Stories from the Life of a Migrant Child (5 page)

I picked up one last, small dying fish and took it to our next-door neighbor who owned the goldfish. I knocked and knocked on the door until my hand hurt. No one was home. I placed the coffee can on the front steps and peered inside. The little gray fish looked up at me, rapidly opening and closing its mouth.

That evening I looked through the window into our neighbor's cabin. The goldfish swam peacefully, alongside the little gray fish. I sighed and smiled to myself. The next morning I took the fishing rod Miguelito had given me, placed it gently in the creek, and watched it float away.

A few days before Christmas, Papá decided to move from the cotton labor camp in Corcoran and look for work elsewhere. We were one of the last families to leave because Papá felt obligated to stay until the rancher's cotton had been all picked, even though other farmers had better crops. Papá thought it was the right thing to do; after all, the rancher had let us live in his cabin free while we worked for him.

I did not mind too much moving for the third time that year. It rained most of the time we were there, and Papá, Mamá, and Roberto went days without work. Sometimes, in the evenings, we went into town in our
Carcachita
to look for food in the trash behind grocery stores. We picked up fruits and vegetables that had been thrown away because they were partly spoiled. Mamá sliced off the rotten parts and made soup with the good vegetable pieces, mixing them with bones she bought at the butcher shop. She made up a story and told the butcher the bones were for the dog. The butcher must have known the bones were for us and not a dog because he left more and more pieces of meat on the bones each time Mamá went back.

As we were packing to leave Corcoran that December, a young couple came to our door. Papá invited them in. The man, in his early twenties, wore a blue, faded shirt and khaki pants. His wife, about the same age as he, was dressed in a simple brown cotton dress and a gray wool sweater worn at the elbows and buttoned in the front. Taking off his cap, the man said apologetically, "We're sorry to bother you, but you know, with all this rain, and my wife expecting ... well, we thought ... perhaps you could help us out a little bit." He reached into a paper bag he was carrying and pulled out a small wallet. "Perhaps you could give us fifty cents for this? Look, it's pure leather; almost brand new," he said, handing it to Papá.

Shaking his head, Papá replied sympathetically, "I am sorry. I wish I could,
paisano,
but we're broke too."

When I heard Papá say "we're broke too," I panicked. My hope for getting a ball of my own that Christmas faded—but only for a second. "It can't be like last year," I told myself.

My thoughts were interrupted by the man's desperate insistence. "Please, how about twenty-five cents?" Before Papá could answer, the man quickly pulled out from the bag a white embroidered handkerchief, saying, "How about ten cents for this handkerchief? Please. My wife did the needlework on it."

"I am very sorry," Papá repeated.

"It's beautiful," Mamá said, gently placing her hand on the woman's fragile shoulder. "
Que Dios los bendiga,
" she added.

Papá walked the couple out the door and accompanied them partway to the next cabin, where they continued trying to peddle their few possessions.

After we finished packing and loading our belongings in our
Carcachita,
Papá closed the door to the cabin and we headed north.

We were leaving only three weeks after I had enrolled in the fourth grade for the first time that year. As we drove by the school, I saw some kids I knew on the playground. I imagined myself playing with them with the ball I would get for Christmas. I waved to them but they did not see me.

After stopping at several places and asking for work, we found a rancher who still had a few cotton fields to be picked. He offered us work and a tent to live in. It was one of many dark green tents lined up in rows. The labor camp looked like an army settlement.

We unloaded the
Carcachita,
placed some cardboard on the dirt floor, and laid our wide mattress on it. All of us—Papá, Mamá, Roberto, Trampita, Torito, and Rubén, my baby brother—slept on the mattress to keep warm, especially during chilly nights when the freezing wind pierced the canvas walls of our new home.

As Christmas drew closer, the more anxious and excited I became. When December 24 finally arrived, time seemed to stand still.
One more day to wait,
I thought.

