A Seed in the Sun

SemillaThey tried to bury us but they didn’t know we were seeds.—Mexican Proverb Imperial Valley, California • March 1965 Remolino I sometimes think about how                 I lost my voice.  I could have buried it in the earth,                                  in the surco, the long row of dry dirt  where we planted onion bulbs last spring while the heat of a too-hot California day                  fell on our                                  arched                                                   backs                                    like barrels                  of sun.  It could have happened  when Papá screamed for me to work faster       just as I was singing along             to Mamá’s song                      louder than Papá’s angry words                                  or the drone of planes spraying the fields                                                                                              overhead. It could have been taken                  by the roaring remolino                                  that slammed into us                 like the storm of Papá’s belt when we upset him, an out of nowhere tornado                                  ripping through the fields. maybe that’s when the dirt-drenched air                                                                 pulled                                                my voice out of my breath                                  and caught it in the                                                                 spin of wild wind. What's left is a whispery rasp an orange-yellow mist                  that comes and goes                                                 like clouds. My real voice is either somewhere                  in the tumble of dirt                                  in the onion fields                  of the Imperial Valley                    or  was taken by                                  the anger of the wind. One day, I pray it comes back. Delano, California • September, 1965 Open-Sky Hammocks We drown bedbugs  in a pail of water, chinches we pluck                  from the mattresses                  propped up outside                  on rusty barrack walls. The worst kind of chore  on our first day in Delano,                  in another labor camp                 as terrible as the last                 and the one before that. Concha and Rafa race to see  who can drown more bugs.                 They beat me by a lot                  because they’re                  five and four years older. I ask Mamá if we can sleep  in our hammocks instead                  but she doesn’t turn around.  She still can’t hear the tiny hiss  that comes from me when I try to speak.                  “¡Mamá!” I try to say louder. She reads the question on my lips.                 “Lula, the mattresses are better so we are together                 and not hanging like leaves from the trees.” Me? I’d rather sleep outside  in a crest of oaks                  at the edge of the grape fields                  all around us                  with surcos like long fingers                  spread throughout the vineyard                  and thick vines                  growing big across the wires. I’d rather sleep beneath                  a blue-black sky glistening                  with bright stars.                  A stage. A place to dream.  Where I can announce  a make-believe circus like a ringmaster                 to an audience of hooting owls                  hunting field mice in the night.  Outside under the dense, starry sky  we can only see in the back roads of California                 where we work and chase the harvests,                  so different from the city where we hardly go                 and where the glow of lights washes away the contrast. Yes, it’s colder in our hammocks  than in the one-room wooden barrack,                 especially in the winter,                  but so much better                  than getting eaten alive by chinches.                 “Pero, Mamá, I wish we could . . .” I try to argue.                 “No time for wishing now, Lula.” Mamá leans on my shoulder  as she passes me holding a grass broom.                  Her long thick braid lays against her neck                 as her body bends like a willow branch,                  and she sighs,                  “Vamos, Lula, Concha, Rafa. Let’s keep cleaning,                 mis amores.” Light Blue SchoolhouseI watch water glisten as it splashes                 against the tin of the pail I fill  at the only tap at this new but familiar camp.                 I think of the light blue schoolhouse                 I saw from the truck as we arrived,                                 and my panza flutters.  I wonder about the new school year and if the school will have a twelfth grade for Concha and a seventh grade for me because there’s never a guarantee. A school! Where we’ll be the new faces  along with other farmworker kids whose families came like ours  for the grape harvest and who also won’t know  what they’ll be learning and will struggle to catch up. An actual school!  Not housework,  not watching my baby siblings, and not field work. Back in Bakersfield Rafa missed so many days  he was whittled down two whole grades.                  