compliance. When the director of the Service Corps of Retired Executives (SCORE) insisted there was no need to bring in African American experts as speakers, I argued that there was indeed a need.
Going Against the Grain is about lawsuits won and complaints filed and a lifelong determination to help those less fortunate that stemmed, probably, from starting out life as one of them.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Mar 15, 2011
• ISBN: 9781456885045

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SK JOHN EDWARD KYLE

Going Against

The Grain

John Edward Kyle

Copyright © 2011 by John Edward Kyle.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Getty Images are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Getty Images.

Rev. date: 09/29/2021

Xlibris

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Contents

Acknowledgments

Chapter One The Very Beginning

Chapter Two Child Laborers

Chapter Three A Lonely Year

Chapter Four Taking on the USMC

Chapter Five Working My Way Up the Ladder

Chapter Six A Dream Comes True

Chapter Seven One Strike and You’re Out

Chapter Eight Corruption in Government

Chapter Nine Challenges

Chapter Ten Facing the Unanticipated

Chapter Eleven Searching

Index of Supporting Documents

Dedication

This book is dedicated to my grandmother, Mary Appling Kyle, for her powerful presence in caring for my brothers and me, providing us with family values and unconditional love. Her influence is found in every phase of my life.

Acknowledgments

Foundation

I would like to thank my grandmother, Mary Appling Kyle (March 15, 1884-March 11, 1950), for her powerful presence in caring for me and my brothers, providing me with family values and the unconditional love I received in which I base my whole existence. Her influence is found in every phase of my life. The endless hours lecturing on the importance of education, God, and standing up for what you believe in. Her lectures took on greater meaning every time the family decided I was too much for her to handle and I was sent back to live with my father.

To my mother, Jovita Guzman Turner (Nov 2, 1913-December 15, 2003), I thank her for her love and support. Her wisdom and encouragement gave me so much solid ground to stand on.

When I first started thinking about gathering notes from my past, the purpose was to share my life experiences with my children. When I shared my life story with my wife, Jeanette, she encouraged me and hasn’t stopped since. She has supported me from the first transcript to the final sentence that appears in print. My gratitude goes beyond simple acknowledgment. We are together in this venture and in life.

My fight for survival in childhood left me with a profound feeling about the importance of standing up for what is right. Going against the Grain is about that too, and about the toll standing up for what is right can take on a person and a marriage.

When corrupt and inept officials at the Small Business Administration lured me into signing a contract they knew would cause the downfall of my business, and then gained from my loss, I could not let the issue rest. I fought them with everything I had. When government agencies I worked for decided not to push too hard in the effort to aid minority businesses, I fought for greater compliance.

When the chairman, Chapter One of the Service Corps of Retired Executives (SCORE) insisted there was no need to bring in African American experts as speakers, I argued that there was indeed a need.

Going against the Grain is about lawsuits won and complaints filed and a lifelong determination to help those less fortunate that stemmed, probably, from starting out life as one of them.

Cultivation

I would like to thank my teachers and mentors, bosses especially Chairman W. H. Jones Jr. and Archie Hargrove, president of Shaw University; Dr. William J. Williams, professor, University of California; James D. Murray, attorney; Mayor Thomas Bradley, mayor, Los Angeles California; Dr. Merrill J. Gibson, dean; and Professor Robert Chamberlain at San Diego City College; Richard Glickman, supervisor, for their encouragement when I was hopelessly lost; and also my extended family and friends. I want to thank all for their caring.

Inspiration

I would like to thank my wonderful children, John Jr. (September 13, 1964-January 13, 2000), Michelle, Jonathan, and Michael; particularly Michelle for being strong and understanding when I was not there to give her the fatherly support that she deserved, Jeanette, my wife, without her support this book would not be possible.

