It Takes A Pilgrimage
/
(l to r) Roger Gadiano, France Viana and Alex Edillor at the Delano Community Center. (Photo courtesy of France Viana)
What could I make? Where could I begin, and what right did I have, never having spent a day of hard labor in my life, to assume I could tell the manongs’ story? I grappled with an issue common to many later generation immigrants — how to claim a heritage for oneself, how to connect with roots so far removed from present experience they might as well be myths.
I began by re-reading the well-known classics: Carlos Bulosan's memoir America is in the Heart; Al Robles's poetry, rappin' with 10,000 carabaos in the dark; Oscar Peñaranda's essays, Seasons By the Bay; The third time I watched Marissa Aroy's award-winning PBS documentary, Delano Manongs, Forgotten Heroes of the United Farm Workers, inspiration struck: I had to make the four-hour drive to Ground Zero. I needed to walk the fields where the manongs toiled, sit where they sat, hear what they had to tell me. Aroy and Elena Mangahas of Stockton’s Filipino American National Historical Society (FANHS) graciously connected me to two resident old-timers who knew the manongs and actually lived among them.
I couldn't have picked a better time to drive down. Fields and mountains were brilliant emerald; thanks to the rains, wildflowers were in super bloom, and I was even lucky enough to catch the magical migration of the Painted Lady butterflies. An auspicious start. Approaching Delano, 33 miles north of Bakersfield, I entered a typical agricultural town.
I thought this was just another road trip, but the minute the iconic Filipino Community Center came into view, I realized I was on a pilgrimage. My hair stood on end. I had entered a vortex, time-traveling into an eternal past. Waiting in front were Roger Gadiano and Alex Edillor, Alex’s wife, Kathleen, and their dog. Alex, a former newspaper editor, teaches high school in Bakersfield. Roger, a Vietnam veteran, co-founded the annual Philippine Weekend and serves as a volunteer town docent. They took me around the Center where a life-size carabao (water buffalo) statue, erected by the historical society stands; this docile, hardworking animal has come to symbolize the manongs. Later at dinner at a nearby Mexican restaurant, they schooled me on the history they eye-witnessed. Alex counted about five manongs among his extended family; they came over all the time especially for birthdays and holidays. Roger’s family co-owned the Filipino store that supplied the camps and extended credit to hundreds of manongs during the strike. Labor conditions were bad—no minimum wage, no rights, no benefits—hell, no running water or even portable toilets. They had to pay room and board at whatever rate the growers asked, there was no housing for miles, and they were in perpetual debt. “Delano is our Selma,” Roger declared as I shuddered.
Roger Gadiano helped identify and gather soil that had for sure been worked by the Manongs—from the side vegetable plot also known as the Manong Gardens. (Photo by France Viana)
The next morning, Roger took me to the famous Agbayani Village, the retirement home that strike leader Larry Itliong envisioned for the manongs. Their presence is palpable in the Spanish-style villa filled with historic photos and artifacts. We toured verdant gardens, and Alex picked a grapefruit for me. I ate it later—appropriately bittersweet. I kept being drawn to the dark earth. Words from the Gettysburg address suddenly rang in my ears: "We can not dedicate—we can not consecrate—we can not hallow—this ground. The brave men, living and dead, who struggled here, have consecrated it, far above our poor power to add or detract." I felt I was standing on sacred ground. I picked up a handful of earth and imagined how many manongs touched that exact same clump. And I knew my artwork had to be about this particular soil that manongs so lovingly tended, the organizing principal of their migrant paths, the vessel of their dreams. The land must have loved them back. I decided to bring soil to the gallery so that anyone could plunge their hands into the same earth the manongs touched and receive their blessings.
