Sour Grapes, page 14
“Thank you all for coming today. My name is Lucia Maria Santiago,” she started, “and I have the privilege of being assistant winemaker at Lark Estates. I know many of you are unsalaried and took time off without pay to be here, so I won’t waste your time. We all know why we’re here and what’s at stake. For too long in this country,” she continued, her voice somber, but intense, “we’ve had to endure the glorification of White European wine history. The Anglo community dismisses the brutal history of colonization of indigenous land for wine growing and other wine business activities.”
Lucia paused as if expecting some kind of reaction to her opening words. But those seated in their metal folding chairs remained impassive. Even from where I stood, I could see the uncertainty pass across her features.
“My grandparents crossed the border from Mexico in the early 1940s,” she began again. “They, like many of your own ancestors, came to California through the Bracero program when America was desperate for laborers to help with farming shortages during World War II. My father was born here. He started as a teenager, cleaning conveyor belts and grape destemming machines. He worked his way up to pruning vines in spring and picking berries in the fall. But the ultimate goal, to work for himself, to own his own vineyard, has consistently been out of reach.”
Lucia continued to speak in a loud, clear voice. The growing intensity in her features and posture was visible even from the back of the room. The longer she spoke, the more agitated she became.
“No bank will take a chance on him. No vintner with land for sale will seriously consider his offers, despite him having over forty years of experience.”
I leaned against the back wall as if it could better hide me. I tugged on my baseball cap and pulled it lower to obscure my face. No one in the room besides the three people on stage would know who I was, but I still felt the need to hide my identity. I was the enemy. I was the Bad Guy—an inexperienced vineyard owner in a room full of people who’d been refused the same chance.
“Ninety-five percent of farm workers in the valley are originally from Mexico,” Lucia continued, “and yet few of us are represented in the tasting rooms.” She paused and took her time to scan the assembled crowd. “It’s time we change that.”
I could feel the energy in the room start to shift. The audience, most of whom had begun as casual or curious observers, sat a little more erect in their metal folding chairs. I watched the room collectively lean forward, eager for Lucia’s next words.
“I can’t promise that change will come soon or without struggle,” she noted. “We need to work together—everyone from the winemakers to the kids in the wine cellars—if we want to stand a chance against the conglomerates and the banks. That’s the only way this thing will work; they can’t replace us all.”
The gymnasium erupted into cheers. Several people rose to their feet while others whistled or stamped their feet. I couldn’t blame them. She’d had a slow start, but standing at the front of the room, Lucia was oddly motivational.
It took a while for the group to quiet enough that Lucia could speak and be heard again. She was patient, however, and seemed to drink in the collective reaction. She concluded her inspirational words with pragmatic next steps. To start locally in Calistoga before branching out to St. Helena, Yountville, or Napa. To take on the boutique wineries and tasting rooms first and then to organize workers at the larger wine producers. Avoiding scabs crossing the picket line would be the biggest challenge if the owners refused to recognize their efforts. They would need to canvas the places where migrant farmers traditionally found work during peak harvest times. They would aim small before turning into a mass movement.
A few more individuals whom I didn’t recognize took the stage before the meeting came to a close, but none of them were able to garner the same enthusiasm as Lucia had. At the meeting’s conclusion, I waited at the back of the cafeteria as most of the crowd filed out. I watched Lucia speak and shake hands with the final few people in the meeting. Oscar and Carlos had started to break down the room while she networked. Oscar had found a push broom and Carlos had begun folding up the metal chairs. I pulled the brim of my baseball cap lower and walked in their direction. I kept my distance at first and helped with the metal folding chairs at the edge of the room before daring to move closer.
Carlos and I were soon working in tandem, shoulder-to-shoulder. I handed him the folded up chairs while he stacked them in a tidy row. I kept expecting him to notice me, but he was too focused on the chairs to ever really look at my face.
“Thanks for the help,” he said to me when the job was done.
