The Mayan Fighter
(From the Uprooted Agave: Latino Immigrants’ Stories by Louis Villalba
My name is Hilario Ochoa, but my artistic name is Lalo el Maya. I am a professional matador of bulls in Mexico. You may wonder how I ended up in Chicago. Life can play with us like an ocean with an empty bottle. My story begins in my dad’s auto repair shop in San Luis Potosi, Mexico. As a child, I helped him with simple tasks: cleaning cars, bringing him some tools, sweeping floors. Since a young age, I heard all his customers address him as Maestro—teacher and expert—so I used the same word when I talked to him. Maestro, can I play with my friends? Maestro, would you give me some money to go to the movies? He liked that.
My father often took care of the truck of a famous torero by the name of Fermin Rivera. One day, I peered into the back of the vehicle and gaped at the scabbard of a sword, a cape, and two pairs of banderillas—barbed darts decorated with red and yellow bands of paper. At the sight of these items, my young mind envisioned the bullfighter, with no cape or any other means of protection, challenging the bull, face to face. I pictured the animal charging at him. He deceived the animal with a twist of his waist and sank the tips of the sticks into the withers. The infuriated bull turned and pursued his challenger. The torero took to his heels, jumping the fence around the ruedo—the sandy ring—and escaping with his life by the skin of a tooth.
I was an altar boy at my parish church. Every Sunday at noon, I climbed to the belfry and rang the bells to call the faithful to attend Mass. From the campanile, I could see a nearby ranch where cowboys tested the bulls in a small ring. The excitement of their feats grabbed me. I felt an irresistible impulse to go there and fight the beasts. The following week, with the help of some friends, I gained access to the place. A rancher noticed my enthusiasm and egged me on to fight a brave cow. The animal’s horns lifted me into the air and launched me to the ground, where I found myself bruised all over and caked with manure and dirt. The experience, instead of dissuading me from my vocation, heightened my determination to become a torero. From then on, every Sunday, I handed a bottle of tequila to the guard at the slaughterhouse so that he let me fight the bulls before sending them to their comestible fate.
I kept a folded cape—which the father of one of my friends had given me as a present—and other bullfighting paraphernalia stowed away under my mattress. My mother discovered my trove and became so concerned that she sought the advice of the parish priest. The cleric made his recommendation,
“Señora, deje a su hijo … let him look for his destiny. Neither you nor anyone else can stop him.”
In 1956, at the age of thirteen, I heard an impresario had arrived in San Luis Potosi to hire a few toreros for a corrida—a bullfight—in Tepatlitan, Jalisco, fifty miles away. I headed for this town to try my luck. My mother knew of my plan, but my father, my three sisters, and my three brothers did not have a clue. My mom stood cooking in the kitchen when, out of the corner of her eye, she espied me rushing into my room. She came over and watched me dig up my equipment from under the mattress, put them in a bag, and place my luggage under the bed. Her eyes welled with tears, and her face grimaced with pain. She broke my heart, but what could I do? I had to do what I had to do. She did not let me utter a single word of explanation and said,
“Que Dios te bendiga. I pray to Our Lady of Carmelo to protect you.”
I was the middle child of seven siblings and did not understand the pain I was about to inflict on my parents until many years later when God blessed me with a son. The sleepless night of my departure lingered for a while. Under the sheet, staring at the ceiling, dressed and ready to go, I felt my mind sizzling with thoughts. A faint light from a lonely lamp on the street seeped through the blinds of a window. I could hear my youngest brother breathing on the couch next to mine. An occasional snore wafted from my parents’ room from the other side of the living quarters. The rooms where my sisters and my older brothers slept lay in total silence. When the clock on the church tower struck 2:00 AM, I stood up, grabbed my utensils, and hit the street.
I wanted to become a bullfighter and never return home until I succeeded. Two of my friends who were maletillas—apprentice toreros—joined me at the bullfight in Tepatlitan. The cows were brave and had plenty of experience in the ring. They could not be deceived, paid no attention to the cape, and ran straight to gore the torero. In bullfighting lexicon, these ring-smart beasts earned the name of Latin-speaking creatures. I performed a remarkable faena—a selection of passes with a cape or a muleta—and drew enthusiastic applauses. The next day, I woke up staring at an empty table, no milk or a single piece of bread as I used to enjoy at home. My friends returned to their families, but I stayed.
