Difficult things
Posted: Tuesday, June 21, 2011
by Marcia Calhoun Forecki
Blood covers the toes of his shoes. The room is only ten degrees above freezing. He exhales jets of frost from his exertions. A new carcass comes before him. He lifts an electric saw over his head. The trapezius muscle of his upper back excretes a drop of lactic acid. The drop will join with other drops and begin painfully eating his muscles by the end of the day. He lifts the saw and cleaves a headless heifer that yesterday ran through dew-covered grass.
After dinner, José calls his son. “Fernando, how are you? This is your father.”
“I know who it is, hombre. I can see the number on my phone.”
“I don’t want you to forget me,” says José.
Fernando is the oldest son. He worked at the packing plant, too, until last spring when his wife in Morelos cried so much for him and for a baby of her own, that the young man returned to her. They live on the small farm José still owns, where he plans to return one day. Fernando’s baby was born just after Christmas, a boy with black eyes like drops of obsidian, and a strong cry. José has never seen the baby. Beatriz has never held her first grandchild. Fernando can not risk crossing the border to visit. The border has become deadly. Thieves, narcotráficos, corrupt police and American vigilantes all claim the border. The family will remain separated until José decides to return to Morelos for good. But, not soon. The money José and Beatriz send to Morelos helps support José’s parents, his father-in-law, and now his grandson. It is Wednesday, and José forgoes his beer. Before dinner, he showers, scrubbing the slaughter smell from his skin and hair. After eating, he shaves hurriedly. As he crosses the living room, he greets his nephew and his family. They come most evenings to talk a while and watch television. José refuses the bottle of tequila his nephew offers.
In the kitchen, José’s niece drinks coffee with Beatriz. “How do you know José goes to English class every Wednesday? He never talks English. Maybe he meets a woman,” the niece says.
“Not your uncle. I see the book in his backpack. He is learning English so he can be a lead worker and earn more, away from the slaughter. In an office, upstairs.”
“I never heard him talk English,” the niece says.
“Why would he talk English to you? Do you understand I? Drink your coffee. Show me what you are crocheting for your baby.”
An act of courage as great as any in his life carried José through the classroom door on the first night. Now, he is one of this community of distinct faces and idioms.
José tries to remember the present tense of querer. It is “want.”
“I want a good life for my family. I no want to be poor.”
“Try again, please,” the teacher smiles.
“¿Cómo se dice? I don’t want to be poor.”
At the class break, José stands and clasps his hands behind his back, stretching his aching trapezius. He looks at the clock. His nephew is likely drunk by now. His grandson is asleep far away. José has another hour in the hard plastic classroom chair. He sits down and copies the sentences on the whiteboard. He prints the letters precisely on the lines of his spiral notebook. A strong man who works hard to take care of all his family can also learn difficult things. José will tell this to his grandson when he meets the boy some day.
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Top-level comments on this article: (1 total)Excellent piece of writing. I found the scene in the slaughter room particularly powerful.
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