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ENRIQUE and AMANDA
(Florida)
Amanda's house is several blocks east
of the cigar factory, on a narrow dirt alley lined with unpainted frame
shacks. A group of children playing marbles in the sand includes blondes,
dark Latins, and Negroes. They scatter like a flock of chickens when they
see our car approaching.
As soon as the car stops they gather around it, climb upon front and rear
bumpers, and the running boards. Dark, stout, and smiling, Amanda shouts
to the children and comes out to greet us. She hugs my wife Edith, and
shakes my hand.
"I been wanting to meet your husband a long time," she tells Edith.
We enter the front room and sit in three rickety straight chairs. The
other furnishings are a table, a new automatic-tuning radio, and two
calendars.
"You'll have to forgive our humble house," says Amanda apologetically.
"I only pay three dollars a week for it, but it's near Enrique's job.
They're planning to tear down a lot of these old 'shotgun' shacks. - You
know, these old houses are called one or two-barrelled shotgun shacks,
according to how many apartments they have. I heard they are going to
build big new apartments for Negroes, and make them all move into one
section and not be scattered all over like they are now. I don't know as
all of them will want to move, but I guess the city will condemn their
property if they don't.
"Enrique made all this furniture out of boxes and things, he made those
benches and that table and that cabinet and ice box. He made the ice box
out of tin, it keeps ice good, too. Enrique is good like that; he saves us
a lot of money. He makes wicks out of old carpet for the oil stove, and he
makes vinegar and wine with raisins.
"I wish I had nice furniture, but I don't like to go in debt, I don't
believe in buying furniture unless you can pay for it. The only thing we
owe money on is that radio, it cost thirty-nine dollars and fifty cents
and it sure is a good one. It gets all the Cuban stations.
"Some people go ahead and buy pretty things and get in debt when they
can't afford it and maybe the company takes it away from them and then
they lose all that money. There's nothing I hate worse than to have
collector men coming to my house all the time bothering the life out of me
and keeping me broke. I rather buy good healthy food for my kids and a few
little clothes for them to go to school; it don't make so much difference
about the furniture. I think it's best to save and keep a little money
ahead in case there is sickness or anything like that. It don't look like
we are able to get much ahead, though.
"When Enrique is working steady he likes to buy better food; you know, he
likes to see the children get happy. But I say we better eat the same
food, good, but not extra -- so we can maybe save for when his job stops."
Several children gather in the doorway, staring, and a small boy bobs his
blonde head in and out of another door leading to a bedroom.
"Them's all my kids," Amanda says, "and they sure looks like tramps. There
is no use for me to wash them in the afternoon when they come home from
school because by night they have got all dirty again. I just leave them
alone till night and wash them good before they go to bed.
"They been playing marbles with those colored kids next door. Those
colored kids are nice children; their mother, she is a good woman form
Georgia. I rather have my boys play with them than with a lot of other
kids in this neighborhood.
"Besides these four kids here I got two girls living with my cousin in Key
West. She can take better care of them there; she ain't got no kids of her
own. That blonde-headed rascal that keeps poking his head around the door
is named Jose; he's five years old, and the other boy. Perico is eight.
Maria is nine, and Rosa -- she's my oldest -- is thirteen."
"Rosa says, "How do you do?" She has brown hair, a delicately pretty face,
and intelligent brown eyes. She does not have on any rouge or lipstick,
and her cheap house-dress is torn in many places.
"You know what," asks Amanda. "Rosa, thirteen years old, is getting ready
to get married. I wish I knew how to knock that idea out of her head."
"The sooner I get married and get away from here, the better," smiles
Rosa.
"He's an Italian," says Amanda, "and I don't want no Italian son-in-law in
the family."
"Well, you might as well get used to it," says Rosa. "I love Nicky and I'm
going to marry him, no matter what anybody says. He's a very nice Italian.
He has a mustache, dark hair, and tall."
"He's got blue eyes," adds Amanda.
"He has not!" declares Rosa. "His eyes are very light brown. I ought to
know -- I've been close to him!"
"I don't see why you can't marry a Cuban or an American -- anything but an
Italian," says Amanda.