“No problem.”
The familiar sound of my voice had him freezing in place. He stared at me, a look of confusion and shock splayed across his features.
I couldn’t help my sheepish smile. “Hey.”
Carlos’ eyes never left mine. I watched his mouth slowly open to begin to shape words. “Lucia!” he called out.
His volume made me flinch. I heard Lucia’s voice, somewhere in the room. “What?”
Carlos didn’t respond with words. He only pointed at me.
Lucia stormed across the cafeteria. “What are you doing here?” Her tone was heated and her dark eyes flashed with anger.
It was like I’d been playing a game of hide and seek, and I’d suddenly been discovered. I sputtered out a few syllables, but I couldn’t find my words. “I … I …”
Lucia grabbed onto my elbow and spun me towards the exit. “You need to leave,” she practically growled. “You don’t belong here.”
“Is this why you fixed my porch?” I had no idea, after everything I’d witnessed, why that thought popped into my brain.
“I fixed your porch because it was a damn eyesore,” she shot back.
I didn’t know what compelled me, but I stood my ground, digging in my heels, instead of letting her shove me out of the building. “Are you going to unionize the Valley?”
The fingers at my elbow loosened and then finally fell away. Lucia roughly rubbed her hands over her face.
“Fire me,” she mumbled.
I blinked, not expecting her words. “What?”
“My dad knows nothing about this. And Carlos and Oscar are only here to support me. Don’t take this out on them,” she implored. “If you have to punish someone, punish me.”
“Why would I punish you?”
“Union is a dirty word around here,” she said simply. “I get it if you have to make an example of me.”
“I’m not …” I shook my head. “I’m not going to fire you.”
“Why not?” she challenged.
“You made a lot of sense up there,” I said, gesturing to the now-empty stage. “Honestly, I had no idea there was such disparity. You’ve … you’ve opened my eyes about a lot of things.”
Lucia carefully regarded me. She wet her lips and seemed to be considering her next words. She might have been contemplating if she could trust me as well. “Do you know how Napa got its name?”
“Was there a Mr. Napa?” I guessed.
Lucia shook her head. “No. It’s Yukian for ‘plenty.’”
“Don’t judge me,” I felt myself wincing from ignorance, “but what’s Yukian?”
“It’s okay,” she allowed. “It’s an extinct language. The Wappo tribe—they were here in the 1700s before the Spanish took over—they named the region. The Franciscan padres who established the Spanish missions were the region’s first winemakers, but it was indigenous people who did the actual work. They were the ones planting and tending to the vines, harvesting the grapes and making the wine. And yet they weren’t allowed to have even a taste of the fruits of their labor.”
I remembered the opening of her speech: the glorification of White European history.
She twisted her wide-brimmed hat in her hands, turning it into a tight coil. “Today, it’s corporations like Coca Cola or Seagram’s or, hell,” she snorted with disdain, “John Hancock Insurance buying up the vineyards. They could care less about the wine they make or the people who do the work. They only care about quarterly reports and shareholder profit margins.”
“How can I help?”
Lucia inspected me with justified skepticism. Technically, I was a vineyard owner. I was supposed to be an enemy to her cause. “Really?”
“Really,” I confirmed.
“You could start with Lark Estates,” she said. “Insurance for full-time employees would be a good first step. Come harvest time, we’ll take on part-time migrant farmers, most of them from Mexico. They deserve a fair wage and benefits, too.”
An uneasy feeling settled in my stomach. All of that sounded expensive. But I couldn’t say no after Lucia had told me what I could do to make a difference. I couldn’t take back my offer to help.
I found myself nodding, agreeing to her suggestion. I choked on the next word: “Done.”
+ + +
“You did what?!”
I winced at my friend Lily’s volume and tone. Her number had been my first phone call when I’d returned to the vineyard.
“Junie, Junie, Junie,” she sighed into the phone. “You can’t throw away your money just because this girl is hot.”
