A First Generation Account of Suburbia

One

In the late 1950’s a Portuguese family of six sailed from the 17-mile long island of Terceira - of the Portuguese Azore islands - to its neighboring island of Madeira. From there, the six boarded an airplane for the eastern coast of the United States.

For two of the young boys, their only previous experience of flying came in the form of outstretched arms and laps around their acre of farmland, running along the fence line of the American Air Force base that bordered their modest coastal property.


Two

Years before, a Portuguese couple took flight from the very same island - their native home - in route to the Pacific coastline of the United States.


Three

Years forward and thousands of miles away, the skyline of a modest metropolis lit up with red lights at the peaks of its tallest buildings. The skyline itself rose to modest heights due to the fact that the San Jose International airport stretched out only a few miles away in a direct path to the downtown area.

It was in this same South Bay Area County that these families would eventually settle. They, like many other Portuguese immigrants, came in search of the bountiful orchards and dairy farms that littered the Santa Clara Valley, employing a considerable population of new Americans.


Four

One such dairy, owned by a working-class Swiss family, situated itself only a few miles from what would become the downtown neighborhood of San Jose. The dairy’s numerous acreage of farmland stretched along the western border of Almaden Rd. The street runs north through downtown, and south towards the Santa Cruz Mountains like a winding river, splitting the basin of the Santa Clara Valley.



Five

I have known no other home than the four-bedroom ranch style dwelling situated at 2180 Almaden Rd. The house was built by Tony Souza; city engineer in neighboring Santa Clara, my grandfather, and son to the immigrant couple of Madeira.

In 1973 when he built it, my grandfather said the house – a modest 1900 square feet – was too large for a couple in their mid-twenties without yet a child.


Six

Around the late 1960’s an Expressway was built through the property of Golden west Dairy. A modest sum was paid by the city of San Jose to supplement their encroachment upon the Hanson family’s precious farmland. Within a decade the Hansons sold relatively all of their remaining dairy land, setting aside a two and a half acre portion for their own home to remain.

A portion of that remaining land was later sold to a young couple: the man, a first generation American. This man and women were at the time only a few years older than I am now. So is the story of my mother and father.


Seven

For the Portuguese family of six, life was not initially as glamorous as they had hoped, though anything was a step up from the two-room dwelling with dirt floors they left behind on the island of Terceira.

Their first American home sat on the far northeast corner of The Golden West Dairy, was owned by the Hanson family, and allotted to the Vieiras for shelter so the father of four could work as a hand on the Hanson farm. The eldest son - John Vieira - worked alongside his father. The young boy was only ten years of age at the time.

He returned home at night - sometimes in the afternoon after a day of school as normal ten year olds do; sometimes from the field following a long day of school; and other days there was no school at all, only work – returning to his makeshift home of dirt floors.


Eight

Today, on the northeast corner of what was once The Golden West Dairy, sits the San Jose Carpet and Tile warehouse.



Nine

My father played all the American games that young boys play. He hit baseballs with his grade school friends when there was no work to be done. He sold ice cream on hot summer days as a service to the dairy. He ate all the ice cream he could ever want.


Ten

I played my first organized baseball blocks away from 2180 Almaden Rd. Bordered by the cross-streets of Bird and Park, is a plot of land that houses the four divisions of Lincoln Glen Little League - one of two leagues in the neighborhood of Willow Glen.

I spent every Saturday in the springs of my adolescent life at that park, playing the games that American boys play and eating ice cream on street curbs, alongside parked ice cream trucks.


Eleven

Willow Glen is not necessarily a town. It is a community. It has no city council, only organizations, parents clubs, and schools. In most areas, it has become a high-priced neighborhood populated by young and ambitious couples - many of whom hit it big in the dot.com rush to the Silicon Valley.

In the beginning, Willow Glen was littered with Orchards. It was a community separated by endless fields: its only core, the stretch of Lincoln Avenue that housed its buildings of commerce. This stretch is known as Downtown Willow Glen. Those days, it resembled any Main St. in outpost towns of the western frontier.


Twelve

My father now walks, or drives, or rides his motorcycle each day to Jamba Juice, situated in the heart of downtown Willow Glen. His trip takes him past my old little league park, down Lincoln Ave., past the Starbucks, LeBoulanger, and closed down, privately owned establishments that gave way to the influx of corporate commerce upon our small community.



Thirteen

My father was president of Lincoln Glen Little League for two years. My mother was head of the Ladies Guild. They were a regular first couple.

While president, my father completely revamped the playing fields at River Glen Park and provided new uniforms for each of the teams in the four league divisions.


Fourteen

“Have I ever tried politics?” My father repeated the question asked of him over dinner. “No,” he replied, “but I’ve pissed a lot of people off.”



Fifteen

At the age of ten, I played for the Lettermen Company sponsored baseball team of the Majors Division. Our uniforms were green. My father was the coach.


Sixteen

At the end of my 10 yr. old season many parents in the league decided that my father was not fit to coach young kids. They thought he was too intense, that he intimidated his players and placed too much pressure on the outcome of their performance. These parents took the initiative to kick my dad out of Lincoln Glen Little League for good, ensuring that my father would never coach again at the park he worked to construct.

This was in 1993. It was the first and only time in my life that I hated the game of Baseball.


Seventeen

In 1992 my father was awarded the District 12, volunteer of the year award for his service as president to Lincoln Glen Little League. District 12 covered ten leagues and four cities, and it was decided that no man did more for his community than John Vieira.


Eighteen

I only know of one willow tree that stands in Willow Glen. It is a looming figure, resting in the front yard of a corner house, just west of Lincoln Avenue.
Every Christmas, the residents of that home volunteer their time to illuminate each branch with thousands of miniature white lights.

It is a beautiful sight to see.

People gather all around their white picket fence to catch a glimpse of this tree during the chilly nights of December. Traffic slows to a crawl down the bordering street, fittingly named Willow.

One winter, the neighbors along Willow St. complained that the traffic - attributed to the crowds that gathered to see the only standing willow tree in the community - was too much to bear. With the help of the city of San Jose, they took the initiative to shut down the light display.

So much for the spirit of Christmas.

What good is a community if it cannot recognize the humane efforts of its citizens?
Sometimes it is the small towns that can raise the biggest issues.