Mi Papá
by Leticia Comparán

Mi papá was from Mexico; he came to the United States on a contract to work as a farm laborer. Some days he hoed the fields for crop preparation; other days he picked watermelon, cotton, corn, and alfalfa. This job required him to work all day and most evenings, but he gladly did the work to support his wife and nine children. When he woke at 5:00 a.m. to the sounds of the roosters, mi mamá already had Cream of Wheat, toast and a tall glass of orange juice ready for him to enjoy. Since mi papá took 15 minutes to eat, mi mamá would complain, "¡Oye tú comes muy rapido. Eso es malo para tu digestion!" (You are eating too quickly. This is bad for your digestion!)

Whenever mi papá took a lunch to work, he used a black, heavy-duty lunch pail that looked like a mailbox. In it mi mamá placed a banana, chips, apples, a sandwich with bologna, tomatoes, lettuce, cheese and sweet pickles. While packing the lunch, she would look at me and say, "No sé por qué lleva comida tu papa. No se la va comer." (I don’t know why he takes a lunch; he is not going to eat it anyway.)

Mi papá came home from work at different times every evening: sometimes at six, eight or nine o’clock. No matter what time he came home, his lunch box had never been opened. (Mi mamá was right.) As soon as mi papá walked in the door my siblings and I would push each other, trying to grab the lunch box. We would argue over who was going to get his uneaten lunch. I usually got the sandwich, and in my opinion it usually was the best part of the lunch. I can still remember its distinctive taste. It was always smashed, and the juices from the tomatoes and pickles dripped as I took a bite.

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