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On the Edge of the Barrio Excerpt from Ernesto Galarza, Barrio Boy (1971; repr., Notre Dame, Ind.: University of Notre Dame Press, 1977), 247–266. The final chapter of Barrio Boy leaves us with Galarza looking into the horizon over the Sacramento Valley contemplating his future. The journey from Jalcocotán to Sacramento has been difficult and has been dictated by work and the search for the next best chanza (job). By the time he had finished middle school, he had worked as a paper boy, a messenger, a store clerk, a musician, and a field hand. The rich descriptions he provides of his workingclass neighborhood in downtown Sacramento are indicative of descriptions of industries and other neighborhoods his family had encountered while migrating north to the United States. These final pages provide a conceptual map that reveals the awakening of Galarza’s class consciousness and the laying of a foundation for a lifetime of activism. To make room for a growing family it was decided that we should move, and a house was found in Oak Park, on the far side of town where the open country began. The men raised the first installment for the bungalow on Seventh Avenue even after Mrs. Dodson explained that if we did not keep up the monthly payments we would lose the deposit as well as the house. The real estate broker brought the sale contract to the apartment one evening. Myself included, we sat around the table in the living room, the gringo explaining at great length the small print of the document in a torrent of words none of us could make out. Now and then he would pause and throw in the only word he knew in Spanish: “Sabee?” The men nodded slightly as if they had understood. Doña Henriqueta was holding firmly to the purse which contained the down payment, watching the broker’s face, not listening to his words. She had only one question. Turning to me she said: “Ask him how long it will take to pay all of it.” I translated, shocked by the answer: “Twenty years.” There was a long pause around the table, broken by my stepfather: “What do you say?” Around the table the heads nodded agreement. The broker passed his fountain pen to him. He signed the contract and after him Gustavo and Jose. Doña Henriqueta opened the purse and counted out the greenbacks. The broker pocketed the money, gave us a copy of the document, and left. 16 part 1. coming of age in a class society The last thing I did when we moved out of 418 L was to dig a hole in the corner of the backyard for a tall carton of Quaker Oats cereal, full to the brim with the marbles I had won playing for keeps around the barrio. I tamped the earth over my buried treasure and laid a curse on whoever removed it without my permission. . . . We could not have moved to a neighborhood less like the barrio. All the families around us were Americans. The grumpy retired farmer next door viewed us with alarm and never gave us the time of day, but the Harrisons across the street were cordial. Mr. Harrison loaned us his tools, and Roy, just my age but twice my weight, teamed up with me at once for an exchange of visits to his mother’s kitchen and ours. I astounded him with my Mexican rice, and Mrs. Harrison baked my first waffle. Roy and I also found a common bond in the matter of sisters. He had an older one and by now I had two younger ones. It was a question between us whether they were worse as little nuisances or as big bosses. The answer didn’t make much difference but it was a relief to have another man to talk with. . . . With a bike I was able to sign on as a carrier of the Sacramento Bee, learning in due course the art of slapping folded newspapers against people’s porches instead of into the bushes or on their roofs. Roy and I also became assistants to a neighbor who operated a bakery in his basement, taking our pay partly in dimes and partly in broken cookies for our families. For the three men of the household as well as for me the bicycle became the most important means for earning a living. Oak Park was miles away from the usual places...

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