You Know Him by His Labors

The one who left wasn’t the only one sleeping on a stained twin mattress under a carpet remnant in the room near the stench of sewage, wasn’t the only one making shadows from a single light bulb dangling by a wire, who laughed at that old snoring dog, who liked to praise that dinner of beans and rice and chiles, not the only one who shared a torn loveseat to watch a fuzzy TV with so many brothers drinking beer and soda and sisters getting married and having babies, that crowd of aunts, uncles, cousins, nephews and nieces, not the only one with unfaded scars and bad teeth, not the only one who complained about that so-loud radio always somewhere, not the only one who could pick out the best used retread tires. He wasn’t the only one loving a mother who wore that same housedress and apron, warming tortillas in the morning and early evening, who was still a beautiful woman.

He was the one who left and he will never stop loving her either. He had to leave behind a wife. The one who left had to leave behind his children. It was as though where he was going was a distant uncle’s place, a man not blood, on his father’s side, or it was the ex-husband of his godmother. Somebody close to somebody else, somebody known but who is not in the family. That rich man has a successful construction business, or is a landowner, or he is just from “the States.” He is the one many have seen drinking, laughing, talking loud in his language. He wouldn’t live in even the nicest house in Mexico.

In “the States” there is work that pays and that is what the one who left needs and wants and he knows how to work, he is not afraid of any work, of earning. He is the one who left and he met good people, and bad people, and it was always dirty and mean, the same clothes no matter where or when or what. And that rich man does have lots of work. The one who left sweeps the sawdust and scrubs the cement and masonry tools and coils the hoses. He stoops low for the cinder blocks and he lifts a beam that has to be set high. He pushes the wheelbarrow and pounds spikes with a flattened waffle-face metal hammer and he pulls out pins with its claws. He hauls the trash scraps and he digs the plumbing trench.

He always says yes and he means yes. He is a cheap wage, and he is quiet because he is far from home, as paperless as birth, and he not only acts grateful, he is grateful, because there is always worse at home.

The one who left is nobody special, and he knows it himself.

There are so many others just like him, hungry, even hungrier once they’ve been paid. His only home is work and job. His only trust, his only confidence, is the work, the job.

The one who left lives near streets in the States that were the first and are now the last. He shops at markets where others who left go.

He does not go to banks but of course he wants to. He does not have a driver’s license but of course he wants one. He does not have a phone but of course he wants one. He wants his family to be with him.

He learned early to live like a shadow watching a single lightbulb and now he moves with almost a natural invisibility, carefully crossing into the light of night, not really seen when he’s working in the sun.

He is someone who left his mother to get work.

He left his wife to find work.

He left his children to get work.

His citizenship is not in Mexico or in “the States” but is at a job.

He is not a part-time citizen, a temporary citizen.

He is loyal to work, and he is a patriot of its country.

He does not want to leave it in three years, or in six years. Like everyone else, he wants to become wealthy in his country.

Dagoberto Gilb is the author of, most recently, “Gritos: Essays” (Grove Press, 2003).