I went to “the war”, traveling from village to village, endangering my life to cheer up townspeople’s festivities. I confronted brave giant zebu bulls that were more than five feet tall and weighed 1200 to 1500 lb. These little towns built makeshift plazas de toros—bullfighting arenas. Big boxes that had been used for transportation served as pens and sat at the edge of the sandy ring with the animals’ heads toward the bleachers. The beasts boasted massive horns that got stuck against the sides of the cage. My fellow bullfighters and I pulled the animals by their tails and let them run free into the ruedo. The fanfare surrounding the festivals made me feel like a torero—the carts around the main plaza, the wooden fences, the improvised tiers. Spectators showed their enthusiasm on their expression. Peddlers hawked their wares over the hubbub of voices. The smell of tacos and tamales, the sparkles of the trajes de luces—the suit of lights, the bullfighter’s costume—andthe tunes from music bands filled the air. The scenes brought to the fore a famous sentence I had read somewhere,
“Cual es la diferencia between La Maestranza Plaza de Toros in Seville and an unnamed plaza de toros in a little village? Don’t unknown toreros put their lives on the line at five o’clock in the afternoon just as famous stars of bullfight do?”
Other apprentice toreros and I shared the same fate. We suffered hunger and numerous fractures and goring. The small towns had no doctors or the means to take care of injuries. We used tequila to clean the wounds because there was no alcohol, iodine or any other disinfectant. At an event—a bull sank his horn behind the thigh of one of my friends and bored a huge hole that reached the bone. Blood gushed out like red wine from a punctured wineskin. A peasant grabbed a banana, peeled it, stuck it into the cavity, and sealed it with the skin of the fruit. The hemorrhage stopped. I drove him to Merida, Yucatan, where a doctor saved his life. Others did not fare as well. On one occasion, I went to a nearby town to collect the belongings of one of my colleagues, who had been killed in the ring. When I arrived, I saw the victim’s wound in the left groin and his severed blood vessels. He had bled to death. His suit of lights lay on the floor, smeared with blood, manure, and human stool. I could never forget the terrible stench. Bullfight entailed much more than a beautiful show—toying with death, looking at death in its face, eye to eye, laughing at death, succumbing to death.
Before a corrida, my mind only envisioned my future triumph. I prayed for a defiant bull that would allow me to perform well in the ring. Death did not count. I had no fear. I focused on the task at hand in front of the bull. I pondered, decided, and executed the faena, deaf to the reaction of the spectators, yet aware of their presence as if linked to them through silent music. It was as if my spirit hovered over the middle of the sandy ring and watched my body fight the beast. I perceived the vibration and the karma that the audience projected upon the plaza.
My concentration on the job did not always save me from misfortunes. On one occasion, I aimed to kill a bull, and my sword impacted on his spine. The blade sprang back as the beast tossed his horns up and scooped off the left side of my mandible. A large wound rip opened the lower part of my face and dislodged my jaw. Blood spurted out as a station wagon drove me to Merida. A friend pressed on the wound, but the hemorrhage persisted. Jammed with cracks and sand, an interminable road lay immersed in a forest of copious vegetation. I saw the trees projecting their shadows and advancing against the scarce sun-melted asphalt as if the jungle were stretching its claws to claim my life. Pain jolted me with every pothole the vehicle hit. At the hospital, a doctor wired my jawbone back into place, and sutured the wound. The surgery left a large scar under the mandible. I could not eat solid food for three months. My eldest brother called and begged me to stop my crazy adventure. But the injury did not deter me.
I knew every goring occurred because the bullfighter made a mistake. Some circumstances contributed to the miscalculation—rain, wind, not leading the bull well, ending the pass too soon, or as in my case, aiming the sword at the wrong spot. The psychological state of the torero had a lot to do with mishaps. Stresses or worries such as money, women, or business issues could influence the outcome in the ring. The beast never erred.
My profession filled me with pride and made me grow into a humble and honest person, a little town’s torero who spoke the truth and searched for fame. Luck did not come by itself. You had to coax it. It required love for the bull and respect for your fans, who wielded more knowledge than you might imagine. Before you deceived them, these aficionados had already sized you up and pointed out your insincerity. My candor opened the doors of villages and ranches where I performed. Most towns in Mexico were named after a saint, San Ignacio, San Marcos, San Miguel and so on. Most celebrated their saint’s day with a bullfight. The parish priests were in charge of the festivities. I worked out an agreement with them. The priests organized the bullfights and made sure the authorities levied a small tax. I took care of the announcements, flyers, contracts with concession stands, and getting the bulls. Half of the earnings went to the parish and the other half to the toreros. In some small towns, the parishioners donated a bull when they wanted a special favor from the Almighty.
