Runners

Most immigrants are expected to return home—there’s an implicit promise of return attached to every departure.  This promise doesn’t seem to be implicit in exile.

In Acuitzeramo, I awaited my father’s return, since departure was never permanent. I grew anxious as October approached, I anticipated his arrival, his gifts, my reward for taking care of mom or feeding the goat. One year, I forget how old I was, he came early…sometime in August. I awoke one morning to find him outside, talking to my mom and my grandmother. I ran to him and asked for my reward. He pointed me to a box on the table. Inside, there was a pair of low-cut brown boots, with a zipper on the side. I didn’t know what to make of it. I must’ve been 8 or 9, and I loved to run around and climb rocks, chase the goat, play soccer….why the boots? He seemed particularly happy about them. I was just happy that he was happy, so I put them on. They felt uncomfortable and heavy. My mom gushed: “que bien…miralo!” My grandmother feigned shock, as if the boots made me taller or colored me green. My dad said he bought them in LA, that all the kids were wearing them. This was a particularly revealing moment for me: I questioned fashion for the first time, and the mass hysteria that goes with it. Why would anybody want to wear these ugly zipper-boots?

The next day my father took me with him to a nearby town, where his friends gathered for the horse races. They hung around a small storefront, drinking beer and talking about those still in el Norte and those in jail, about those who were caught by the migra and about those who had died far away from home. Then the conversation turned to me. They talked about my age, how big I was, how lean I looked…they said I looked “fast.” The store owner overheard this and said: “let’s race him with my boy…a case?” My father said yes, why not, a case was good. Suddenly, I was in a race with a younger, darker, barefooted boy and a case of beer was on the line. I told my dad that I couldn’t race the boy, since he looked faster than me and I was wearing those damn boots. He was laughing at the prospects of buying the storeowner a case of his own beer and he didn’t hear me. They put me on the starting line against every protest (and with the odds firmly against me). The storeowner’s son was ready. He had a stance! His feet were callous, hard, ready to run. I felt over-dressed, embarrassed, and stiff. Then, go! I’ve never been on stilts, but that’s how I imagine it feels like to run on ugly, brown, zipper-boots. My foot stared to slip out, and the zipper broke from my left boot; my foot went through the zipper, and then my boot came off; I limped across the finish line about what seemed like 18 hours after the barefooted kid. Everyone laughed. My father bought the case, and then drank it with the winner (the storeowner). I wished he’d stayed in California.

My wife wants to buy my son some boots, but I don’t know….