America is in the heart; a personal history by Bulosan Carlos

Author:Bulosan, Carlos [Bulosan, Carlos]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Bulosan, Carlos, Authors, Filipino, Filipino Americans, Filipino American migrant agricultural laborers
Publisher: Seattle, University of Washington Press
Published: 1988-02-03T16:00:00+00:00

to the trap door of an icebox, watching where the detectives were going.

Jose was running when they spotted him. He jumped to the other car and hid behind a trap door, but two more detectives came from the other end and grabbed him. Jose struggled violently and freed himself, rolling on his stomach away from his captors. On his feet again, he tried to jump to the car ahead, but his feet slipped and he fell, shouting to us for help. I saw his hands clawing frantically in the air before he disappeared.

I jumped out first. Frank followed me, falling upon the cinders almost simultaneously. Then we were running to Jose. I thought at first he was dead. One foot was cut off cleanly, but half of the other was still hanging. Frank lifted Jose and told him to tie my handkerchief around his foot. We carried him to the ditch.

"Plold his leg," Frank said, opening a knife.

"Right." I gripped the bleeding leg with all my might, but when Frank put the sharp blade on it, I turned my face away.

Jose jerked and moaned, then passed out. Frank chewed some tobacco and spread it on the stump to keep the blood from flowing. Then we ran to the highway and tried to hail a car, but the motorists looked at us with scorn and spat into the wind. Then an old man came along in a Ford truck and drove us to the county hospital, where a kind doctor and two nurses assured us that they would do their best for him.

Walking down the marble stairway of the hospital, I began to wonder at the paradox of America. Jose's tragedy was brought about by railroad detectives, yet he had done no harm of any consequence to the company. On the highway, again, motorists had refused to take a dying man. And yet in this hospital, among white people—Americans like those who had denied us— we had found refuge and tolerance. Why was America so kind and yet so cruel? Was there no way to simplifying things in this continent so that suffering would be minimized? Was there no common denominator on which we could all meet? I was angry and confused, and wondered if I would ever understand this paradox.

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