"I do like Americans," admits Rosa. "Sure! But I can't do nothing about
it. The only way to get Americans is to be high-toned and live in Hyde
Park and I can't do that. I don't want any damn wild crackers from out in
the woods, either. They're wild people. You can grow potatoes in their
ears and scrape their heels.
"Nicky is a beautician in New York and he came down here to visit his
family for the holidays. He had stayed so long he has lost his job, and
now he wants to go back to New York and get a job in a restaurant. He
wants to go back and get a job and then come marry me, but I want him to
marry me first and take me with him when he goes. I always wanted to live
in New York."
"She's only known him for three weeks," says Amanda, "and says she is
going to marry him. Well, marriage is like a lottery; you don't know
whether you win or lose till it's all over. I was married when I was
thirteen years old, just like Rosa. That's how I know she's too young to
think about getting married. She ought to be in school."
"That's right," asserts Edith.
"You think I want to start back to school now" demands Rosa. "And go back
to the seventh grade where my kid brother is now? Hell no! I wouldn't
start back now for nothing!"
"Rosa sure was smart in school, too," says Amanda. "She made all A's from
top to bottom -- even skipped a grade. She quit school because she had
fainting spells and the doctor said she had a weak heart. But now she goes
to dances and everything and doesn't ever faint no more so I think she
must be all right and ought to go back to school. I used to have fainting
spells like Rosa before I was married, but since I been married I ain't
had any at all. [?], dark like I am, would get white as a sheet when I
fainted. I don't know what that is -- I never went to a doctor for it.
"When I was married my mother hadn't never told me nothing about life or
nothing like that. I was as innocent as the day I was born. When she use
to want to talk about those things she would look at me and I would have
to leave the room. I didn't know nothing about how not to have babies --
no wonder I had so many. I'm twenty-eight now and got six kids and I don't
want no more. There ain't no use in having kids unless you can give them
some of the things they need. The more kids you have the less there is to
give them.
"I always had to have a chaperone everywhere. My date had to come to the
house mostly and sit in the living room with the family and carry on
conversation. We couldn't' even get up and go back to the kitchen for a
drink of water together: I always had to get the water by myself. My date
had to leave at nine-thirty, and I wasn't allowed to walk to the door with
him. I had to say goodbye still sitting down."
"Cuban customs are crazy anyway," says Rosa. "I'm glad I was born in
America.
"I was born in Key West," replies Amanda. "I'm an American just as much as
you are. I may come form Cuban descent, but I'm one hundred percent
American just the same."
"Real American people consider you a Cuban," retorts Rosa.
"What do I care what they consider me so long as I am an American?" asks
Amanda. "Heck yeah, I'm an American--ain't I on the WPA?"
"I've got a job in a sewing room," says Rosa. "Not the WPA; a Jew-store
sewing room. I made two dollars and twenty-five cents last week, but you
know I am only an apprentice learning my trade; I will make more money
soon. There is a supervisor there watching us all the time to see that we
don't rest. Sometimes when he is in some other part of the shop we stop a
minute, but when we see him coming we have to start working quick, or he
docks part of our pay. The only way I can get any rest is to go to the
lavatory. We aren't allowed to stay there but a few minutes."
Little Jose suddenly dashes into the room with a rubber ball and flings
himself on Amanda's lap. He is pursued by a small, thin, bow-legged girl
who tearfully accuses him, in Spanish, of stealing her ball. Amanda
forcefully takes the ball, and returns it to the girl. Jose wails
strangely.
"Jose's deaf and dumb," Amanda explains. "I took him to the doctors here
and they said he was born that way and there wasn't nothing they could
do."
"I rather be dead, than deaf and dumb like that," solemnly declares Maria.
Perico walks cautiously across the room, and turns on the radio. "I hope
it isn't church music," he says.
"Here comes my husband, Enrique, now," explains Amanda, "he's been to the
store." Enrique seems to be about forty years old; he has a rather
handsome face, and appears to be quite active and virile.
"I don't spoil my children," continues Amanda. "When I go to visit
somebody my children come along and sit down and behave themselves and
don't run around hollering. They don't always ask for bread when I go
visiting, either, like a lot of kids do.
