Latinos at the Parish House
It’d been un día miserable, a miserable day.
As usual, los jefes put me on clean-up duty. I was responsible for collecting and disposing all the yard-waste our crew made while trimming every bush in a twenty-acre townhouse community.
More precisely: I had to keep up with three people who worked each minute as if their employment depended on it—because it did. As Victor, always practicing English, told me:
“We don’t work hard, they fire us. There a long line of guys need jobs, and they work for cheaper. We have to work hard. No . . . cómo se dice . . . option.”
Mis amigos had gas-powered trimmers; I had a rake, tarp, and garbage can. Regardless, we all had to work in extreme heat and humidity, and all started at 6:30 AM.
As 4:30 PM approached, we were nearly done.
None of my co-workers minded helping me clean up thirty-minute old trimmings. We were a team—something my superior working hermanos reminded me again and again, even when I worried that my relatively slow pace might jeopardize their jobs. And as we dumped the last can of trimmings into a truck bed, we saw los jefes and smiled. We could tell they were pleased with our work.
“Muy bien,” los jefes said in unison, almost exhausting their Spanish vocabulary. “You guys did good.”
A concerning smile stretched across their faces.
“You guys did so good, you have time for uno mas job. Go trim the bushes at the parish house.”
As los jefes jumped back into their air-conditioned trucks, I got hot. Mis hermanos could tell.
“Hey, Nathan—mira. It’s no problem. We go. Be done soon. No problem. ¿Entiendes?”
“Si,” I said struggling to quell my growing rage. “Yo entiendo.” Exhausted and angry, I jumped in our truck and rolled down the window.
****
Bushes served as fence lines separating the parish house from its neighbors, as if the yard were an edenic paradise needing protection. Thankfully, the bushes weren’t tall. But what they lacked in height they made up in thorns.
As I collected the trimmings, thorns pierced my glove-covered hands, my mestizo flesh. Each entry wound increased my longing to curse, though not like a Northerner. I longed to curse Southern style, to fill the air with Southern fix’ns Mamaw uttered when she’d had enough.
But I couldn’t. Cusing like that on parish property could cost us our jobs. I couldn’t risk it. Mis hermanos depended on me to be the Latino who spoke “good English” around patrons.
While biting my tongue and grateful we only had a few bushes left, I heard someone approach.
“What the fuck are you damn spics doing here?! I told them I hate spics, and they sent you anyway?!”
Startled, I stood at attention, fixing my eyes on the speaker, whose white collar reflected the sun.
He continued.
“Do you even have papers?! I bet none of you stupid illegal bastards have papers. Tell your boss that the next time he sends you I’m going to see if you have papers. I bet you idiots don’t even understand a word I’ve said, do you?”
“I understand you, sir,” I said, enunciating each word with precision. “Is there anything else you want us to share with the bosses?”
Our abuser turned red. He ceased looking at us and glanced at the ground.
“No, uh, no.”
Then he left without saying another word. We never got a benediction.
****
“Nathan,” un hermano asked when it was just the Latinos, “¿Que dijo el?
“Nada mucho. Todo está bien.”
He knew I was lying. They all knew I was lying. But they also knew I was hurting. Try as I might, I couldn’t stop the tears streaming down my face. Yes, the thorns hurt, but this pain was different. It emerged from a deeper, longer wound.
“Hey, Nathan. No problem. We finish. You go. Go to the truck. It’s okay.”
Everyone nodded—yet another act of mercy.
Somos personas descartables. Somos los indeseables. Mis hermanos y yo, we were a team.
