Mr. Jackson consulted with the plantation manager.
“The five a.m. to wake,” Mr. Jackson said.
“Respectfully, Mr. Jackson, would you like someone to enter your home uninvited?” Vicente crossed his arms.
“Five a.m.,” Mr. Jackson said.
“My home may be a hut fit for animals, but no one has the right to come into it when my wife and children are sleeping.” Vicente’s voice was strong and firm. “Not you or the police or even the plantation manager.”
A few of the puertorriqueños looked at Valentina and imagined what she looked like in bed, while their wives took another look at Vicente, so brave.
“I no make the rules,” Mr. Jackson said.
“Who makes the rules, then?” Valentina said to Vicente.
“Who makes the rules, then?” Vicente said to Mr. Jackson.
“Five a.m. whistle you wake, that’s the rule.”
The Puerto Ricans murmured, Que falta de respeto.
Vicente shook his head. “When we are sick, the doctor tells us that we are not sick and sends us back to the cane, where we get sicker.”
“Doctor know best,” Mr. Jackson said.
“We are men, not cattle,” Vicente said.
“Well, now,” Mr. Jackson said.
“The luna and his henchmen raise their whips to us,” Vicente said. “Tell Mr. White to stop that immediately.”
The Puerto Ricans murmured, We are men, not cattle.
“What’s your bango number?” Mr. Jackson looked down at a paper.
“Mi nombre es Vega. Vicente Vega, not Vegas like in the account book,” Vicente said.
“I asked for your bango number.”
“I’m not a bango number,” Vicente said. “I’m a man with a name.”
“Vicente Vega, what’s your bango number?”
Vicente nodded, satisfied. “9643.”
“9643,” Mr. Jackson said to the plantation manager, who wrote it down.
“We are men, not cattle.”
“What’s that about cattle?”
“The luna and his men raise the whip to us,” Vicente said. “We demand that they stop.”
The Puerto Ricans chanted, We are men, not cattle.
Mr. Jackson conferred with Mr. White.
“Mr. White talk to the luna,” Mr. Jackson said.
Was there anything else? ¡Claro! Vicente, go down the list!
“Sí, sí.” Vicente raised his hand to his compatriots. “We shouldn’t have to work in the hard rain. Have you ever worked in the rain, Mr. Jackson?”
“I not sugarcane worker,” Mr. Jackson said.
Los puertorriqueños murmured, He’s not a sugarcane worker; somebody cracked a joke that he would sell his soul to the devil if he arranged for los blancos grandes, gordos y colorados to work a single day in the cane. Some of the Puerto Ricans laughed.
“You work, you eat,” Mr. Jackson said.
“We want to eat, and we also don’t want to work in the hard rain.”
Mr. Jackson whispered something to Mr. White.
“The lunas decide when you work,” Mr. White said.
Vicente shook his head in disappointment; Valentina touched his arm.
The Puerto Ricans murmured, Coño carajo, only animals worked in the rain.
“Mr. Jackson, we want to live like human beings without garbage flowing outside our homes,” Vicente said. “Have you seen the hovels we live in? Waste from the house of Mr. White comes all the way down to where we live.”
Vicente pointed to the plantation manager’s mansion, his finger drawing an imaginary line from the grand house down to the houses of the lunas, then past the houses of the clerks, the plantation police, and down to the shanties.
Mr. Jackson’s gaze followed Vicente’s finger.
“I don’t think anything can be done about that,” Mr. Jackson said.
“It’s inhumane,” Valentina said.
“We’ll see what we can do.” Mr. Jackson looked at her and she was glad that she’d changed into her good dress.
“The planters brought us here with false promises,” Vicente said.
“Lies, lies, mentiras, mentiras . . .” the Puerto Ricans murmured.
“We were promised dollars for our labor.” Vicente waved a piece of cardboard. “This is what we get.”
Mr. Jackson consulted the plantation manager.
“You buy in plantation store,” Mr. Jackson said. “Why you need dollars?”
Valentina told her husband, “Ask him if he’s paid in scrip.”
“Mr. Jackson, it’s a human right to be paid in real money for a day’s work. Are you paid in scrip?” Vicente offered the scrip to the interpreter.
Valentina led the Puerto Ricans in the chant, “Dollars! Dollars! Dollars!”
Mr. Jackson conferred with Mr. White, then held up his hand.
The Puerto Ricans’ shouts dropped to whispers.
“We will pay in American dollars,” he said.
Men slapped Vicente’s back.
“Mr. Jackson, why don’t we get the full fifteen dollars a month that we were promised? Money is deducted from our pay,” Vicente said.
“I think those are your taxes,” Mr. Jackson said.
“Taxes! Why are we paying taxes? We don’t even vote!”
“All the plantation workers pay taxes.”
Taxes, they paid taxes, coño carajo, it was just like being back in Puerto Rico, first the Spaniards and then the Americans . . .
Mr. Jackson raised his hands and called for quiet. “We’ll end this meeting right now if you don’t act right.”
What were they, children?
“If we pay taxes, then we should vote.”
Mr. Jackson cleared his throat. “Only men who are Hawaiians or Americans can vote.”
Taxes, not votes, the Puerto Ricans repeated to each other.
Vicente shook his head. “What do we pay taxes for?”
Mr. Jackson didn’t say that their taxes helped to pay for the cost of the plantation policemen, for jails, for schools for other people’s children, for better sanitation in other places, and for salaries of government officials.
“Why can’t we vote?”
“You’ll have to talk to the US government about that,” Mr. Jackson said. “Anything else?”
“Plenty,” Vicente said. “We were promised a raise after a year’s work, and a bonus after three. In dollars.”
“Mr. White, he let you know,” Mr. Jackson said. “Maybe raise, maybe no bonus.”
The Puerto Ricans talked all at once. Back in Puerto Rico, the agents promised raises and bonuses! Mr. Jackson held up his hands for quiet.
“I have good news. You can write family,” Mr. Jackson said. “We’ll send on the letters.”
Some of the Puerto Ricans said, If only we knew how to write, if only our mothers and fathers knew how to read.
“Ask about schooling and finding Raulito and Sonia’s husband.” Valentina nudged Vicente’s arm. It didn’t look like they were going to get raises today, no matter how much talking they did.
“Yes, in a minute,” Vicente said. “The men are talking—”
What if Mr. Jackson said, Enough! No more requests granted or denied? Then how would they find Sonia’s husband? Or Raulito? How would the children get schooling?