"Jose eats candy all day. It's bad for his teeth and I ought not give it
to him but he cries if I don't. He'll take all the pennies you will give
him, but he won't take no nickels or dimes or nothing like that. I guess
maybe he never spent nothing but pennies in his whole life; he must think
pennies is the only thing you can buy stuff with.
"He sure hates to take a bath. Sometimes when he knows he's going to have
to take a bath he gets on the toilet and sits there for hours, just to
keep from having to take a bath. You try to take him off the toile and he
hollers and hollers. The only way you can make him take a bath is to get a
belt and make out like you are going to whip him."
"My kids know when I take off my belt I mean business," says Enrique,
speaking for the first time. "They know I treat them good and buy them
things and don't buy myself nothing. I buy my wife a dress and the kids
two dollar suits for Christmas and me no buy nothing."
"Jose sure is stubborn," Amanda goes on, "and what a temper he's got! When
he wants something and can't make us understand what it is, he sure makes
a fuss. I want to send him to school as soon as I can. He has a good head
on him. He can learn to write and will get along fine, I think. He goes to
shows and likes them very much. You should see the motions he goes through
when he comes home and tries to tell me what he saw. He imitates
automobiles, airplanes, horses, everything. You should see him imitate
Enrique shaving and brushing his teeth."
Jose is sitting on the cement steps,
exploding caps with a small tack hammer. He watches the cap very carefully
so he can see the smoke and tell when they explode. He explodes his last
cap, looks around for approval, and puts the head of the hammer in his
mouth and chews on it.
"He is always chewing on some kind of iron," Amanda complains, "always
chewing on his belt buckle or something like that. Look how he's got his
belt fastened up now --with a match-stick. He chews off his belt buckles
faster than I can sew them on.
"Do you like grapefruit juice? I'm going to give you some cans of it I got
at the relief station. It carries one pint in each can. Grapefruit juice
makes very good drinks with rum. I get cans of it all the time -- last
time they give me five cans. I fixed some of it nice in glasses with ice
and sugar for the kids, but they don't like it and won't drink it. They
like the fruit, but they won't drink the juice.
"The relief station here gives away lots of good things. They give me nice
clothes for the children; and they give us can meat, flour, and lots of
things. It's real good stuff, too, and helps out plenty. I heard that
Roosevelt was going to start giving away lots more things like that, and
sell things very cheap to poor people on relief. It sure will be wonderful
if he does.
"Food is pretty cheap in Ybor City -- I get milk for ten cents a quart --
but even so, lots of people do not have enough money to buy to eat.
I have seen people go to the meat market and ask for free scraps for dogs,
and then cook the scraps and make soup to drink.
"Enrique used to have a little 'buckeye' cigar factory of his own. He had
twelve men working for him at one time, but you know he didn't have enough
capital to keep going. He had to buy all his material for cash and sell
for credit, so he needed more capital than he had. He is a good business
man and was doing good with it for awhile.
"My one ambition is for my kids to finish school and maybe even go to
college. That's the main reason I wish Enrique could get started with his
own buckeye again -- so maybe he could make enough money to send the boys
to college. If I had the means I sure would help him get started in his
own factory again.
"He did try to borrow money but the banks wouldn't lend him any because he
didn't have enough security, and he didn't know nobody else who could lend
him any. He wants so hard to start a buckeye of his own again; that's all
he's living for, the day he can start again. Heck he picked out this label
from a catalogue. He's saving all these labels in case he starts up again.
I think it was the prettiest one; nobody can use this label but him
because he bought the rights to it. It looks like he will never be able to
get started again, but while there is life there is hope, they say."
"Look all these cigars behind this door," says Enrique. "I keep them hid
here for a friend of mine who has a little buckeye factory. Right now, the
first of the year, the customs checks up on all cigars and collects for
revenue stamps on them. Diaz -- he's my friend -- he keep those cigars
here so he won't have to pay no revenue. That's about the only way he is
able to make any money, cigars sell so cheap now.
"Diaz has gone over to St. Petersburg to sell some boxes of cigars to the
tourist, without no stamps on them. Sometimes he gets low with money, so
he makes up extra good cigars and sells them to tourist like that; he
sells them dearer, but they is better cigars. By not paying revenue on
them he makes money pretty good. But that's dangerous, all right; you know
he might walk up to an officer or something.
