Opportunity 101 : Ambitious Immigrants Work Hard, Study Even Harder for the Chance to Get Ahead

It is a few minutes before 8, and well into Lucia Ruiz’s day. She sits in the cafeteria at Evans Community Adult School, drinking a quick cup of thick hot chocolate between early morning classes and describing her schedule:

* Up by 4:30 a.m.--at the latest.

* A 40-minute, two-bus trip to Evans, on Sunset and Figueroa, in time for the 5:50-7:50 English as a second language class, followed 10 minutes later by another two-hour session in English.

* Then a three-bus trip to the California Crisps restaurant in Beverly Center, where she works from 11 until at least 6:30 p.m.--maybe later.

* Finally, more bus rides get her to the apartment she shares with three other women, where she will make a stab at studying for the next day’s classes.

Ruiz says her grueling schedule is the only way to get ahead. Someday, the 19-year-old from Oaxaca state in Mexico might want to be an interpreter or social worker, to help other newcomers adjust to life in the United States.

But now, it’s time to go. A little late, she rushes out with a beaming farewell: “A very happy day for you.”

In many ways, Ruiz is typical of the 10,000 students who pass through the Evans campus each weekday. The overwhelming majority are immigrants, mostly Latino and Asian, says principal Joan Ririe, although an increasing number come from Eastern Europe.

Part of the Los Angeles Unified School District’s adult education division, Evans is the only county campus that exclusively serves students 18 and older. Although the emphasis is on courses in English as a second language, the school offers a complete curriculum for students earning a high school diploma as well as amnesty preparation and citizenship classes for those who qualify. There is no tuition charge and classroom materials are free.

The gates open at 5:30 a.m. The first bell rings at 5:50 and classes go straight through to 10 most nights, past midnight on Tuesdays and Thursdays.

Evans’ students share more than immigrant backgrounds: Their universal good cheer is in stark contrast to their tough, demanding schedules and hours. They take it all in stride, and voice what seems to be the school’s unofficial motto: “better opportunity.” Clearly, they expect their efforts to pay off.

Around midnight, Jose Luis Flores, 28, who came from Zacatecas, Mexico, takes a short break and talks about school with an energy and upbeat mood that matches Ruiz’s early-morning zest:

“We need to get a better job. That means our future. The government gives it free. It’s an opportunity.”

His teacher, Deni Carno, introduces Flores as “a Mexican gentleman who is a Chinese cook, a great Chinese cook.”

For the past five years, Flores has worked as a chef in a Chinese restaurant. He likes to cook, he says, but he’s stuck at $5.25 an hour, and knows co-workers making only $7.25 after 12 years:

“That’s the reason we have to study hard,” Flores says.

It is not yet dawn and Yuan Peng, who used to be a nurse in China, sits in a classroom in a small circle of desks with Adolfo Menendez and Julian Lira of El Salvador and Ernesto Cortez of Mexico.

The three men, all in their 20s, are slightly more fluent in English than Yuan, and Menendez is helping her:

“OK, what dance did you use to do?”

Yuan, 30, looks momentarily paralyzed. Taking him literally, she blurts out, “I don’t dance. I can’t dance.”

Chuckling, he coaches her: “I didn’t use to dance. Now, I don’t do nothing.”

They move ahead and before long, Yuan, in answer to his question, is saying, “I used to listen to classical music, but now I listen to popular music.”

Menendez, who takes two classes and then works in a furniture assembly plant in the City of Industry, wants to finish high school and go to college. Somehow, he has a social life, and using the “used to” exercise, informs Yuan of his current preference for “salsa: s-a-l-s-a,” heavy metal and rap.

After leading a bout of oral drills in unison, teacher Margie Mentel breaks the class into groups. The lesson is “used to” as a means of expressing the past tense.

It is rough going, but the mood is “onward and upward.” The students make plenty of mistakes but Mentel encourages, concentrating only on mistakes made with “used to,” ignoring others.

Chris Chul Lee of Korea squints over a written exercise Saul Hernandez of El Salvador has just handed him, then introduces him to the group: “Saul used to work sewing machine, but now he works--what is this?--just worker?”

Then, with a triumphant burst, Lee figures it out: “Oh, cooker! He is a cooker.”

It’s not that people never get tired here. Sometimes they give in to fatigue, rest their heads on their desks, or sit alone in the cafeteria, dozing over a cup of coffee and exercise book.

But motivation is high.

“Anyone who gets up at that hour must be motivated,” says head counselor Wendy Ramirez. “Both students and teachers want to be here. The school climate is exciting, conducive to study.”

Night teacher Carno says his students “are aggressive, hard-working, ambitious people. They want their piece of the American pie quicker and have figured out that the key to success in America is the ability to communicate.”

The late-night scene is animated before class. The students banter and, familiar with the routine, get coffee from the cupboard and plug in the pot.

Carno has a warm, encouraging manner and likes to joke with his students. He foots the bill for the coffee and copying costs for lessons, explaining, “You love the students. You feel responsible. That’s why we come.”

English, particularly pronunciation, is a real struggle for Lee Kyu Sun, who has worked for three years in a Koreatown clothing store. While Carno gives individual attention, Lee points to two classmates, Amidou Traore of Senegal and Maria Natividad Lopez of Mexico, shaking his head in admiration. “He speak very well, she speak very well. But,” Lee says with resignation, “I learn more now (than at first).”

He slugs away at a page with an adjective-adverb exercise, appealing to Carno: “It’s very hard.”

Traore, 28, grins at Lee’s praise. He worked as a photographer in Senegal, where he also exported a “natural pharmaceutical,” he says. Traore’s English is not up to a full description, but he sees potential for the legal product here and for himself as an entrepreneur.

For now, he drives a messenger service truck 12 hours a day, studies and sleeps “maybe four hours a day.”

Instructor Carno is also responsible for beginning students in an adjacent room. For the most part, these students follow videocassette lessons on a classroom television, although Carno makes occasional forays to see if anyone needs help.

No matter when he opens the door, though, it is doubtful he’ll catch them goofing off. Late into the night, they sit there, laboriously keeping up with the cartoon, repeating the lesson out loud. When they do take a break and talk, it is to try out their English in painstaking phrases.

Lee is correct about his classmates. Lopez, 26, is one of the more fluent students. A former law student at the University of Guadalajara, she now supports her 3-year-old daughter by working 10-hour days in the garment district for minimum wage or, “if the work is fine (needlework),” up to $6.25 per hour.

“I do not want to sit all my life at a machine, sewing, sewing, sewing,” she says. “It’s criminal.”

Sometimes people tell her she’s crazy to push herself so hard.

Lopez shrugs it off: “I don’t listen to nobody. I am helping myself. Nobody is going to help me.

“Maybe it’s true. Maybe I am crazy. That’s OK. I can do it.”