Overview

I N THE EARLY 1930s when racial tension was high, a black man who even looked at a white woman could find himself hanging from a tree. That’s when my black father, Charles Kyle, and my white mother, Jovita Ann Guzman, got married. I suspect their marriage was neither a rebellion against the prevailing racial order nor a case of passion overcoming social barriers. Rather—ironically, under the circumstances—it was a marriage of convenience: a union between the boss of a farm labor camp and a woman in the camp who could speak Spanish to his Mexican laborers and cook their meals.

My father’s excessive drinking, gambling, and occasionally violent behavior drove my mother away. Unfortunately, his three sons did not have the option of leaving. Instead, as children we were forced to work the fields for ten to twelve hours a day for a man who was more suited to being a farm labor boss than a father. He treated me and my brothers just like all the other migrant workers, with one exception: he didn’t pay us.

He did not feed us regularly either. When I was eleven, my father left my brother, Junior and me alone in a tent next to a canal, miles from the highway with a kerosene lantern and a .22-caliber rifle we were to use to hunt for our dinners.

I knew this was not the way things were supposed to be, knew because interspersed with life with my father was life with my grandmother, a powerful presence for good, who gave me love and convincing lectures on the importance of education and God, and standing up for what you believe in, lectures that took on greater meaning every time the family decided I was too much for my elderly grandmother to handle and sent me back to live with my father.

Going against the Grain is a memoir of childhood abuse and redemption—of the ways individuals and institutions can help us transform ourselves. In my case, I credit my grandmother’s teachings, friends at school who showed me how families could and should behave, and the United States Marine Corps, which gave me a means of escape. Going against the Grain is also a memoir of learning from the past and overcoming it—of being an involved father to my sons, the kind of father I wish I’d had.

My fight for survival in childhood left me with a profound feeling about the importance of standing up for what is right. Going against the Grain is about that too, and about the toll standing up for what is right can take on a person and a marriage. When corrupt and inept officials at the Small Business Administration lured me into signing a contract they knew would cause the downfall of my business, and then gained from my loss, I could not let the issue rest. I fought them with everything I had. When government agencies I worked for decided not to push too hard in the effort to aid minority businesses, I fought for greater compliance. When the director of the Service Corps of Retired Executives (SCORE) insisted there was no need to bring in African American experts as speakers, I argued that there was indeed a need.

Going against the Grain is about lawsuits won and complaints filed and a lifelong determination to help those less fortunate that stemmed, probably, from starting out life as one of them.

Chapter One

The Very Beginning

I N THE EARLY 1930s when racial tension was high, a black man who even looked at a white woman could find himself hanging from a tree. That’s when my black father, Charles Kyle, and my white mother, Jovita Ann Guzman, got married.

I suspect their marriage was neither a rebellion against the prevailing racial order nor a case of passion overcoming social barriers. Rather—ironically, under the circumstances—it was a marriage of convenience: a union between the boss of a farm labor camp and a woman in the camp who could speak Spanish to his Mexican laborers and cook their meals. Where they were living at the time—the Huskie Camp in Firebaugh, a rural area fifty miles outside the town of Dos Palos, California—no one paid their biracial marriage much attention.

My father, Charles Kyle, was the youngest of twelve children—six girls and six boys—born on a farm, in San Marcus, Texas, and an enterprising sort. A high school dropout, he first pursued a career in boxing. Going by the name of Kid Kyle in the welterweight class, he fought in Mexicali and Tijuana, Mexico, along with his buddy, Paul, who fought under the name of Battling Paul. Kid Kyle quit boxing when he was knocked out in Tijuana, Mexico, fighting as a middleweight, and decided to head north toward San Joaquin, where he’d heard there was work.

Unfortunately, while he was asleep on the Greyhound bus, someone stole his luggage. He arrived in the town of Firebaugh with only the clothes on his back. Undeterred, he found a room and was told by the local people that a farmer had been in town offering a good salary for a Caterpillar tractor driver. My father had never driven a tractor, but he was resourceful. He got the address of the farmer, and the next morning, he went to a dealer who sold tractors. He introduced himself and asked questions about the operating procedures in driving a tractor. After about two hours of getting detailed answers on how a tractor operated, he thanked the salesman and went for the interview. Able to demonstrate to the owner of the Huskie Ranch that he could drive a tractor based on what he learned from the salesman earlier that day, my father got the job.