I bristled at the suggestion. “I’m not doing this because of that.”
“Ohhhh.” She drew out the word. “So you agree? You think she’s hot?”
“Can I afford this or not?” I was desperate to keep us on topic. ”My employees …” I trailed off. It still felt unnatural to call anything in this wine world mine. I’d continually referred to the vineyard as the vineyard, not mine. I hadn’t earned that possessive pronoun yet. “Not all of them have health insurance,” I finished. “Can I make that happen?”
“I’ve been wanting to talk to you,” my friend interjected. “This is a lot more than a traditional business, June. I really think you need an accountant who specializes in vineyards or farms.”
“You’re probably right,” I conceded, “but until I can find one, could you look into it for me?”
Lily continued to hesitate. “Alex really went for broke with this business plan. All of your cash—.”
I interrupted her. “I know. It all went to the down payment.”
“You really need more consistent revenue,” she told me. “You’re spending money consistently, but not really making any. I’m guessing that doesn’t happen until after harvest?”
I exhaled loudly into the phone and tugged at my hair. “God, I don’t know. I don’t know anything about any of this, Lily.”
My friend, perhaps sensing I was about to spiral out of control, offered me encouraging words. “I’ll look into the health care situation. We’ll take it one step at a time, one project at a time, okay?”
I choked down the nervous breakdown that threatened to make me unravel. “Alex would never do this,” I impulsively blurted out, “but it’s the right thing to do.”
I heard Lily’s pregnant pause. I wasn’t sure why I’d felt compelled to make the distinction. “I’m sure it is,” she said carefully. “Listen: let me do a little creative number crunching, and I’ll see what you can offer without bankrupting yourself. I’ll get back to you soon.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
Growing up, I’d never really liked the month of June. I’d endured too many juvenile reminders that my name was also June—as if it was something I was supposed to be embarrassed about. Luckily the school year came to a close early enough in the month that the playground teasing was always short lived. As an adult, June meant Pride Month, and having lived in San Francisco for close to a decade and a half, Alex and I had taken full advantage of the city’s many festivals and Pride-related activities over the years.
I’d just graduated college when Alex and I had attended our very first San Francisco Pride. It was late June of 2003, not long after Lawrence vs. Texas had been decided. We didn’t live in the city yet, but we’d made the trip, almost like a pilgrimage to Mecca. I’d never felt so excited and encouraged and supported while watching the brightly colored floats traverse through the Castro neighborhood and the liberating feeling of openly holding Alex’s hand the entire weekend. We’d decided right there that we were going to move to San Francisco and never leave.
My phone had been buzzing all morning with probing texts from my best friend Lily about if I was going to escape from the vineyard long enough to go to the weekend parade in San Francisco. I had no idea if Napa held any Pride-month events, but I was certain they paled in comparison to San Francisco’s usual festivities. I still was undecided, however. It would be my first Pride without Alex. Would I be able to handle all of those old memories, surrounded by so many other happy queer couples?
“Do you want to do this today or do you have somewhere else to be?”
Lucia’s impatient tone snapped me back to the vineyard. Bright green leaves glistened on the vine with early morning moisture, and my work boots sunk into the soft earth.
I hastily silenced my phone and shoved it into the back pocket of my jeans. “I’m here,” I insisted. “I’m listening.”
Lucia sighed and began again. “This month is all about canopy management.”
“Right,” I said brightly, “managing the canopy.”
Beneath her wide-brimmed canvas hat, I saw Lucia roll her eyes. “We trim away the branches or shoots that don’t need to be there. If we just let it grow wild, not only would it shield and obscure this cluster,” she said, gingerly cradling a tight bunch of immature berries, “but it would also be a hog and try to develop its own cluster.”
“But isn’t that ideal?” I posed. “More grapes?”