Fruit trees everywhere at Agbayani Village (Photo by France Viana)
Before I got too carried away by sentimental thoughts, my Trickster-Self, Mastermind to most of my art, emerged with a taunt: “So, we cannot hallow this ground, but can we Halo-Halo it?” You can't make a real Filipino artwork without having a little pun, right? If I know anything about Pinoys, it is that however hard a time we are having, we find a way to joke about it. (Bad translation for non-Filipinos: Halo-Halo or “Mix-Mix” is our national dessert; to halo-halo is to sweeten, lighten and mix it up, serve it metaphorically a la mode.) Among the best stories I heard of the manongs was how they spent all their money in the dance halls and were such good dancers and charming dates that the ladies preferred them as partners. (This, unfortunately, also got them beaten and killed by jealous white patrons.) They earned a dollar for 14-hour shifts and blew it all at ten cents a dance. Carousing until dawn, they showed up in the fields still in their McIntosh suits; they didn't have time to change. I saw photos of them all dressed up in pin stripes, hair heavily pomaded and slicked back, so pogi (handsome), "sputing" as we say. Now, these were manongs I could relate to.
Educational displays at Agbayani Village (Photo by France Viana)
When I got back to San Francisco, I called Oscar Peñaranda, who actually worked some summers in the Delano fields, to ask what brand of pomade they used. He needed less than a split second to remember: Three Flowers Brilliantine! I dragged another friend, Rae, in search of some and we hit pay dirt at a beauty supply store on Fillmore. I smeared a wad on my hair. If I couldn't walk a mile in the manongs’ shoes, I could at least walk a mile in their pomade! (Speaking of miles, that’s how far away you could smell it, phew!) I imagined how sometimes when the manongs bent down, their hats might have fallen off and some of that pomade could have gotten on the grapes, the leaves, and the crates. Later, creating the artwork, I considered the long artistic tradition of soil use in sacred and healing art—Navajo sand paintings, Tibetan sand Mandalas, Jungian sand play and various geomantic practices — but settled on something simple. I found a vintage grape crate stamped Delano and smeared some Three Flowers pomade on it.
Back at the studio, smearing Three Flowers Brilliantine pomade on a vintage Delano grape crate. (Photo by France Viana)
After Roger and I left Agbayani Village, I wandered the sleepy town by myself, circling Cesar Chavez's fasting room. I visited Our Lady of Guadalupe church where the Mexican and Filipino labor groups inked an agreement to join forces. (It took a consumer grape boycott before growers capitulated, ending the five-plus-year strike.) There are no signs there to tell you how important these places are. This heritage is lost even to residents themselves. Alex told me about a local girl who was surprised to learn their Berkeley class was planning a field trip to Delano. She asked why they were going there. “She didn't even know her own history! And it’s our fault," Alex lamented, "We don't tell our story enough to the young ones." By then, I was just so moved by it all I was weeping openly. Fortunately, there was a funeral service going on in the church (not so fortunate for the dead person) and a coffin was being wheeled in, so people thought I was just part of the mourning party. One woman consoled me in Spanish, "I'm sorry for your loss."
“I thought this was just another road trip, but the minute the iconic Filipino Community Center came into view, I realized I was on a pilgrimage. My hair stood on end. I had entered a vortex, time-traveling into an eternal past.”
I was mourning indeed for these wonderful men, the uncles I never met. If only I heard about them earlier—they all died out by the year 2000. I wish I could have visited them at Agbayani Village, held their rough, chapped hands, comforted them, asked them to dance. They were so lonely— almost all of them remained bachelors as anti-miscegenation laws prohibited them from marrying whites and Filipina women were few and far between. Many were buried in pauper’s graves. I would have told them their struggles were not in vain. They planted a priceless crop: stooping down in the blistering heat of those remote Delano fields they sowed a place for us in American History.
Do come to the exhibit if you can and put your hands in Delano soil—there will be over 25 other artists and farmers and plenty to see. At the opening I'll wear pomade and peel you a grape.
Interactive Installation: Halo Hallowed Ground: Dancin’ with 10,000 Manongs In the Dark Delano Soil
Medium: soil from Agbayani Village, Delano, CA; vintage Delano grape crate; Three Flowers Brilliantine pomade, wooden footed bowl, red velvet cloth; purple grow lights.
Agrarianaa runs from May 2 to May 23 at SOMarts Gallery, 934 Brannan St., San Francisco. Opening May 2 at 6 pm. Free admission. https://www.somarts.org/events/agrarianaa/