In 1960, after four years at the edge of misery and death, living in the trenches of my personal war, I headed for Merida. I won the applause of the aficionados and joined the Yucatan bullfighter guild. The association boasted a little empire that provided every member with a decent living. I began at the lowest position. After two years, I was promoted to the maximum ranking: matador of zebu bulls. At 17, I was an accomplished torero who had faced numerous brave bulls. Three years later, I watched a corrida in Merida that featured Fermin Rivera and two other famous bullfighters. The president pardoned the life of a bull as an award to his indomitable fierceness. Several steers ushered the animal back into the cage where his wounds were treated. The next day, the owner of the animal did not know what to do with the honored bull. He suggested returning him to the ruedo so that the animal could have a decent death. The plan entailed a high risk because the experienced bull would lunge against the bullfighter’s body instead of the cape. A torero in the rancher’s entourage raised the question,
“Quien va a hacerlo … who will fight the bull?”
“Este joven,” the rancher answered, pointing at me.
With the sweep of my cape, I guided the charges of the beast and imposed my command over the animal. My masterful faena won Fermin Rivera’s praise. I remarked that the bullfighting paraphernalia in the back of his truck had inspired me to follow in his footsteps. He advised me to go to Mexico City where he augured me a promising future.
His suggestion opened a new horizon. On July 14, 1963, alerting no one, I returned home after seven years. My mother’s saint’s day, Our Lady of Carmelo, would be celebrated two days later. I lodged at a nearby hotel and hired a mariachi band. After midnight, I headed for my parents’. Under a full moon, the place rested in absolute silence until the band played the accords of “Las Mañanitas.” I stood in front of the fence of the house, expecting my family to recognize me. My sisters thought one of their suitors had organized the serenade. No one turned the lights on or opened the gate. I climbed the fence. My parents owned two new dogs, so as soon as I jumped down, two German shepherds rushed toward me, barking at the top of their lungs. I took to my heels. The hullabaloo woke up my mother who rushed out of the house and cried out,
“Oh, Dios, es Lalo!”
From then on, I sent Maestro a postcard and a 20-peso money order from every town where I fought. Years later, before my father died, he had asked me to handle his affairs after his departure. I opened the upper drawer of his desk in the shop and found all the postcards and the money orders. He had never cashed them.
In Mexico City, I lived in a basement with two other aspirant bullfighters. In the local toreros’ lexicon, a café in this town received the moniker of the Vatican because all major decisions were made over there: who would fight the bulls, who would be out of the game, when a corrida would be held, how much a torero would be paid. Power struggles, behind door business deals, and favoritisms abounded. Money reigned as the most important commodity. If you were penniless, you were looked down as a worthless nobody. Ranchers, impresarios, agents, newsmen, and critics wanted cash, and if you had none, you didn’t exist.
This prejudice did not quell my longing for success. The surrender of my little empire built with goring and blows should not be in vain. I knocked on the doors of businessmen. With the same ease I walked in, I walked out. One afternoon, I attended a corrida of young bulls. The featured toreros balked at the danger the animals posed and refused to battle them. I seized the opportunity. After handling Latin-speaking wild cows and zebu bulls, these brave bulls were a piece of cake. My efforts did not yield any contract. Survival turned into an ordeal. I even fought a bull dressed as a clown for a few pesos. After the show had ended, I arrived at the pub where other bullfighters spent their paychecks. One asked me whether I had eaten any food, and I replied that I had, but he didn’t believe me because he saw the hunger on my face. He invited me to a sandwich. On one occasion, I watched matador Rafael Ortega’s triumph in the Monumental Plaza in Mexico City—the most famous arena in the country. His achievement encouraged me because he was 5’ 5”, an inch taller than me. I asked him for some tips in the art of killing a bull when a matador did not tower over the animal. He answered,
“Vistete con una chaquetilla, put on a very short jacket … but wear long breeches because your cojones–testicles—should drag on the sandy ring.”
