Two Faces Of America

by Carlos Bulosan
In Santa Maria, where I was working with Jose, I received a disturbing
communication from Millar. Trouble was brewing in San Jose, forty
miles south of San Francisco. Jose and I took the first bus, stopping a
few hours in San Luis Obispo to see how Ganzo was progressing. In
the early morning, after a lengthy deliberation with Ganzo in his
cabin, we rushed to the station and slept in the bus until Salinas.
I still do not know why Jose and I never discussed unionism and
politics when we were alone. It was only when we were with others,
when we were in action, that we spoke aloud and acted according to
our judgment. But I knew that I was coming to a way of thinking that
would govern my life in the coming years. I surmised that the same
evolution was taking place in Jose. But there was still no term for it. I
believed then that agitating the agricultural workers was enough, but
the next five years showed me that a definite political program was
also needed.
Millar was not at out rendezvous in San Jose. I went to the lettuce
fields and talked to the workers. The companies had drastically cut
the wage scales: the year before, it had been thirty cents an hour,
but now it had been reduced to twenty cents. The Filipino workers
struck, but the companies imported Mexican laborers.
"There should be a law against the importation of labor," I said. "It
should be included in the interstate laws."
"The time will come," Jose said. "Without it the workers will always be
at the mercy of the employers."
"Your are absolutely right, Carl," Jose said. "But we have a good
president in Washington, so we will probably have some of our
demands--if we use enough pressure."
I was not satisfied, but there was some hope. I went to the Mexican
district and gathered together some of the Mexicans who had quit
the fields that day. Jose, who spoke fluent Spanish, came and
explained to them the importance of the strike. They were
enthusiastic. A runner was sent to the fields to stop the Mexicans
who were still working, and he came back to tell us that only fifty
remained.
But we wanted an all-out strike, although we doubted that it would be
possible. That night, when Jose and I were in the back room of a

restaurant, preparing a leaflet to be circulated, five white men came

suddenly into the room. I started to run to the door, but it was too
late. Two big men, one wearing dark glasses, carried off Jose. The
other man suddenly turned around and shot out the light bulbs.
I was kicked into the back seat of a big car. Jose was in the front seat,
between the driver and the man with dark glasses. When the car
started to move, I looked down and saw Millar bleeding on the floor.
He looked up at me with frightened eyes, pleading, wanting to tell me
that he had nothing to do with our arrest. I turned the other way,
aching to hit him in the face. I looked through the window hoping to
find some escape. I was sure that if the car turned a corner, I could
jump out. If I succeeded in jumping out--could I escape their guns?
My heart almost stopped beating. It was better to die trying to
escape than to wait for death.
But when the car came to a deserted country road, I knew that flight
was impossible. I lost all hope, I glanced quickly at the wide, clear
fields, catching a fleeting glimpse of the sky. Looking swiftly to the
east, I saw the big moon and below it, soon to move away, a mass of
clouds that looked like a mountain of cotton balls. Suddenly I
remembered that as a child I used to watch snow-white clouds sailing
in the bright summer skies of Mangusmana. The memory of my
village made my mind whirl, longing for flight and freedom again.
I was helpless now. I watched my companions: they seemed to have
given up all hope. There was only death at the end of the road. The
white men were silent. Millar touched my legs when we passed in the
shadows of trees. The driver turned off the road and crossed a wide
beet field, heading for the woods not far away.
We entered the woods and in five minutes the car stopped. One of
the men in front jumped out and came to our door.
"You have the rope, Jake?"
"Yeah!"
The man on my right got out and pulled me violently after him,
hitting me on the jaw. I fell on my knees but got up at once, trembling
with rage. If only I had a gun! Or a knife! I could cut these bastards
into little pieces! Blood came out of my mouth. I raised my hand to
wipe it off, but my attacker hit me again. I staggered, fell on my face,
and rolled on the-grass.
"Up! Goddamn you! Up!"
Painfully, I crawled to my feet, knelt on the grass, and got up slowly. I