"Diaz use to be the biggest bootlegger in Ybor City during the
prohibition. He had sixty thousand dollars in the bank at one time, and
now he no have nothing. The police took it all in fines and bribes to get
him out of jail. Diaz use to be plenty tough. But he's getting more old
and soft now; he says so long as he has to eat and a little money to spend
he is gong to enjoy himself while he is alive.
"In the factory I work in now, I make thirty cents an hour but it's not
regular work all the time. The days what we are working we make about two
dollars and thirty cents; that's not so bad as a lot of people makes. The
smallest amount they pay in the factories now is ten dollars a week and
you have to work very fast on account of the wage-hour law making wages
high. Unless you can work fast and good the company will fire you.
"There ain't no young people -- very young -- working in the factories.
The Government won't allow it. A few years ago they found two boys working
who were seventeen years old, and they made the boys quit the factory and
go back to school. They wouldn't have been hired in the first place if
they hadn't lied about their age. There is quite a few crackers working in
the factories now, most of them come from Georgia."
"You know what's the matter with the cracker people?" interrupts Amanda.
"They live so far out the running water ain't got there yet."
"We used to make fifty-five dollars a week," Enrique continues, "but no
don't nobody make much more than about eighteen dollars. I guess it's
mostly because the machines can make cigars so cheap; you can buy the best
kind of cigar now, two for five cents. And don't nobody smoking cigars
like they used to; young people all smoking cigarettes. Cigars is going
out of style.
"In the days when we made fifty-five dollars a week we didn't have no
unions. Maybe that's why we got so much pay. When we use to strike we
always won, but since the unions organized we ain't won a strike. We use
to go on strike and everybody stick together good; you know, Key West and
Cuba would send help, sometimes five percent of our wages, to take care of
our families while we were on strike. Of course, the people in Key West is
all on relief now.
"This AF of L union is no benefit to us. Before we can strike now we have
to get permission from the Florida Union officers, and they have to get
permission from the national union officers, and they won't let us strike.
If we go ahead and strike anyway without permission, we all lose our jobs
at the factories and there is plenty workers to take our places.
"Roosevelt, he is the one make the -- what you call it -- um -- Lewis,
CIO, that's right. Roosevelt don't make it, but he make it grow good. He
say CIO is all right. He prove he like the CIO the way he put good men on
the Labor Board and the Supreme Court.
[MISSING PAGE]
trying to stop the citrus workers' strike. But it didn't do no good. The
citrus union wrote a letter to the longshoremen's union, and the
longshoremen stopped handling the fruit - which was being packed by scab
laborers - and they also got the seamen's union to stop handling it. And
in New York, somebody was picketing the fruit stands in the market. That
was real cooperation.
"Of course they was very lucky to not have no dishonest judge in Lakeland;
the judge would not give the companies an injunction to stop the picketing
of the packing plants. Citrus is a perishable food, and unless it is
handled quickly it rots and the owners lose money. With cigars it is very
different. All the factories have thousands of cigars stored up, and in
case there is a strike, they have plenty cigars to last a long time. That
is why the companies win the strikes, because the cigars will keep a long
time. The companies have enough money to hold out for years, while the
workers do not even have food for their families. If the workers just had
enough to eat maybe they could win the strikes more better.
"The wage-hour law is funny. The Government make that law so things would
be more better for the workers; so they would get more money and not have
to work so long. But it is not working like that. More than two thousand
men have lost their jobs from the cigar factories here because of that
law. The factory owners say they no can make profit if they pay the
workers so much money, so they fire the workers and put that work on
machines. Of course, the factory owners can afford to pay more wages. But
they say they can't, and that's all there is to it. They want to keep all
the profit for themselves.
"That law is playing hell with the little buckeye factories, too. Buckeye
owners can't pay their workers no more than seventy-five cents or one
dollar a day, so unless they get exempt from that law I guess they have to
go out of business.