That evening, after supper, we all sat on the side of the mattress and listened to Mamá tell us the story about the birth of Jesus and the Three Wise Men who brought Him gifts. I only half listened. I wanted the evening to end quickly and for morning to come. Finally, sleep overcame my brothers and we turned in for the night. We huddled together and covered ourselves with army blankets we had bought at a secondhand store. I could not sleep thinking about Christmas. Once in a while, Papá's words "but we're broke too" entered my mind, but I pushed them out with fantasies of playing with my very own ball.

Thinking we were all asleep, Mamá quietly slipped out of bed and lit the kerosene lamp. I covered my head with the blanket, and through a hole in it I watched her, trying to see what gifts she was going to wrap. But she sat behind some wooden crates that served as the table and blocked my view. I could see only her weatherworn face. The shadow cast by the dim light made the circles under her eyes look even darker. As she began to wrap the gifts, silent tears ran down her cheeks. I did not know why.

At dawn, my brothers and I scrambled to get the presents that had been placed next to our shoes. I picked mine up and nervously tore at the butcher-paper wrapping: a bag of candy. Roberto, Trampita, and Torito looked sadly at me and at each other. They, too, had received a bag of candy. Searching for words to tell Mamá how I felt, I looked up at her. Her eyes were full of tears. Papá, who was sitting next to her on the mattress, lifted its corner and pulled out from underneath the white embroidered handkerchief. He tenderly handed it to Mamá, saying, "
Feliz Navidad, vieja.
"

El Perico,
my close friend, had a tragic ending. He was a red, green, and yellow parrot that had been smuggled from Mexico by Don Pancho, an undocumented farm worker who was my father's friend.

When we first got
El Perico,
he spent most of the time in a makeshift wire cage Roberto, my older brother, built for him. But once he learned to trust us and he became a family member,
El Perico
wandered around freely in the dilapidated garage where we lived while harvesting Mr. Jacobson's vineyards. Whenever he was out of the cage, we closed the garage door, the only opening large enough for him to fly out.

I, and the rest of my family, grew to love
El Perico
. I spent hours teaching him how to say "
periquito bonito.
" His favorite pastime was walking back and forth across a thin, long wire that my mother sometimes used for hanging our clothes to dry. It stretched from one end of the garage to the other. I would place a grape box directly underneath
El Perico,
climb on it, stretch out my arm, and hold my index finger close to his toes so that he could perch on it. He would slowly walk sideways, tilting his head from side to side, repeating "
periquito bonito, periquito bonito
" as he grabbed my finger. I would lift him and bring him close to my face, touching my nose to his beak. He would stare at me sideways and rub his beak against my nose until I would kiss his head.

The affection
El Perico
and I had for each other was matched only by his attachment to Catarina, a spotted black cat that belonged to Chico and his wife, Pilar, a young Mexican couple who, like the parrot, were undocumented. They lived in one of the stables next to our garage. Chico, Pilar, and Catarina visited us often in the evenings after work.
El Perico
and Catarina grew on each other little by little. Eventually, they became such good friends that they even ate leftovers—beans, rice, and potatoes—from the same plate. When Chico and Pilar visited without Catarina,
El Perico
would get very upset. He would flap his wings and make such a loud, shrieking sound that it made the wire vibrate. This would irritate my father, who could not stand any noise, especially when he was tired from work, which was most of the time.

One early evening, Chico and Pilar came by themselves, without Catarina.
El Perico
immediately threw a tantrum and began shrieking, louder than ever. The noise struck my father like lightning. He had been in a terrible mood the last few days because he was not sure where we would work, now that the grape season was almost over. Covering his ears with his hands, he bolted to the corner of the garage, grabbed the broom, and swung with all his might at my friend, who was perched on the wire. Red, green, and yellow feathers scattered everywhere.
El Perico
hit the dirt floor like a wet rag. Instantly Roberto, Mamá, and I started wailing. My father shouted at all of us to stop. Seeing a stream of blood dribble from
El Perico's
silent beak, I felt as though someone had ripped my heart out. I threw the garage door open and darted out, running as fast as I could toward a storage shed that was about half a mile away. The shouting, screaming, and crying from our home chased me. I wanted to escape, to die. I finally reached the shed, dragged myself in, and closed the door behind me. It was dark and quiet. I fell to my knees and prayed and prayed for
El Perico.
The repetition of "
Santa María, Madre de Dios, ruega Señora por nosotros los pecadores ahora y en la hora de nuestra muerte, amén
" slowly comforted and soothed my soul. Then I prayed for my father.