saw them kicking Millar on the grass. When they were through with
him, they tore off Jose's clothes and tied him to a tree. One of them
went to the car and came back with a can of tar and a sack of
feathers. The man with the dark glasses ripped the sack open and
white feathers fell out and sailed in the thin light that filtered
between the tress.
Then I saw them pouring the tar on Jose's body. One of them lit a
match and burned the delicate hair between his legs.
"Jesus, he's a well-hung son-of-a-bitch!"
"Yeah!"
"No wonder whores stick to them!"
"The other monkey ain't so hot!"
They looked at my direction. The man with the dark glasses started
beating Millar. Then he came to me and kicked my left knee violently
that I fell on the grass, blinded with pain. Hardening my body, I
wished I were strong enough to reach him. He spat in my face and
left.
Another man, the one called Jake, tied me to a tree. Then he started
beating me with his fists. Why were these men so brutal, so sadistic?
A tooth fell out of my mouth, and blood trickled down my shirt. The
man called Lester grabbed my testicles with his left hand and
smashed them with his right fist. The pain was so swift and searing
that it was as if there were no pain at all. There was only a stabbing
heat that leaped into my head and stayed there for a moment.
"Shall we bum this yellow belly?"
"He's gone."
"I'd like a souvenir."
"Scalp him!"
"What about the other bastard?"
"He's gone, too."
They left me. One of them went to the car and took out a bottle of
whiskey. They started drinking, passing the bottle from hand to hand.
Once in a while, when a bottled was emptied, one of them would
come over and beat me. When they were drunk enough, I feared that
they would burn Jose. Millar crawled painfully over to where I was

lying.
"Knife in my left shoe,: he whispered.
"Quiet." I rolled over and reached for the knife. Now I could cut the
ropes that tied my legs. My hands were free! Then I was ready to run!
I handed the knife back and whispered to Millar to roll away. I crawled
in the grass slowly; when I reached the edge of the woods, I got up
and tried to run. But I had almost no use of my left leg, so that most
of the time I hopped through the beet fields like a kangaroo.
The night was clear and quiet. I was afraid they would see me. I
heard their voices in the wind. Once a flashlight beamed from the
edge of the woods. I lay flat on my stomach and watched it disappear
among the trees. Then I got up and staggered towards San Jose.
I stopped when I came to the lighted areas to avoid suspicion. I
turned away from the business district and headed for the Oriental
Section. A police car came by. I turned in at a side door and opened
it, I found myself in a little room, with dolls on the bed and a poor
table radio on a small table. On the dresser was the picture of a
woman who might have been twenty-five. Someone was in the
bathroom for I could heat a noise there. I was reaching for the door
knob when a white woman came out.
She stopped short in surprise, letting the towel fall from her hands.
"Please don't be afraid," I said. "Some men are after me."
She came forward. "Have you killed somebody?"
"No."
"Did you steal some money?"
"No. I--well, I--work with the unions."
She ran to a little room and brought me a clean shirt. She brought a
basin of warm water and began washing my face gently. Then she
took me to the kitchen, where she prepared something for me to eat.
I watched her. She might inform the police. Could I trust her?
"When did you eat last?" she asked.
"I don't remember," I said.
"Poor boy." She got up. "Eat everything and go to sleep."
I almost cried. What was the matter with this land? Just a moment

ago I was being beaten by white men. But there was another white
person, a woman, giving me food and place to rest. And her warmth!
I sat on the couch and started talking. I wanted to explain what
happened to me.
"Poor boy." There was kindness in her face, some urge to reach me,
to understand what I was telling her. And sometimes when she got
touched by my description, I could feel her hand on my face. There
was tenderness in her touch.
"Thank you so much," I said.
"Go to sleep now." She switched off the lights and went to her bed. I
watched her in the darkness. I could see in the dark almost clearly as
in a room flooded with lights. "Good night," she said.
I lay quietly on the couch; then tears began to come to my eyes.
What would happen to Jose and Millar? Had I the right to run away?
Had I? The fight must go on, Jose used to say. All right. I would go on
with the fight. I would show them. The silence outside was
deepening. Not far away, in a nearby farmhouse, I could hear a
rooster crowing.
The woman was still awake. She sat up. She heard me crying. She got
up and came to my couch.
"What is your name?" she asked.
"Carl," I said, "Remember me only as Carl, that's all."
"Mine is Marian," she said. "Go to sleep now."
She woke up early in the morning. I was surprised to find that she
had packed her things.
"Wait for me here," she said. "I'll get my car."
In five minutes she was back. I carried the suitcases into the car. She
sat at the wheel and put the key in the lock. Then she looked back to
the town, as though she were committing it to memory. I knew her
look because I had done the same thing a hundred times. It was a
farewell lookforever. The car started to move.
"We'll go to Los Angeles," she said.
I looked out of the window. The sun was rising.