"The national officer of the cigarmakers' union -- the one who suspended
our officers for trying to start the CIO--is trying to get the cigar
industry exempt from the wage-hour law. He says that is the only way those
men what have been fired can get their jobs back. But the way I think it,
the Government ought to make the company take back those mens and keep up
with the law, or else why did they pass a law like that in the first
place?
"All those new kind of insurance the Government has made the companies
start for the workers is all right. There was a man in our factory got
hurt with a saw not long ago, and he was in bed one week and that
insurance pay him just the same as if he was at work. Man, that's all
right, we never had nothing like that before.
"In the Gasparilla parade in 1930 the factory float had a beautiful Cuban
girl on it -- she was beautiful -- and they had her almost naked, painted
all over with gold paint. Right after the parade she got sick and she was
sick for two days and died. The doctor said the paint had poisoned her.
Her family didn't get paid anything.
"In the National Maritime Union sit-down strike on the S.S. [?] while it
was in Tampa all the men went on strike but one -- he was a Key West man.
They all sit down on the ship. We heard they was on strike, you know, so
we went down to the desk to see what was happening and how they getting
along. They had picket lines all around the dock. Some of the men asked us
to bring them a copy of the paper and some cigarettes and we did. When we
got back it was raining like hell and the picket lines were standing out
in the rain. Then the policemen drove up with two big open trucks, and
they went on the ship with their blackjacks and guns and arrested
everybody and put them in the trucks.
"They put all them men in them trucks and they was packed in just like
cattle. They drove to the jail standing up in the trucks in the rain and
singing all the way. They sing all kinda songs and say they ain't gonna be
in jail long.
"All our cigar unions took up a collection and also went to a loan company
and borrowed money to pay the fines for the strikers so they could get out
of jail. We sent cigars and cigarettes to the jail for them and the
restaurants in Ybor City sent good food free. The police searched all the
food and cigarettes before they would give it to the men in jail. For a
long time after the men got out of jail all of us cigar union men paid ten
cents a week to pay back the loan company for the fine money. But now the
national office of the NMU is paying us all back.
"This morning everybody is supposed to register for the social security. I
am going down to register at the Labor Temple if you want to come with
me."
Perico suddenly became attentive. "Let me go with you." he says to me,
"and then when you leave daddy you won't have to ride back all by
yourself."
"Smart kid, huh?" says Enrique, and chases Perico out of the house. So
Enrique and I drive to the Labor Temple alone.
"I am not sure about how this social security works yet; he says, "but I
think it is this way: if you do not go to work -- I mean if the factory is
not open -- then the factory and the Government have the social insurance
together which they pay you for abut three or four months. They only pay
you a certain percent of your average salary; I don't know how much, but
it sure sounds good, all right. You can't get anything, though, unless you
register. Everybody is registering.
The Labor Temple is surrounded by a noisy crowd of men, women, children
and dogs; the activity reminds me of typical scenes at voting polls.
Enrique takes his place in the line of people waiting to register.
Although all conversation is in Spanish, I hear frequent interjections in
English, such as "OK," and "That's nice."
I decide to enter the building, and as I walk through the entrance I am
immediately approached by a Cuban man who asks:
"You Americano? You sign the petition to lift the embargo on Spain?" He
has a card table erected near the doorway, and approaches everyone who
enters.
I tell him that I am a member of the Jacksonville branch of the Medical
Bureau and North American Committee to aid Spanish Democracy, and he
responds enthusiastically.
He calls to a stocky Cuban man at the drink stand.
"This is Mr. Ginesta," he says. He is the Tampa chairman of the Spanish
Aid committee."
"I am pleased to meet you," says Ginesta. "I hope you will be here for the
meeting when we sponsor two young ladies who are touring the country in a
"wounded ambulance." One of the young ladies drove the ambulance for
loyalist Spain, and the other was a nurse. The Tampa Ministerial Alliance
is going to co-sponsor the meeting with us; it will be the first time in
this country that a ministerial alliance had done that. And for the first
time we will get the Americans in Tampa to our meetings."
"Ginesta just returned from Washington a few weeks ago," explains the
other man. "In a few days he is going back to Washington again to attend
as a delegate to the Congress for Peace and Democracy."