I got the guts to face bulls and kill them but needed a break. A rancher helped me land the first contract for a corrida of young bulls in Penjamo, Guanajuato. The presiding judge of the event awarded me the maximum prize, the bull’s two ears and the tail. The outcome led to the schedule of my debut at Monumental Plaza. But a strike broke out and the venue closed. My first appearance was reset and canceled twice because of trivial issues.
These disappointments never quelled my determination to become an accomplished bullfighter. I searched for a manager who could back me up, but luck never came my way again. For six years, I accepted any corrida in any town, in any capacity, with any bulls, at any remuneration. For a long time, I believed the audience ignored the matador’s appearance as soon as he stood in the ruedo, andthe fans flocked to the plaza de toros to watch exciting faenas and nothing else. But after a while, I realized success in my field required not only courage and skills for the art of fighting, but also the physical presence, the height, the looks that the public associated with a torero. My valor failed to compensate for this disadvantage and got me only into numerous mishaps and gores. In 1969, I resigned myself to working as an assistanttoreroto two brothers who fought on horseback. My employers paid me well and invited me to a festival in Houston that combined opera and horse dancing. I stayed at a motel whose manager was of Puerto Rican descent and had been born in Chicago. He praised the beauty of this city and missed the spectacle of the snow in winter— the snow covering the sandy beaches of Lake Michigan, the majestic skyscrapers under clear blue skies, the tall bare branches on Lakeshore Drive glittering like Christmas trees. I felt an instant curiosity and, a few days later, boarded a bus and arrived in the Windy City in November of the same year. I got a temporary job. I planned to pay for my lodging, some new clothes, and a ticket back to Mexico. But love surprised me. I met my future wife and made Chicago my new home.
My decision to stay did not mean I had abandoned bullfighting. Once you heard the vibration of the ground with an approaching bull, smelled the poignant scent of his breath, and felt the rush of your blood at the confrontation of two intelligent adversaries, man and beast, you were hooked forever. Bullfighting was a way of life. When you became a bullfighter, you were always a bullfighter. I loved the brave bull. This gorgeous animal was raised to battle toreros. The performer endangered his life in the ruedo. The beast sold his own life at a high price, losing it dueling instead of suffering a humiliating death in a slaughterhouse. My love for the bull seemed false to those who opposed my line of work. I respected their concerns but worried about the future of this show. Their qualms led to the fights of bulls with no killing of the animals, a practice that spread to several countries. But this achievement did not suppress the animal rights activists’ vigorous opposition. Perhaps, those in favor and those against these events would someday compromise. I had confronted bulls that had undergone no spear injuries and had been returned to their pens unharmed. I could perform faenas that brought the spectators cheering to their feet.
Whenever I had a few minutes of idleness, I reminisced about my earlier pursuit and lived my exciting memories again. Life in Chicago was not as glamorous. But a few weeks after I had arrived in this city, I met the woman who would become my wife. By then my money had dwindled to a few dollars. I told her that I needed a job and planned to return to Mexico as soon as I saved enough money for the airfare. She got me a position at one supplier of the General Motors in Chicago. On my first day, a bell rang break time. I did not understand what it meant until a coworker signaled me it was time to eat. The small lunch area was in the same building. Before I walked into the room, I observed a Mexican man who sat on some boxes next to the door munching on flavorful tacos. I poured myself a cup of coffee and chocolate from a dispenser machine and sat at a table. My compatriot beckoned me to join him, but I motioned him to take a seat next to me. I was hoping he would share his food with me. He shook his head and declined. A few minutes later, someone hacked behind my chair. Towering over me stood my corpulent supervisor, a six-foot blond Polish-American man with red cheeks who claimed ownership of the table for himself and his coterie. I did not flinch.
My boss relegated me to the worst dreary job to get rid of me. My assignment consisted of cleaning large empty cans of paint in a tank with 350 gallons of solvent. After a few hours, the intense odor caused headaches, nausea, and dry heaving. Holding on the walls, I wobbled to the restroom where vomiting erupted with a vengeance over and over. These episodes recurred two or three times a day. But no one would force me out of the company. If I were going to quit, it would be of my own accord. As a matter of principle, I stayed beyond my intended date. Months passed, and one day, my supervisor ordered me to postpone my lunch until I had finished scouring numerous cans. That day, the owner of the factory left his office to inspect the worksite as his employees were on break. He was a middle-aged man with an affable face and a distinguished demeanor. I was busy doing my work when he approached me. I communicated to him that I did not speak English. A few minutes later, he came back with a bilingual employee. He learned the reason for my skipped lunch and called my supervisor into his office. I was never assigned the same job again.