During the next months, my father became an expert tractor driver. After work, he would sit down with the owner and make suggestions, demonstrating that he had other capabilities as well, and eventually, he became the farm labor camp boss on the Huskie Ranch. His responsibilities included hiring and firing, settling problems among the farmhands, and scheduling work sites for the farmhands to harvest the various crops, which included watermelon, cantaloupe, cotton, and wheat.

My mother was of Spanish descent, the only daughter of five children born to a very poor family in Sonora, Arizona. She did not attend public school; she was self-taught and was required to work as a laborer from the age of nine. She was married at the age of sixteen, and when her husband, Louie Montanez, Sr. was unable to find work in Sonora, they traveled with their infant son, Louie, to California during the peak of the harvest season. Louie was one year old when they began working at the Huskie Ranch.

While working in the fields, my father noticed that my mother was exceptionally smart and knew both Spanish and English, so she could communicate with the Mexican farmhands who could not speak English. He began calling upon her to translate his instructions to the other workers. This soon became a common occurrence, and he felt she would be an asset working for him directly. My father needed help in the kitchen to cook and prepare meals for some 160 field hands, and after teaching her to cook various meals, particularly large pots of red beans and rice, a favorite dish of the Mexicans, he offered her the job.

Alcohol was a serious problem, as in all farm labor camps, because the ranch was made up of hundreds of acres of farmland located miles from town, and the only activity the farmhands had besides sleep was to drink and gamble among themselves.

My mother neither drank nor gambled, but her husband, Louie, quickly succumbed to temptation and became an alcoholic, spending whatever money he earned on liquor. This put a tremendous burden on my mother, who was trying to care for her son, Louie. It was not long before they separated and eventually got divorced.

After the divorce my mother had full responsibility for herself. Her son, Louie, wanted to stay with his father. My father and mother worked together for approximately a year in the kitchen fixing food for the farmhands before they became engaged and got married.

To accommodate the farmhands on the ranch, there was a large barn that was called the bullpen that housed approximately fifty farmhands and fifteen one-room houses for those who had families. They were located in the back of the main house where the farmhands were fed.

My father was considered a successful businessman at the time. He managed a large ranch and had money and even a car. There were no banks in the area, so he had to keep large amounts of cash in his bedroom. He also paid farmhands with tickets instead of cash that had his name stamped on them, Chas Kyle. The tickets had money value for workers’ personal needs and food. This was another way of controlling the farm laborers and keeping track of their income.

The workers could cash the tickets at the ranch store, and if they did not have enough money, a debit account was created and the debt deducted when the worker got paid. Some of the farmhands lived on the ranch for years and never left, in large part because their needs exceeded their income and they never got out of debt. Many sought cash advances to purchase liquor and, therefore, were always both drunk and in debt to my father.

The main house on the Huskie Ranch was a long one-story wooden shack painted dark green with three sections. At one end was the dining room with long benches on both sides of the tables that could seat approximately fifty or more field hands at any one time.

The middle section was the kitchen where the food was prepared. The third section was a bedroom where my father and mother slept and where I, John Edward Kyle (Eddie), was born, weighing six pounds eight ounces delivered by my father and a Mexican woman.

I was the second child born to Charles and Jovita Kyle. My brother, Charles Henry (Junior), was two years older than I, and two years later, my younger brother, David, was born in a cotton field, weighing fourteen pounds on a cotton scale. I’m told I celebrated David’s birth by packing all my diapers in a bag and heading out down the dusty, dirty road, until my father managed to catch up with me.