That’s when he had it                                  and instead followed Papá and Mamá                                                into the fields each daybreak                  to pick whichever crop was in season. Truant officers didn’t even blink  to see him in the fields as dandelion tall as he is.  I’d taken what Concha  once told me to heart. No matter how much we miss, no matter if teachers are mean, no matter they sometimes punish us  for speaking Spanish, no matter if we can’t keep friends, school is ours.                 “Lula, you’re here to soak up anything you can,                 porque tomorrow, we’ll be on the road again                 and the only thing you can take with you”                 —she tapped my head— “is up here.”  The best thing about Concha  is she loves school as much as me. Concha’s gentle brown eyes                  are maps  when I can’t find my way. Baby WorkPapá comes back  with work orders from the crew leader and a face folded in worry. He, Mamá, and Rafa  will pick grapes tomorrow morning.                  Our baby sister, Gabriela,                  and babiest brother, Martín,                  will go with them  so Concha and I can get to school.   Mamá doesn’t ask us to  work the fields to pick cotton,  potatoes, strawberries, or grapes  because that’s when school’s in session.  Mamá doesn’t ask us to skip school to watch the babies, either,  she likes what we learn   about the world outside the fields. She loves to hear us translate for her the stories in the books we get to read, the English transforming into the Spanish  that she and Papà speak.  Threat of a truant officer  or no truant officer, I don’t think Mamá  would want it any other way. I wouldn't mind watching the babies,  Gabi and Martín are  two balls of sweet masa with legs. Gabi’s almost three and runs  like a cheetah on her bare feet  with one too many toes on each foot. Mamá calls her “una hija de Dios”  and because she’s a child of God,  she is perfect just as she is with no need for shoes  we can’t afford anyway.  Martín crawls like a ladybug because being one year old is still pretty little.  He reaches up  with his  dimpled hands whenever he wants  to be carried, and we always happily sweep him up. It’s not hard to do squishy baby work like that.  EscabsI overhear Papá tell Rafa,                  “Caramba, we just walked into a strike. Men with picket                 signs and bullhorns were yelling at all of us not to work.”                 “What do you think they’re fighting for, Apá?” I get closer but he pulls Rafa inside, and gives me a “what do you want, nosy” kind of look but I can still hear him.              “Los Filipinos seem to have left the fields because they               want higher wages. They’re en huelga, and they think               we’re taking their jobs,” he says.               “Do you think there’ll be trouble, Apá?” Rafa asks.               “Pues they were protesting and screaming ‘Don’t               be escabs!’ at us while we were getting crew orders.               Josesito said escab means traitor because we are crossing               their picket line.”  Papá says the word scab like  his tongue is a skipped record  adding a syllable up front. Mamá is sitting on the edge of the bed, holding her head between her hands like she’s hurt,  frowning into her closed eyes.  I want to see what’s wrong with her  but I stay outside the barrack so Papá doesn’t know  I’m snooping. Martín toddles up to Papá, reaches up to him. Papá unfolds his brows and arms, lifts him up and tosses him into the air with an “Ah, ¡mi muchachito!”  Papá saves his sweetness for the babies. As soon as we get older,  seeing his love for us  is a sight as rare as rain  falling on desert earth.  Carpa Smiles        I remember a time  before the whirlwind, a time before Gabi and Martín were born when we snuck into the circus. Rafa and me.  Papá went without  his bottles of beer for once to buy three tickets  for Mamá, Concha, and him. Hidden behind crates, Rafa held up the tent’s wall to keep me from getting scratched  like he did as he crawled  beneath the canvas.  We emerged into a flurry of people trying to get a seat to see La Carpa Vázquez, the traveling Mexican circus.  We squirmed, pushed, and shoved  other kids to sit up front.  As the lights began to dim,  I searched and found  Concha, Mamá, and Papá sitting still inside a crowd moving like ants around them. Suddenly the lights, the music,  and a loud, booming voice  welcomed us.                  “Señoras y señores, niños y niñas, welcome to the                 world-famous La Carpa Vázquez!” That’s when I saw it. Papá’s smile,  with its missing right-side molar.      A smile so pretty and wide         it shined like a galaxy                in the center       of the deep brown night                 of his face.  I don’t understand why  he never lets us see it,  but seeing him smile  because of the ringmaster’s smooth voice  opened up my own sonrisa like a squash bloom  following  the light of day. I swept my head around and was pulled like never before and never since  into the magic of la carpa. The clown jugglers,  the comedians, the singers, the dancing dog show,  the tightrope walkers, and the flying trapeze.  Rafa and me clapped, hollered,            and fell on each other,  ¡muriéndonos de risa!  When I took a breath, a dream was etched in my heart,  to join the circus one day, as ringmaster. I think about the ringmaster  whenever I am still. I think about how his voice  made the lights of Papá’s face  come alive.  I want to be one of the reasons Papá smiles.