United Farm Workers of America

<div class="title-screen"> <h1>Beneath the Grapevines</h1> <p class="subtitle">The story of a manong in Delano, 1965</p> <div class="start-button"> [[Begin the journey->Intro]] </div> </div>

<p>The violent waves of the ocean crash into the steerage and jolt me awake. I look around at my fellow shipmates. Most of them were Illocano fishermen from Luzon. I peer out the window to an orange sky and ocean. Not long ago this window gazed upon the shores of everything I have ever known. But now I see nothing. I begin to feel a prickle behind my nose. Tears are ready to erupt. I think of my family still in the Philippines. The memory of them keeps me strong. </p> [[I can’t break before landing in America->Angel Island]]

The ship docks at a place called Angel Island. I hear it is not yet America, but it's close enough to smell. My anticipation wells inside my chest. I haven't the slightest clue what I shall do next in this land of opportunity. They examined each of us thoroughly. They placed cold steel circles on our chests and listened to our hearts. They were searching all over our bodies as if we were hiding something from them. I thought my travelling would be done after landing in America. [[But it was just the beginning.->Turbulent Life]]

<p>After many years of following the harvest, I settle in Delano, California, where I pick grapes. I live in the labor camp, and conditions are terrible. I barely earn a dollar an hour. Every day is grueling work. Every day is monotonous. Every day is blazing hot. I pick grapes for hours at a time. I count each bundle by 5 to keep track. 1.. 2.. 3.. 4.. 5.. I wish I could say that my dreams were any different. But…</p> [[<i>I dream of picking grapes.<i/> ->Strike?]]

My next stop was Stockton, California. There are many more Filipinos than I expected. There is a whole community of us Filipinos here. They call it “Little Manila”. My ears perk when I hear hints of my language in the streets. I deeply inhale the heavy aroma of food from home. Maybe I’m closer to home than I thought. It was here where I learned that the laborers migrated up and down California following the harvest to work. [[<i>30 years later</i>->Grape Picking]]

While picking grapes, I notice a stir amongst the workers. Particularly around this other man I don't know. I recognize his glasses though. I realize he is Larry Itliong. He led a strike in Coachella and successfully raised the wages for the laborers there. He’s grown tired of this unfair treatment. I have too. Itliong spots my gaze and approaches me. [[Heed his call to organize->Filipino Hall]]

September 7, 1965. The other laborers and I pour into the community hall. We must make a decision. [[We decide to strike unanimously.->Strike]]

The next day we walk on to the fields like it's a normal work day. It's at noon where we decide to go on strike. Their retaliation was brutal. The labor camps no longer had any water or gas. Some of us were beat. My heart is filled with hope, but my stomach is empty. I did not know that I could feel this hungry. Now more than ever I’m relying on others. The Filipino grocer here in Delano fed us simple meals to keep us from starving. [[This strike is a test from God.|Church]]

The grape farms have started to replace us workers with Mexican laborers. It is simply not enough to strike. We must unite. On September 16th, Itliong sets up a meeting with Cesar Chavez and the Mexican community at the Guadalupe church. We are split right down the middle. Filipinos sitting on one side, Mexicans on the other. A vote is taken whether they will support us in our strike. There is overwhelming support. [[The crowd begins to chant, "Strike!" | Hope ]]

We were no longer alone. The room that once felt divided now felt whole. Filipino. Mexican. Different languages, same hunger. Same call for dignity. I look at my hands. Worn, stained, older than they should be. For years, they picked grapes. Now, they hold something else. Hope. And for the first time since I arrived in America… [[I feel like I belong.|Epilogue]]

For the next 5 years, we strike and fight. We garnered support of practially all Americans. Practically nobody buys grapes anymore. Finally, the grape growers concede. The fields are the same. The sun is just as unforgiving. But something has changed. We are no longer invisible. We are no longer alone. [[Restart->Title]]