"Yes, I learn plenty in Washington," Ginesta says. "I went with a
delegation to ask Congressmen to lift the embargo on Spain. Man, we got a
good friend in Claude Pepper; Pepper, he is a good guy. There was another
Congressman who told to us: "You are from Florida and not my constituents,
but in your request you represent the majority of the American people, and
so do I." That sure make us feel good.
"There was another Congressman who said: "Yes, I will vote to lift the
embargo on Spain this time. -- But listen, I want you to understand that
it is not I who have changed my views since I voted against lifting the
embargo last year. It is the situation that has changed." You see, he
didn't want us to say that we were right and he was wrong, or that he had
swung around to our point of view. Munich, the Lima Conference, and
President Roosevelt's speeches sure are waking a lot of people up.
"You should have seen us when we went into Senator George's office, from
Georgia; we almost got thrown out. I don't guess there has been a Spaniard
in Georgia since De Soto marched through.
"I learned a lot in Washington, all right. I watched these guys work and I
know there are very few real liberals. Most of them are uneducated and
crooked politicians controlled by the big interests."
A young man who has been standing behind Ginesta, listening to the
conversation steps up and whispers cautiously to him: "You must be more
quieter and not talk too much because the woman selling drinks at the cold
drink stand is a Ku Klux Klan so you better be careful."
"I was just talking about the Spanish Aid committee," replies Ginesta,
"but the Klan don't like it so I guess I might as well be careful. -- Do
you know Pershing, who is field representative for the Spanish committee?
Well, he spoke here in the Labor Temple not long ago. He is very good, all
right. At the meeting he read a note he had received at the hotel that
said: "Tampa is an unhealthy place for liberals." After he read the note
he said: "Whoever wrote the note should be sent one saying not to come
over here because Ybor City is an unhealthy place for Fascists." Everybody
laugh; they sure like Pershing."
Enrique approaches, having duly registered, and nods to Ginesta and the
others. "Give my regards to our friends in Jacksonville," says Ginesta as
I tell him goodbye. When we leave, I see over the front entrance a large
poster labelled:
SOLIDARITY WITH THE VICTIM OF WORLD FACISM!
"Those were very intelligent mens you were talking to," Enrique says.
"They are leaders in the unions, the newspapers, the Spanish Aid
Committee, and all like that. All the unions make I don't know how many
thousand cigars and cigarettes to send to Spain -- we stayed in the
factories and work overtime to make those things for Spain.
"The Spanish Aid committee has two mens to stand by the factory door
everytime we get pay; one of the men takes a collection to help Spain, and
the other man writes the receipts for whatever you give. It is almost like
buying bolita, the way they work it - you can buy a five cent piece or as
much more as you want. Giving receipts that way nobody can never say any
of the money is missing. And they print in the paper the record of how
much every man give."
Although it is only two o'clock in the afternoon when we return to the
house, Amanda is already considering what she should cook for the evening
meal, which is eaten at four o'clock. She explains that it is Cuban custom
to eat at four, because that allows time to clean up the kitchen before
night; and also, when they retire early, the food is thoroughly digested
before they go to sleep.
"What would you all like to eat for supper?" she asks. "We want to fix
something you like. I don't know much about cooking American dinners."
"We don't want American food," says Edith. "I'm sick and tired of eating
American food; it hasn't got any taste to it. That's one reason why I came
to Tampa: so I could eat some good Cuban food."
"I know a man who sells crabs," says Enrique. "If I can just find him
while he is drunk - he stays drunk most of the time - I can get three
dozen crabs for fifty cents. Crabs make very good enchilado."
"My husband like enchilado, frijoles negra (black beans), garbanzos
(Spanish beans), arros con pollo (rice with chicken); he likes all Cuban
things, plenty hot," Edith says.
"I know," Enrique says, "I make the espanada. You know, the shrimp all
crushed up and cook with hot sauce and then fry inside little long rolls
of dough. The dough cooks crisp and you bite into the good hot shrimp. I
think maybe you like that all right."
He hurries off to the store to buy the necessary ingredients. When he
returns, he goes to the kitchen and begins preparing the meal, while
Amanda sits in the front room and listens to the radio. "I sure got me a
good cook for a husband," she says. "Enrique cooks lots more better than I
do, and he likes to, so I'm glad to let him do it. You know, most all
Cuban men is good cooks."