A few days later, the owner stopped by and let me know he was learning Spanish to converse with me. He advised me to study English. De Paul University was close to where I lived and held evening classes of English as a second language. I worked from 6:00 AM to 6:00 PM, attended school from 8:00 PM to 10:00 PM, and afterward, I washed dishes and kitchen utensils in the cafeteria to pay my tuition. Now and then, he came by and noticed my progress. My tourist visa ran out, so I notified him that I could not continue in his company without securing the proper documentation. He referred me to his lawyer, who wrote a letter to the Immigration and Naturalization Service praising my qualifications and predicting a bright future in the company. I received my green card with great joy. The owner’s nephew asked me to help him open a new branch, so I worked with him on weekends. After a while, it transpired that, unknown to his uncle, he had created a new business and enticed quite a few employees to follow him in the new venture. In front of me, the nephew quarreled with the uncle and tossed me the keys to open the new offices in the morning. I grabbed them and handed them back to him later. The next day, the uncle was surprised to find me among the few employees who had not deserted him. He asked me the reason,
“Sir,” I said. “I am not a rat that abandons a sinking ship.”
He appointed me to a low-level management position where I would work until my retirement thirty-two years later. My former Polish-American boss then worked for me, but I always treated him as fairly and respectful as any other subordinate. I got married, and God blessed my wife and me with three children, a boy and two girls. Our son earned a degree in marketing, our eldest daughter one in business, and our youngest one in accounting. The years passed brimming with efforts, sacrifices, and events that cheered up our daily routine. My mother died fifteen years ago. Long before that happened, she came to Chicago to have the cataracts in both eyes extracted. I sat at her bedside when the bandages were removed, and for the first time in decades, she perceived the details of images. Surprised, she looked at me and said,
“Lalo, estas pelon … you are bald!”
What is a torero doing in Chicago? What every honest immigrant does, opening a new horizon for his children in a new country, among free people. The valor and audacity of a bullfighter have stood me in good stead. I have built my life around my family and my work.
The United States vs. Oscar Sosa
(From Uprooted Agave: Latino Immigrants’ Stories by Louis Villalba)
On November 23, 2010, Oscar Sosa visited a local supermarket and bought a bag of Doritos, two cans of apricots, three cans of sardines, bread, a gallon of milk, cookies, a box of cereal, and a large package of Guatemalan coffee beans. The aromatic beverage of his native country left a ginger-like sensation on his tongue and a chocolate-like aftertaste in his throat. He enjoyed it. After shopping, he returned to his apartment. Oscar lived in a room as small as a walk-in closet in a basement on Paulina Avenue in Chicago. He had resided there for several years. Dark and gloomy, the place bristled with green-painted walls and contained a few pieces of furniture—a single bed, a table, and a chair. He kept it clean, but the moldy stench of humidity permeated everywhere. Outside in the hall, the neighbors shared a toilet and a bath. There, Oscar found the solitude he needed. He took his medications for epilepsy and rested most of the day. The fear of a sudden seizure dogged him. His neighbors frequently found him on the floor in a semi-conscious state. Paramedics took him to the closest hospital numerous times. Life had loomed large since total disability overcame him ten years ago. Oscar did the best he could. He bothered no one and befriended even those who jeered him or took advantage of his frailty.
At 6 PM that day, he stuck the key into the lock to open the door to his apartment when two muscular men accosted him. Their fatigue clothes boasted safety vests stamped on the front with the letters ‘DHS,’ the acronym of the Department of Home Security. One was carrying a thick stick in his hand, and the other was unarmed. The officers informed him that they were looking for Oscar Sosa.
“I am Oscar Sosa.”
“You are under arrest.”
They handcuffed him, read him the Miranda warning, and took him into a car amidst his protestations.
“What have I done? This is an error. Please, let me go free.”
The officers provided him no reason for the arrest and whisked him off across the state line into a federal prison in Indiana. The trip took two hours. He received a dark-chocolate color uniform and scrambled into a cell shared with a black prisoner. The small room had an open door and a toilet. Oscar left his assigned area whenever his roommate needed to relieve his bladder or bowel. Three days later, an official called him to his office and questioned him,
“Why did you apply for US citizenship?”
“I have been a legal resident for almost 15 years.”
