Modesto and Manuel
I was listening to Robert Earl Keen's song "Mariano" on the way to work today. The speaker observes this Mexican man who works for him: "I watch him close/ he works just like a piston in an engine/He only stops to take a drink and smoke a cigarette/When the day is ended, I look outside my window/There on the horizon, Mariano's silhouette."
I thought of two Mexican workers who labored on my dad's chicken farm when I was growing up--Manuel and Modesto. There were others, but these two men I remember. Modesto looked like a native American. He traveled by himself. His skin was a reddish brown, hair shoulder length, deep wrinkles lined his face, even though he was young, no more than 35. Manuel was another worker who came and left twice. He was also a loner. His skin was lighter. He was chunkier and spoke better English than Modesto.
Dad had what we called a "wetback shack" behind our house where they lived. It was not much. Just a shed with two rooms, concrete floors. It smelled like warm tortillas and beans. Mariachi music blasted through the thin wooden front door on the weekends. Workers like Modesto and Manuel would come and stay a few months, then leave usually around Christmas time. They promised to return, but often we'd never see them again.
My little brother Ray, who was about 5 or 6 at the time, loved hanging out with the "wetbacks." He was a cute little thing, always wearing cowboy boots, even if he had on shorts. Mom and I would hear him clip clop through the mud room into the main part of our house when he was ready to eat or play inside which was rare. He spent most of his time with the workers, gathering eggs, watching them haul off dead chickens, cleaning the chicken houses. Sometimes I'd glance outside and see Ray standing on the second level of our wooden fence post with Manuel or Modesto on the other side of him. I wondered what they were talking about? How did Ray understand them?
One day Ray came inside in his usual sweaty, outdoors smell, boots clip clopping. The door banged shut and he yelled, "Mom, the truck won't start and Manuel says 'shit!' " So they could communicate with each other. After that, Mom limited the amount of time Ray spent with the wetbacks.
I don't remember wondering what Manuel or Modesto's lives were like, did they have a family, did they miss them, what their dreams were, what their favorite song was, favorite food. I only saw them as laborers who worked for my dad. When they left, I didn't miss them. There would be another one who came and went. No big deal. They're just wetbacks. But now I think about them, and I do wonder those things. They were people. I wonder what they're doing now? Do they remember me?
I thought of two Mexican workers who labored on my dad's chicken farm when I was growing up--Manuel and Modesto. There were others, but these two men I remember. Modesto looked like a native American. He traveled by himself. His skin was a reddish brown, hair shoulder length, deep wrinkles lined his face, even though he was young, no more than 35. Manuel was another worker who came and left twice. He was also a loner. His skin was lighter. He was chunkier and spoke better English than Modesto.
Dad had what we called a "wetback shack" behind our house where they lived. It was not much. Just a shed with two rooms, concrete floors. It smelled like warm tortillas and beans. Mariachi music blasted through the thin wooden front door on the weekends. Workers like Modesto and Manuel would come and stay a few months, then leave usually around Christmas time. They promised to return, but often we'd never see them again.
My little brother Ray, who was about 5 or 6 at the time, loved hanging out with the "wetbacks." He was a cute little thing, always wearing cowboy boots, even if he had on shorts. Mom and I would hear him clip clop through the mud room into the main part of our house when he was ready to eat or play inside which was rare. He spent most of his time with the workers, gathering eggs, watching them haul off dead chickens, cleaning the chicken houses. Sometimes I'd glance outside and see Ray standing on the second level of our wooden fence post with Manuel or Modesto on the other side of him. I wondered what they were talking about? How did Ray understand them?
One day Ray came inside in his usual sweaty, outdoors smell, boots clip clopping. The door banged shut and he yelled, "Mom, the truck won't start and Manuel says 'shit!' " So they could communicate with each other. After that, Mom limited the amount of time Ray spent with the wetbacks.
I don't remember wondering what Manuel or Modesto's lives were like, did they have a family, did they miss them, what their dreams were, what their favorite song was, favorite food. I only saw them as laborers who worked for my dad. When they left, I didn't miss them. There would be another one who came and went. No big deal. They're just wetbacks. But now I think about them, and I do wonder those things. They were people. I wonder what they're doing now? Do they remember me?
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