Lucia shook her head. “We’re interested in quality, not quantity. Right now the vines are building leaf material to be able to photosynthesize, to be able to produce sugar in the fruit, but that’s still about two months down the line. Managing the canopy allows more air into the vine and, even more importantly, gets more sunlight onto the morning side of the fruit.”
I stared out at all of the acreage that surrounded us. Seven acres of pruning and trimming cabernet grape vines. The number didn’t seem that impressive, but actually standing amongst the rows and rows and rows of vines made it feel impossible and not a little overwhelming. I imagined us toiling under the hot summer sun from morning until night. “All of this by hand?”
“Uh huh,” she confirmed. “Each vine will get touched at least a dozen and a half times between pruning, tying up, shoot repositioning, thinning fruit, and cleaning off growth at the bottom of the vine.”
Lucky vines, I silently mused. I hadn’t been touched in months.
“It’s not so bad, really,” she noted. “In fact, because Calistoga has the highest percentage of volcanic soils, that means less green growth and more concentration within the berries. Different climates affect the sweetness of the berry. The Valley is perfect for making wine grapes. Hot days provide color and big berry flavor. Cool nights maintain good acid balance and retention.”
Lucia began to walk down one of the rows of manicured vines, so I followed closely behind. “Right now we’ve got bloom and continuing growth,” she said, “and then around late June, early July, the vines will flip an internal switch and will devote all their energies to ripen the fruit. And at that point,” she stated, “the fruit gets soft and starts to get sweet. The red grapes develop their color, and within a few months we’ll be ready to harvest.”
“Veraison?” I guessed.
Lucia’s normally stoic features took on a surprised look. “Yeah.”
I couldn’t hide my pleased grin. “I’ve been paying attention.”
Lucia regarded me, almost as if seeing me for the first time. “Cool,” she settled on. “I’m probably going to regret this,” she said, more to herself than to me, “but here you go.”
She extended her right hand and the pair of metal gardening shears she’d been holding.
My eyes widened as I excepted the tool. “Really?”
“Just don’t cut off any fingers,” she told me, lips quirking up. “Aunt Clara only fixes one finger per growing season. I think it’s in her contract.”
“You don’t think she’d make an exception for me?” I couldn’t help teasing.
Lucia’s laugh sounded more like a snort. “Let’s not press your luck, Jefa.”
I wasn’t entirely confident what I was supposed to do, but as long as I didn’t cut away anything that looked too large and healthy, I figured I would be fine. Lucia trimmed and pruned by herself in the next row over. She had either had enough of me or she trusted me not to screw up too epically. We worked in silence under the strong morning sun. I was thankful I’d followed her advice about wearing an oversized hat to work in the fields. And ever since my hot springs debacle, my water bottle was never far away.
“Your phone was really blowing up earlier,” Lucia observed from her adjacent row. “Is everything okay?”
“Yeah. Everything’s fine,” I said. I started to snip away at small, curling vine tendrils that lagged behind the other new growth. “My friend Lily—you met her at that bar in Guerneville,” I recalled, “she’s been bugging me to come back to San Francisco for the Pride parade.”
Lucia made a noncommittal noise. “You should go.”
I looked down my single vineyard row. I knew it had an actual end, but from where I stood it seemed to go on forever. “I’m not sure I’ll have time. Have you ever been?” I asked conversationally.
“No,” came her one-worded response.
“Does your dad know?” I stopped trimming long enough to glance in her direction. I could just make out her silhouette through the bright green growth.
Lucia didn’t look away from her work. “Know what?”
“That … that you’re …” I rolled the words around on my tongue as if determining which I liked best. I had assumed Lucia’s sexuality based only on a single appearance in Guerneville. It was an unfair assumption, however. Maybe she just liked that particular bar.
Lucia saved me the embarrassment by finishing my question. “That I’m gay?” She continued to snip and cut and prune the vines, never losing concentration. “I’m a grown woman, June. I don’t need my father’s permission.”