“Mr. Sosa, you are a felon.”
“Felon?”
“The Department of Home Security ran a background check and found you had been convicted of aggravated criminal sexual abuse on July 17, 1990. This offense is enough ground for deportation.”
Oscar could not believe his ears. Oscar Sosa came to this country with a green card in September 1987. He thought this document and his hard work would assure him a share of the American dream. But after his arrival, an incident augured a bumpy course in his adopted country. According to him, on April 10, 1990, he jogged in Grant Park. In the rainy early morning, spring weather promised to be warmer than usual for the season. The lake was deserted. Boats had their canvas covers on for the winter and sat moored to their wooden wharfs. Navy Pier loomed over the expanse of water beyond the mouth of the Chicago River, the red lighthouse flashing in the distance. The lights were on. Cars swarmed the road from the Outer Drive Bridge to the Field Museum. Oscar hit one puddle after another, splashing water around. Wind lashed rain against his face, and water dripped from his eyelids to his checks down his lips and chin. The drops came to a halt on the high collar of the hooded fleece jacket that stuck out of the nonporous windbreaker. His squelching shoes turned soaked and heavy. Grass, soil, concrete, asphalt, and bricks submitted to the inclement weather. Oscar ran tiptoeing over the grounds dappled with ankle-deep accumulations. He skirted the flooded areas, sputtering water. Manholes gurgled and swallowed the growing whirls unable to keep pace with the precipitation. He reached the east sidewalk of Michigan Avenue when the green sign flashed on. A mature brunette in a gray jacket ushered several teen girls across the pedestrian crossing Oscar flew into. His legs rushed through the path, his eyes blind with water. A girl in a red jacket and a red hat giggled, sidled to the right, and tripped Oscar. He crushed against her and both fell headlong. The brunette chaperon screamed. The other girls punched him and pushed him away from their friend. Crying, the young ‘victim’ lay down with her skirt up, her white panties with little roses out in the open, blood dripping from the right side of her forehead. Oscar stood in a daze. Unable to speak English, he repeated the only words he remembered,
“I am sorry. I am sorry.”
A police car darted to the scene with the siren wailing, the blue lights spinning, and the tire tracks leaving a wake. An officer slammed the door of the vehicle and trod to the area of discord. He listened to the frantic complaints of the brunette interrupted by the chorus of girls. Oscar turned his head side to side like a lost cub in a jungle and witnessed their heated interchange. An ambulance made its way through the bus lane. The heavy traffic came to a halt. Flashes bathed the paramedics in red as they ran toward the victim. Some drivers blew their horns to relieve the pressure of their frustrations. The injured girl sat on the asphalt with her hand on her forehead. Diluted blood dripped down her face. Several pedestrians unfurled their umbrellas, let the heavy rain shower their heads, watched the chaos for a moment, and moved on. Most passersby ignored the onlookers and swarmed to their destinations. Oscar responded to the officer’s questions with shrugs. A minute later, he boarded the back seat of the squad car, handcuffed with his hands behind his back. The police charged him with sexual assault on a minor and incarcerated him at Cook County Jail. Since Oscar had no money, the court appointed a defense counsel who spoke to him,
“Este caso puede durar in court for a while. It can get ugly. The other party might convince the judge that you are guilty. Your hand lay on the girl’s panties. You could stay in jail for a long time. Pleading guilty will get you free with no difficulties. It is your first offense. You’ll get two years of probation and walk out of here in a few days.”
The lawyer drew the papers. Oscar wanted to leave the jail where life harassed him like a heartless bully. He signed the document with no second thought. His probation ended two years later. The passage of a decade free of legal issues almost erased the incident from his memory. It now returned to haunt him.
On November 27, 2010, Oscar Sosa was among the prisoners transferred to another building in the penitentiary. He lumbered with his hands handcuffed in the front and his legs bound by chains of heavy iron balls in the company of common criminals. A few days later, Oscar sat in the dining area when the mocking erupted. A corpulent and bald convict taunted him,
“You are stupid. You should have molested the girl. At least, you would be in jail for a reason.”
“None of us are guilty, right, Johnny?” another gibed, his arms covered with tattooed skulls.
“None of us, I only smoked a joint, ha, ha, ha.”