The next day after work, Roberto, Trampita, and I buried
El Perico
in a cigar box we found in Mr. Jacobson's garbage can. We dug a hole about a foot deep in one of the rows in the vineyard behind the garage, placed the box inside, and covered it with dirt. Roberto made a small cross from sticks and laid it on the mound. We stood there silently for several minutes and then went home.

I visited his grave every day until we moved to Corcoran two weeks later to find work picking cotton.

In the latter part of October, after the grape season was over, we left Mr. Jacobson's vineyards in Fresno and headed for Corcoran to pick cotton. As we drove down the narrow, two-lane road, we passed vineyard after vineyard. Stripped of their grapes, the vines were now draped in yellow, orange, and brown leaves. Within a couple of hours the vineyards gave way to cotton fields. On both sides of the road we were surrounded by miles and miles of cotton plants. I knew that we were approaching Corcoran.

After stopping at three different cotton labor camps, we found one that gave us work and a one-room cabin to live in. It was one of several farm-worker dwellings lined up in a row.

That evening, after supper, Papá unfolded the sacks for picking cotton and laid them out in the middle of the floor to prepare them. I was surprised when I saw only three. I knew the twelve-foot-long one was Papá's, and that the ten-foot-long ones were Mamá's and Roberto's. "Where is mine?" I asked. "Don't I get one?"

"You are still too little to have your own," Papá answered.

"But last year I picked without a sack," I replied, trying to hold back my tears.

Papá shook his head without saying another word. I knew from his silence that I should not insist on it.

Papá asked me to stretch out the middle of his sack while he sewed an extra piece of canvas onto the bottom to reinforce it. After finishing the last stitch, he tried it. He tied the sack around his waist, leaving the front opening between his thighs. Dragging the sack on the floor behind him, Papá stooped over, moving his hands up and down and around imaginary plants, pretending he was picking cotton. He looked like a kangaroo.

When he finished sewing Mamá's sack, she tried it just like Papá. When she saw the ten-foot white canvas trailing on the floor behind her, she burst out laughing.

"What's so funny?" asked Papá.

"This is the prettiest wedding dress I have ever seen," she answered, holding her stomach to ease the pain from laughing so much. Giggling, Roberto and I looked at Papá, who was not amused.

As usual, when it was time for bed, Papá folded his cotton sack to use as a pillow. He placed it at the end of the wide mattress so he faced the wall, on which hung a small, faded picture of
la Virgen de Guadalupe.
He then poured himself a glass of water from a gallon bottle and placed it on the floor near the bed, along with his aspirins, Camel cigarettes, and an empty, red Folger's coffee can, which we all used during the night when it was too cold to go to the outhouse. Roberto, Trampita, Torito, and I knelt in front of the
Virgen de Guadalupe
and said our prayers silently. Mamá wrapped Rorra, my newborn sister, in a baby blanket, laid her gently in a crate next to the mattress, and kissed her good night. She and Papá then slipped into bed on one end of the mattress; Roberto, Trampita, Torito, Rubén, and I crawled in on the other end. We snuggled against each other to keep warm. My parents had an advantage over the five of us because our legs did not reach the other end of the mattress. Their feet, however, did reach our end of the mattress, and sometimes I would wake up facing Mamá's and Papá's toes.

The pounding of the rain on the roof woke me several times during the night. Every time I opened my eyes, I saw the burning tip of Papá's cigarette glowing in the dark; other times I heard the rattle of his aspirin bottle. I did not mind the rain because it meant I could sleep in the next morning. The cotton would be too wet to pick. Because we got paid three cents a pound, most ranchers did not let us pick cotton when it was wet.

I woke up late. The rain had stopped and everyone except Rorra was already up. Papá, whose eyes were puffy and red, cursed the rain. He and Roberto wrapped the one-gallon water bottle with burlap and sewed it tightly to keep the bottle from breaking. Trampita and I sat on a box and watched Mamá make flour tortillas.