I sit in the kitchen window and watch Enrique. The entire house is soon
permeated with the odor of the sauce which he prepares by frying finely
chopped onion, garlic, green and red peppers in tomato paste and olive
oil. When the shrimp are boiled, he pulls them into shreds with his
fingers. The sauce is strained to remove the onion, garlic, and peppers,
and then mixed with the shrimp. Dough is made of flour, baking powder, and
water, and portions of shrimp are encased in it. The espanadas are then
fried in very hot lard, and come out crisp and golden brown.
He has made a large pot of rice, which he strains and then steams with the
addition of a tablespoonful of lard. He prepares a salad of sliced
tomatoes, cucumbers, and lettuce, and pours over it a dressing of salt,
pepper, olive oil and vinegar. He pours four large glasses of homemade
raisin wine, and smaller glasses for the children.
Someone shouts "hello" from the front porch, enters, and walks on down the
hall. "This is Miss Caridad Martinez," says Amanda. "She is a very good
friend to us who wanted to meet you."
Caridad is about nineteen years old; her complexion is very light, her
eyes large and dark, and her hair naturally waved. She remains a few
minutes, laughing and joking in Spanish. When she leaves, she says in
English, "I'm very glad to have met you."
After Cardidad has gone Amanda says, "Poor Caridad - she's got TB. Three
of her sisters died with it in the last three years. Now Caridad is going
to die with it, the last one, and her mother just looks at her all the
time and cries. It hurts her mother to know that Caridad is going to die,
too, like all the others. Her mother fusses at her all the time but it is
only because she is so worried about her dying. They are a very nice
family and the girls were beautiful."
When the cooking is over and the meal placed on the table, there is a
sudden burst of very rapid and excited Spanish which I am unable to
understand. Perico dashes out of the front door. I ask what has happened,
but receive no answer. In a few minutes Perico returns, and there is more
rapid talking in Spanish. The dinner is getting cold.
At last Amanda says, "Well, I guess you might as well know; we been trying
to borrow some knives from the neighbors but none of them has got any
either. I guess we will have to use the big knife and pass it around the
table. I'm so ashamed not to have no knives, but we don't never use any."
We all gather about the small table. "Just help yourself to everything,"
invites Amanda. Perico tears the end off a hot loaf of Cuban bread. His
hands are extremely dirty.
"Perico!" shouts Amanda. "Get up from here and wash your hands! You know
better than to sit down to eat with your hands like that."
I am suddenly startled by a loud "Moo…" from directly under the kitchen
window, Everybody laughs loudly.
"What's a cow doing so close?" I ask.
"That was no cow," says Enrique, "That was a caballo -- a horse --
poop-pooping!"
They all laugh louder than ever. "Sure it was a cow," says Estrella,
"Enrique ought to be ashamed of telling jokes like that at the dinner
table. The neighbors keep their cow in a shed right under the window.
"That remind me of a good joke," says Enrique. "One time there was an old
man who had a horse named 'Bertha,' and his daughter was named Bertha too.
There was a young man who wanted to borrow the horse one day, so he asked
the old man if he could borrow Bertha for a little while. The old man grab
his gun and say, "Hell no, what you think this is -- you think I let you
try out my daughter?"
The response to this joke almost upsets the table.
"I notice you don't laugh so much like the Latin people," Amanda says to
me. "I guess you feel good and just don't laugh so much. I think that is
all right. But I just can't help laughing. You should hear me in the
picture show; sometime when I see something real funny I laugh so much I
have to go outside to stop from laughing so much."
"Would you like to go for a ride?" asks Edith, after the table has been
cleared.
"Yes, sure, anything you all want to do," replies Amanda. "You go put on
your suit, Enrique; we are going for a ride and I like to see you dressed
up in your suit."
After a few minutes Enrique appears in a neatly pressed brown suit.
"He won that suit at a lottery for one dollar," says Amanda. The man told
him if he wanted to buy an extra pair of pants to match, it would cost him
six dollars. I told him to go ahead and get the extra pants because that
way the suit would be good for twice as long if he only had one pair of
pants. I bought him that crepe shirt he's wearing for Christmas. It cost
two dollars."
