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Description
A House for Mama
Gilberto Mendoza
Growing up, I never thought of my family as poor. We lived in a three-bedroom trailer; it was not much, but I felt at home. I always had something to eat, a roof over my head, and all the love my parents could give. My parents always bought school supplies and new clothes for me at the beginning of each school year. My parents gave me birthday parties and Christmas holidays that I cherish in my heart to this day. In my eyes, I believed we were rich.
My father worked as a truck driver hauling gravel for a trucking company out of Eagle Lake, Texas. It was a small, quiet town, but a great place to grow up. However, my father's and my mother's families lived in south Texas, and they were always homesick. My father was having a new house built there for my mother so that we could return and live near our family. This house was important in another way as well. My mother never had a house before, and my father could not wait to provide her with one. Unfortunately, he began working fewer hours when the trains started carrying most of the loads of gravel; trains could haul more gravel at one time than ten tractor-trailers could in a week. Eventually, my father was laid off from the trucking company. He did all he could to continue to support us. However, no matter how hard he tried, he could not find a driving job anywhere. Finally, my father told us that in order to have enough money to finish the house and move to south Texas, we would have to migrate north and work in the fields. Being thirteen years old, I was not concerned about the move. The idea of working in a field did not seem difficult to me. I was actually excited about seeing a new place and being able to contribute something to my mother's new house.
We arrived in Lubbock, Texas, early in the summer of 1985. We looked for work for two days and finally found a farmer willing to hire us. Our job entailed hoeing weeds in cotton fields. We were given hoes, gloves, and a one-bedroom apartment that looked about the same size of my room in our trailer back in Eagle Lake. It had a little portable stove, a small refrigerator that could have fit into the trunk of our car, and a bed that would only sleep one person. Trying not to be discouraged, we took what little money we had and bought groceries for the upcoming week. I do not recall ever seeing so many cans of beans in one grocery cart. Even though the apartment was not large enough for us and we had little food, I was happy because we were all together.
Reality hit me hard in the face on the very first day of work. It must have been 100 degrees that day and every day after. Sweat began to pour down my face, burning my eyes, and causing me great discomfort. Biting insects were constantly attacking any skin that was exposed, and some even bit through my shirt. My sister, who was only eight years old, could not really hoe very well or for any length of time. Her job was to provide us with water. My father, mother, and I started back to work. I found it difficult to wield a hoe with gloves on, so I removed them. After an hour of work, I felt my hands stinging and throbbing with pain. When I looked at my hands, there were many blisters and some were beginning to split.
After several hours of pain in my hands and my clothes soaked with sweat, it was time to eat lunch, which consisted of flour tortillas filled with beans, but it seemed like a feast after all the work I had done. While I was eating, my mother looked at my hands. She became upset and started to cry. Seeing my mother cry made my sister and me cry as well. Soon, a flood of tears sur- rounded my father. He told my mother to clean my hands with peroxide, and he told me to use my gloves. As much as I tried, I
Gilberto Mendoza
Growing up, I never thought of my family as poor. We lived in a three-bedroom trailer; it was not much, but I felt at home. I always had something to eat, a roof over my head, and all the love my parents could give. My parents always bought school supplies and new clothes for me at the beginning of each school year. My parents gave me birthday parties and Christmas holidays that I cherish in my heart to this day. In my eyes, I believed we were rich.
My father worked as a truck driver hauling gravel for a trucking company out of Eagle Lake, Texas. It was a small, quiet town, but a great place to grow up. However, my father's and my mother's families lived in south Texas, and they were always homesick. My father was having a new house built there for my mother so that we could return and live near our family. This house was important in another way as well. My mother never had a house before, and my father could not wait to provide her with one. Unfortunately, he began working fewer hours when the trains started carrying most of the loads of gravel; trains could haul more gravel at one time than ten tractor-trailers could in a week. Eventually, my father was laid off from the trucking company. He did all he could to continue to support us. However, no matter how hard he tried, he could not find a driving job anywhere. Finally, my father told us that in order to have enough money to finish the house and move to south Texas, we would have to migrate north and work in the fields. Being thirteen years old, I was not concerned about the move. The idea of working in a field did not seem difficult to me. I was actually excited about seeing a new place and being able to contribute something to my mother's new house.
We arrived in Lubbock, Texas, early in the summer of 1985. We looked for work for two days and finally found a farmer willing to hire us. Our job entailed hoeing weeds in cotton fields. We were given hoes, gloves, and a one-bedroom apartment that looked about the same size of my room in our trailer back in Eagle Lake. It had a little portable stove, a small refrigerator that could have fit into the trunk of our car, and a bed that would only sleep one person. Trying not to be discouraged, we took what little money we had and bought groceries for the upcoming week. I do not recall ever seeing so many cans of beans in one grocery cart. Even though the apartment was not large enough for us and we had little food, I was happy because we were all together.
Reality hit me hard in the face on the very first day of work. It must have been 100 degrees that day and every day after. Sweat began to pour down my face, burning my eyes, and causing me great discomfort. Biting insects were constantly attacking any skin that was exposed, and some even bit through my shirt. My sister, who was only eight years old, could not really hoe very well or for any length of time. Her job was to provide us with water. My father, mother, and I started back to work. I found it difficult to wield a hoe with gloves on, so I removed them. After an hour of work, I felt my hands stinging and throbbing with pain. When I looked at my hands, there were many blisters and some were beginning to split.
After several hours of pain in my hands and my clothes soaked with sweat, it was time to eat lunch, which consisted of flour tortillas filled with beans, but it seemed like a feast after all the work I had done. While I was eating, my mother looked at my hands. She became upset and started to cry. Seeing my mother cry made my sister and me cry as well. Soon, a flood of tears sur- rounded my father. He told my mother to clean my hands with peroxide, and he told me to use my gloves. As much as I tried, I