Guffaws spread to all the tables. Oscar got upset. He took a bite of a hot dog and dropped backward to the floor, comatose, with a harsh plop and a savage cry. The pupils hid under his eyelids, the
white of his eyes faced the ceiling, his outstretched and wood-rigid legs and arms gave way to a rapid vibration of all his muscles, his mouth twisted, and saliva and blood spilled out. A hullabaloo broke out. A Mexican inmate with a large earring rushed to insert a spoon in his mouth, but the clenched teeth did not yield.
In the jail health facility, Oscar regained consciousness and again received his seizure medications. Someone called the Legal Assistance Foundation. Two weeks later, Oscar was set free after surrendering his green card. He now waits at home in administrative limbo, expecting a decision—a hearing, a reissue of his permanent residence, the acceptance of his application for citizenship, a final deportation to Guatemala. He waits in his little room as weeks and months pass by.
Pibe
(From the Uprooted Agave: Latino Immigrants’ Stories by Louis Villalba
A friend calls me up and lets me know Cacho’s father has just passed away. The news has a profound impact on me. I guess one should not be surprised at the death of an 88-year-old man, but I am. As I hang up the phone, the first images that cross my mind are the youthful blue eyes of the deceased. Their color sparkled like moonlight on placid river waters as he related an anecdote,
“En Argentina, cuando yo era joven, immigrants from all over the world got off the ships and shouted out their names. The need for workers was so great that officials at the harbors requested no documents. A guard in charge kept records of their arrival. If the official understood the words, he wrote them down. But if he failed to catch them, he improvised fitting new ones. This procedure renamed my friend Pedro Turk. The long-suffering shopkeeper married an obese woman he grew to dislike. His wife died, and at her burial, her casket broke at the bottom, the corpse plummeting to the ground. Later when Pedro recounted the incident to me, he said, chuckling,
‘Como un mojón—the lady dropped to the floor like a piece of shit.”’
As I smile at my reminiscence, I pray a paternoster for his soul. I call Cacho to express my sympathy. He tells me his father died with horrendous pains due to metastatic carcinoma of the prostate,
“Estaba muy enfermo. For the past few months, he couldn’t get out of the chair. Morphine didn’t even touch the pain. Death brought him a respite.”
“Lo siento. I forgot his name.”
“José Maria. I am his namesake. His friends called him Pibe—kid—because, as a youngster, he used to hang out with older guys.”
“Where is the wake?”
“No, he didn’t want any wake. His body will be cremated. My brother and I will scatter half of his ashes on Lincoln Park Lagoon. He enjoyed rowing over there and excelled at it. In his youth, he finished first in several regattas. My dad taught some of my friends and me how to row. We won several competitions. He loved the sport. The other half of his remains we’ll sprinkle on the Rio de la Plata, his hometown river.”
I think about the meaning of these ceremonies, about how we immigrants do not belong to a single land. Part of us always remains behind in our birthplaces, and the rest grows roots in the new surroundings. Divided hearts and divided ashes in our lives and our deaths. His long illness reminds me that we men cry to be born and cry to die. That God chastened Adam out of paradise and condemned us all to the same destiny,
“In the sweat of your face you shall eat bread till you return to the ground, for out of it you were taken; for dust you are, and to dust you shall return,” (Genesis 3:13).
After listening to my friend’s words, my mind drifts to my last conversation with his father two years earlier. My diary contains the notes of our chat on June 5, 2005. That day, Cacho and his wife invited my wife and me to a parrillada, an Argentinean-style barbecue. The main dish featured large succulent steaks sprinkled with salt. A glorious sun lit the warm backyard. A group of friends sat over plenty of food and wine. Peonies and roses had bloomed. Cardinals and robins sang, and their trills and whistles mixed with the happy bustle of the revelers. Everyone enjoyed a good time. Pibe and I stood alone in the family room, each holding a glass of red wine. He summarized the story of his life. I listened and observed him. Tall and thin, he boasted the body of a young man. His bearing was distinguished and his demeanor vibrant and energetic. A soft smile reflected goodness and interior peace. Pibe evinced no regrets after all he had gone through. Only his thin white hair revealed his clashes with life. He spoke with the decisive voice of those who had never folded before any obstacle,
“I came to this country on April 15, 1957, the same day the Mexican singer Pedro Infante crashed the plane he piloted and died.” He sipped the red wine and went on. “I had built a beautiful house in La Plata but couldn’t find a decent job. Those I found paid so little I couldn’t support my family.”