Amanda is rolling her hair on a clothes-pin. "I fix hair pretty good,
huh?" she asks. "You know I don't get to go to the beauty parlor but about
once a year. They don't do it so good as I do sometimes; I taught some of
the girls in the beauty parlor how to fix hair."
In due time we are ready to leave. "Let's drive over to Tampa tonight,"
suggests Edith.
In Tampa, we drive slowly so Edith and Amanda can look in the shop
windows. Each window evokes some such, in Spanish, as: "Que lindo!" (How
pretty) "Divino!" (Divine) "No me gusta!" ( I don't like it).
"That's the jail Shoemaker was taken out of," suddenly says Enrique. Right
in the middle of town. They took him out and sat him down in a bucket of
hot tar, castrated him, beat him, and did all kinds of things to him. I
have heard people argue about whether the Klan, or the police, or both,
did it. All I know is that they took him right out of jail.
"I been in that jail. One night when I was walking home along the bridge I
saw a lady climb over the rail and get ready to jump in and commit
suicide, so I grabbed her around the waist and held on and she yelled and
raised all kinds of hell. The police came, and I guess they thought we was
fighting; anyway, they took us both to jail and told us we could tell it
to the judge. I stayed in that jail seven days before Amanda could borrow
ten dollars to pay my fine to get me out."
We drive over a bridge into a residential section of large homes and
well-kept lawns.
"This is Davis Island," says Amanda. "This is where all the millionaires
and rich people live. It's very pretty in the daytime time but we can't
see much now. That's the ... no, that's not it."
"Amanda, you don't know nothing about this part of town," says Enrique.
"I've only rode over here on Davis Island once or twice," Amanda admits.
"I tell you what you ought to go see: the museum in the Tampa Bay Hotel.
They have lots of things in there very old, thousands of years old, I like
it in there. I only been there one time but that time I stayed three hours
looking at all those things. It sure is interesting. I hope you go there
before you leave; you would like it."
On the way home we stop at a barbecue stand. When we reach the house, Rosa
is sitting on the railing of the front porch, looking up into the sky.
"Well, I guess you don't have to worry no more about having an Italian
son-in-law," she tells Amanda dejectedly. "Nicky and I had a fight and he
went away mad. I guess it's good thing. We didn't get along so good
anyway."
"I'm glad you find out now before you married him," comments Amanda.
We are given the front sleeping room.
The next morning we are awakened by Rosa who calls, "Your coffee is
ready."
"Huh," says Edith. "That's not Cuban custom - Cuban custom everybody eats
when they feel like."
After a breakfast of coffee and hot bread, we prepare to depart for
Jacksonville. Enrique and Amanda present us with a package of sandwiches
to take with us for lunch, several cans of the surplus commodity
grapefruit juice, and a pound of black beans.
"We wish we could give you something more better to take with you," Amanda
says, "but Enrique hasn't worked any in the last few weeks and we are
short on cash."
As we start out the front door, the children in the bedroom shout:
"Goodbye-Goodbye-come-again!"
"Goodbye," we call. "And Rosa," I say, "don't get married before I get
back to Tampa, and I'll bring you a nice American for a husband."
"All right," she says. "I'll wait."
"I want to come visit you in Jacksonville sometime," Amanda says. "But I
don't know when I'll ever be able to leave these kids. I ain't got nobody
to look after them while I'm gone. I ain't never been nowhere but Key
West, Miami, and Tampa, and I always wanted to see Jacksonville before I
die… Well, hurry up and beat it. And don't say 'goodbye.' Say 'hasta la
vista' - until we meet again."
One week after our return to Jacksonville, we receive a penciled postcard
from Amanda. It concludes: "Rosa married Nicky and they are living with
his family in West Tampa."
January 3, 1939
Adolpha Pellato (Cuban
[2315?] 12th Avenue
Ybor City
Tampa, Florida
(Cigar maker)
Stetson Kennedy, writer
(Written off-time)
Text from: Library of
Congress, Manuscript Division, WPA Federal Writers' Project Collection
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