The earliest memory I have is of my father playing with David on the bed in the family bedroom. It stands out, I think, because playing was such an unusual activity for my father. As a child, I found him a strange figure. He had only an eleventh-grade education but appeared to know everything. He rarely showed affection and could be very, very mean when he drank, which, unfortunately, was more and more often.

There were no playgrounds, parks, or toys for children on the campgrounds. For toys my brothers and I played with sticks or rocks. We did not have a clue what other boys our age had to play with. My older brother, Junior, was quiet and kept to himself, but I had an adventurous spirit from the very beginning of my life—unfortunately, because I was neither supervised nor living in the safest of surroundings.

My father always had a pistol in his car, a Lincoln-Zephyr. He purchased the pistol for protection against the continuing violence on the ranch and for security, because of the large amounts of money he had in the house. At the age of two and a half, I climbed into my father’s car to play and found a box of cartridges in the front seat and put one of the bullets into the car cigarette lighter. It went off and struck me in the neck. My father was able to stop the bleeding with spiderwebs, which clog bleeding. I didn’t find out about that until I was older and asked where the scar on my neck came from.

At five o’clock in the evening—after my mother had spent most of the day preparing a meal of beans, rice, and some type of meat, usually pork or rabbit—the doors to the eating section opened, and the laborers came in and sat down at the five six—foot-long benches. While the laborers were eating, my dad would take a head count of who was there. At the end of the week when the laborers were paid, he would deduct their meals from their paychecks.

Every day, seven days a week my mother was in the kitchen cooking. If there was time left over after she finished that, she would look after us. I don’t recall any time my mother spent doing special things with us. My brother Junior and I were on our own with very little parental guidance, raised somewhat like animals—fed regularly but expected to take care of ourselves. As a young child, my mother was a warm and loving presence in my life, someone I yearned to have more time with. My father was a big man, very dark, and very demanding.

There were times when my mother was tired, and he was furious that a meal had not been fixed on time or over something else she had failed to do. I remember hearing my mother crying and my father yelling, and in addition to the visual memory, there was a sensory one—a smell—that usually accompanied such arguments. I was older when I realized the smell was alcohol. The arguments occurred when he had been drinking.

Because of the isolation at the ranch and all of the drinking and gambling around her, I can only imagine how lonely it must have been for my mother who didn’t have a telephone and couldn’t even shop at the stores in town. Having to take care of three young boys and being married to a man who drank and had a bad temper became more and more distressful.

After seven years, she decided to leave for a better way of life for herself and her children. She packed up only the necessities she needed to travel, and one evening when my father fell asleep drunk, she walked with us to the main highway to catch the Greyhound bus to Fresno and then transfer to San Diego.

The plan backfired. My mother was no match for my father. As soon as he realized she had left with us, he started contacting everyone in the area. Someone had seen her with all of us catching the Greyhound bus. He immediately got into his car, found us, and persuaded her to return to the ranch. That lasted only for a short period of time. She left again and returned to San Diego.

In 1939 when I was five, my father got custody of my brothers and me. My mother did not fight the custody battle because she did not have the money to get an attorney. After my father took custody of us, he realized he had no means of taking care of us while still managing the Huskie Ranch, so he dropped us off in Fresno, California, with his mother, Mary Appling, who was fifty-five years old.

My grandmother was living in the house of my father’s sister, Maggie, which had two-bedrooms with two full-sized beds in one bedroom. Aunt Maggie’s daughter, Annie Mae, who was about fourteen and rather wild, was in the other bedroom. My brothers and I slept in one of the beds in my grandmother’s room. My Aunt Maggie, who owned the house, lived on the outskirts of Fresno on a dairy farm with her companion, Angelo, an Italian immigrant. On weekends, they would come to town to shop for groceries, deposit money in the bank . . . and visit my grandmother. We would overhear a lot of whispering.

This is too much for you to take on, Mama!

They are little boys. They need to be taken care of. Their father . . .