A prearranged employment awaited him in New York, but some friends recommended he come to Chicago. He heeded their advice. In Argentina, Pibe had worked in the accounting department at a plant of Armour, a multinational with headquarters in the Windy City. The next day after his arrival, he applied for a job in the same company. An executive recognized him,
“I know you. What are you doing here? Didn’t I meet you at our factory in Argentina?”
“Si, pero I couldn’t make it there, so I came to the US.”
The official nodded his head and hired him on the spot. Pibe was glad he did not understand his Spanish. Otherwise, the new boss might not have been so generous. He thought Pibe had left Argentina for political reasons. The new job allowed him to bring his family over after three months. But the factory closed two years later, and he was forced to look for other employment. A furniture manufacturer hired him. After a while, Pibe stood before a judge and pledged his allegiance as a new US citizen. The new country embraced him as one of its own. He was proud of it. But danger lurked nearby. Leaders invoked the words of God, communism, and the defense of Western civilization to put young men in harm way and justify their deaths. Pibe wondered what this demagoguery meant for him and his family. The Vietnamese did not attack them, his neighbors, his community, or his new country. Why should a father send those he loved most in this world to die and take the life of others without an imperative reason? Pibe had lived enough and heard these arguments before. The results were always the same—ambitious lawmakers soared in public opinion polls and basked in the suffering of their constituents.
“I didn’t agree with the Vietnam War,” he explained. “My two sons, Cacho and Bocha, were eligible to be drafted into the military. I put my family on a plane and sent my boys to Buenos Aires. A few days later, an Army officer knocked on my door.”
Pibe moved back to his homeland, where he suffered the indifference and cold shoulder of his compatriots.
“Llegué a Argentina sin un dolar in my pocket,” he added. “I was 48 and endured a hard time finding a job. I heard many excuses … ‘you are too old’ or ‘you are too qualified.’ The lack of work condemned my family and me to starvation. I resorted to asking for help from my relatives.”
Pibe took this humiliation for two years. Big-hearted America welcomed back him and his family with open arms. He landed at O’Hare Airport in Chicago and got a maintenance job that he kept until his retirement fifteen years later. Leisure time let him enjoy his hobbies. Projects of bricolage ushered him into a world of peacefulness in the solitude of his garage. In his hand often rested a small cup of yerba matte—an invigorating drink rich in vitamin C and caffeine. This energy came handy in his hours at the boathouse on the quiet waters of Lincoln Park Lagoon. Rowing meant so much to him: discipline, fair competition, overcoming difficulties, learning from mistakes, putting up a good fight, and above all, challenging himself to win. The sport taught him the right recipe for dealing with daily life.
As he continued the conversation, I noticed the cadence of a tango in his voice. This music had driven his heart with passionate tempo since he was a child. But, his views clashed with those of the fatalistic last stanza of these songs. He never gave in to pessimism. His mind beat to a different rhythm. Over the years, a loving embrace of music, places, and symbols fused in his soul. Tangos, milongas,jazz, and blues flowed in a dream of rivers, lakes, and canoes. So did the Spangled Banner, America the Beautiful, the blue-and-white Argentinean flag, the white-red-and-blue American flag, Buenos Aires, and Chicago.
It took a few minutes for him to go over the story of his eighty-six years on earth. Stresses, sorrows, efforts, sweats, injustices, and blessings came to life again—falling in love with his wife, his children, his wedding celebrations, the births of his grandchildren, and the jubilation of getting to know his great-grandchildren. He abridged the events. Only those who had toiled so much and beaten all stumbling blocks did so in such a short time. He could as well have told me, “Veni, vidi, vinci,”—I came, saw, and won,—for that was what he accomplished in his lifetime. Rich in love, he handed it out to his family in armfuls. Now his wife, his children, and his grandchildren sat nearby. Their laughs enlivened the florid patio. The prattle of his great-grandchild framed the moment with the cheerful sounds of the joyful future in store for them. The beautiful one-year-and-a-half-old baby girl boasted big eyes and gorgeous brown hair as she toddled about under the affectionate eyes of everyone. He perceived happiness and hope around him. His mission accomplished, Pibe palpated these feelings with his heart and celebrated the occasion,
“Bebamos. Let’s fill our glasses of wine again.”
“Sí, brindemos. A long life to you!”
“No, I have already lived a long life, a good one. So let’s toast to what counts in this world. To our families!”
