Becoming Dr. Q. Alfredo Quinones-Hinojosa
I could work there for two months, I could help the family so much more than if I stayed in Mexico. Moreover, I could put money away so that I wouldn’t have to work full-time during the school year.
This would also allow me to move more rapidly in completing the special training program I’d recently begun that was the equivalent of a college curriculum for those studying to become teachers. Mamá and Papá agreed that becoming an educator was an excellent choice for me: not only was it a respected profession, but it would enable me to start earning a living in a shorter amount of time than, say, studying to become a lawyer or a doctor. And, in the best of all worlds, if I became a teacher, I could afford to continue my education toward those other professions if I desired.
Although I didn’t have a work permit for my summer plans, that hurdle could be overcome with the passports that let us go back and forth across the border. Nothing anyone could say was going to convince me that this survival strategy was not a good idea; it was the only idea. Mamá finally gave in and went to the phone booth to call Uncle Fausto.
“Absolutely not,” was his firm response when she asked if I could return to Mendota and work the fields for the summer. However, he quickly added that he would love for me to come for a vacation.
Grateful for his offer, I was determined to change his mind. During the entire ride up to Central California, as I sat quietly in the passenger seat of a car driven by a relative who was heading that way, I pondered how to convince Uncle Fausto to give me a shot at proving myself. When I was finally dropped off in front of my uncle’s house, I stood there with my few items under my arm and gathered my resolve, not sure that anything I could say would sway him. At 102 pounds, much skinnier than when my Mendota relatives had last seen me, I could tell that Uncle Fausto and my cousins were shocked when they came out to welcome me. Uncle Fausto’s first words were, “Are you hungry?”
Before I could answer, an ice cream truck playing cheerful organ-grinder music came down the road with a throng of dancing children following behind. Uncle Fausto gestured toward the truck and asked, “Want an ice cream?” Thanking him profusely, I had the pleasure of trying my first-ever rainbow-colored, push-up sherbet. Savoring its creamy, sweet deliciousness, I was in heaven. And it was a mere morsel compared to the hearty dinner that Uncle Fausto set out that evening. I realized that I could easily forget about working and just enjoy the good life for the next two months. Yet no sooner did that thought occur to me than an image arose of my family back in Mexico, sitting around the table each night and subsisting on the most meager diet.
That evening I began my campaign with Uncle Fausto, telling him what an asset I would be in the fields. Again, he forcefully refused. But after a lengthy back and forth, my uncle said, “Okay, give me five good reasons why I should give you a job.”
I don’t remember the first four, but I clearly remember the last one: I looked Uncle Fausto in the eyes and said, “Because we need it at home.”
He studied me thoughtfully, saying nothing. Finally he nodded his head. “Fine,” he said, “if you’re ready to go at five A.M., I’ll put you to work.”
That next morning, I waited outside by Uncle Fausto’s truck fifteen minutes early, eager to prove myself. No special treatment followed. I was dropped off with a crew of mostly men and started at the bottom of the migrant-worker ladder—pulling weeds. By the end of my two months, I had moved up several rungs, from pulling weeds in the cotton and tomato fields to picking and hauling the crops, working with sorting and counting machines, and finally taking over one of the coveted tractor-driving positions.
During breaks, I kept to myself, pulling out a book I’d brought to keep up my studies and to feed my mind so that I could focus on the physical challenges of work and not be overwhelmed by menial or difficult tasks. I was proud that I could work harder than anyone else, not because of a difference in abilities but probably because of the urgency that drove me—the strong sense of purpose that came from the knowledge that every penny earned would put food on the table for my parents and siblings and would allow me to help improve my family’s status quo.
When I did socialize at night with my cousins and my uncle, the main subject of interest was boxing. And it was in this context that I would be given the nickname “Doc,” perhaps as a hint of things to come. But there was no medical connection, at least not for many years.
In Mexican culture, people are often given more than one nickname; we might have several that are loosely related to one another. On my first visit to Mendota with my family, most of my nicknames had been Americanized versions of Alfredo—from Freddy, to Alfred, Fred, and Fredo. At fourteen, as I was introduced to Rocky, the classic underdog, I was given a rash of new nicknames. First was the affectionate “Ferdie” that my uncle dubbed me in honor of Dr. Ferdie Pacheco, the famous boxing physician who had been Muhammad Ali’s beloved cornerman and personal doctor. Then he and my cousins started calling me Dr. Pacheco, which then morphed into “Doctor” and ultimately just “Doc.”
When everyone in the fields heard my family calling me Doc or Dr. Pacheco, they assumed that the nicknames explained why I read so much and was so intense and meticulous in everything I did—as if each task were a matter of life and death. Some of them believed that I was a doctor!
Looking back, I know that part of my intensity stemmed from my percolating anger that my family’s situation hadn’t improved. Some of my anger was directed at my father, no doubt, because so much had fallen on my mother’s shoulders. He blamed himself for the loss of the gas station, but after five years, I thought it was time for him to move on. Yet he was stuck. But even more intense than the anger was the war I was fighting against a rising feeling of hopelessness. The only way I knew to combat it was to work myself to the bone and squeeze every cent out of every second. After two months of this extreme regimen, while refusing to spend any of my earnings, I had dropped to ninety-two pounds. My normally round face was drawn, with sunken cheeks, and I had to punch three holes in my belt to hold up my pants.
Uncle Fausto frequently pointed out that I needed new clothes. Finally, he announced that whether I liked it or not, we were going to go shopping on my last Sunday in Mendota. “Okay, Dr. Pacheco,” he said, as my cousins and I entered the men and boys’ store that sold an array of popular brands, “buy yourself a new wardrobe.”
I stood there frozen, not wanting to even look at the clothes, or worse, to spend a dime of what I’d earned. But how could I disobey my uncle, whose generosity had allowed me to prosper?
Seeing my paralysis, Uncle Fausto shrugged and proceeded to pick out two pairs of jeans and two shirts in my size that he knew I would like, and then headed for the cash register. When I argued that such items could be bought more cheaply in Mexico, he appeared not to be listening. “Doc,” he said, “give me your wallet.”
“No,” I refused.
“Freddy, give me your wallet.”
Tears streamed down my face. My cousins lowered their eyes. Finally, I gave in, removed the money, just over fifty dollars, and paid for the clothing that I desperately needed, and secretly wanted.
Uncle Fausto taught me an important lesson on that shopping trip. He wanted me to know that taking care of myself wasn’t selfish and that while sharing the fruits of my labor with others was admirable, hard work should bring a few personal rewards too. To put a fine point on that message, the next day, when he and my cousins took me to the Greyhound station, just before I boarded the bus, Uncle Fausto surprised me with the gift of his Walkman, complete with tapes of American rock and roll. He had seen me pricing tape players at the store and knew how badly I wanted one. It was one of the most generous presents I’d ever received.
One of the few gifts to rival it came within a day, upon my return home. When I stepped off the bus in Mexicali, Mamá burst into tears the moment she saw me—ninety-two pounds of skin and bones. But I told her that I had something for her that would make her feel better. When we were home, just the two of us in the kitchen, I reached into my right sock, under the ball of my foot, and removed the roll of bills that I had protected with every molecule of my energy on the bus ride back to Mexico. About fifty bucks less than one thousand dollars. The amazement and relief