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✩ 105 ✩ C h a p t e r E l e v e n Travels with Randolph Hearst, 1969–70 As I said before, people don’t get rich (or stay rich) by giving away their money. Yet, in May 1968 I was assigned the task of asking one of the richest men in the country to do just that. I would go to San Francisco and ask Randolph A. Hearst, the last surviving son of William Randolph Hearst and principal heir to his huge newspaper fortune, to help a project the government itself had given a pittance to. Asking for money was quite an assignment for the kid who had bumped along at or below the poverty line much of his life. Bumping or not, I had never asked for any sort of handout. I even worked three jobs at times. Now I was given the responsibility of asking for money to help the lot of others whose fortunes were equally shaky. This was important, and I had to get it right. Prior to the meeting with Hearst, I did my homework very carefully. Nervous, I was looking for a way to postpone a difficult task. I called Mrs. Mehawk, Hearst’s secretary, and asked how I should go about setting up a meeting . She informed me that an appointment had already been made by Dr. Lessinger. Mrs. Mehawk arranged for me to talk with one of Mr. Hearst’s assistants, who gave me a quick rundown on what to expect. There was no backing out now. I couldn’t even delay things. I drove to the Hearst mansion, and it was indeed a huge mansion. Perhaps it didn’t compare with the so-called Hearst Castle down the road at San Simeon, but it was huge by the standards of everybody except multimillionaires. Now, with all the enthusiasm of a neophyte salesman making 106 ✩   chapter eleven a cold call, I drove out to the Hearst mansion and pushed the doorbell before I had time to chicken out. While waiting, I rehearsed the talk I assumed I’d give to the butler: “I am Armando Rodriguez from the Department of Health, Education, and Welfare, and I have an appointment to see Mr. Hearst.” But it wasn’t the butler who answered the door. It swung open, and there was Randolph A. Hearst himself. He didn’t appear nearly as nervous as I. All business, he gave me a quick introduction to his wife, and then led the way to the family room. Now it was up to me to make a case so dramatic that the famous newspaperman couldn’t refuse to open his purse strings. I knew my host didn’t speak Spanish, so that’s what I spoke—not a word of his native language for a few minutes. I could have been reciting “Jack and the Beanstalk” for all he knew. When I saw his face turn red, I figured that was enough; the point had been made. I said, “I just spoke to you in Spanish, and you didn’t understand a word I said. Right?” I realize I had taken a terrible chance. He could have chalked my act up as a stunt and asked me to leave. Or he might have listened politely and uttered those polite words of dismissal, “I’ll get back to you.” But I had taken what’s called a calculated risk. A newspaper publisher knows how valuable it is to grab the reader’s interest with a startling headline and a strong opening paragraph. I’m sure Mr. Hearst recognized my talk as the same sort of ploy. I had his complete interest, and I hoped he recognized that I was willing to take risks to make things happen. I explained that his frustration was mirrored by thousands of Hispanic students across our nation every day, except that they have to endure it for not only a few minutes, but for several hours a day, five days a week when they are in school. When my host admitted he hadn’t realized the extent of the problem, I pointed out that few people who hadn’t experienced it themselves realized the problem. But it was there, and it was a big problem. Then I went for broke: “I’d like to take you on a trip around the country and let you see what I’ve been talking about. We would talk to students, parents, and community leaders...

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