In the Wrath of California

The heat is rising over the early morning. $1.50/lb and I need at least 25 lb today. Every berry I see I toss into the basket. Each one must be only a fraction of an ounce. I can do it, Mami. My back feels molded into a slump. Juanito peeks through at me from the other side of the bushes. He’s smiling with his Mayan eyes. “Why so happy?” I ask him. He looks at me and continues to work and smile as he moves away with a rustling. He’s humming a song; one that I know.

Moisture is condensing on my brow as the sun rapidly eats away the shade of the bushes. Juan’s singing is also fading away, melting in with all the other, more distant voices. Then there is only silence and a moving of leaves. I see them approach in the golf cart.

“You’re missing the ones on the bottom,” he greets me. He stands behind me and inspects. His Spanish is difficult to make out.

“You return and you get those.” He points as he glares in the direction of my face. Then he stomps back to the cart. The two men speak in English as I try my best to continue working normally. The man barks, “If your work does not improve, you will be fired.” He drives the cart up to where I’m working. “You know what we can do about you.” I crouch down. They don’t look back. That man has a wife with skin so pale it could never have seen the sun a day in its life.

I think of Mami, on the outskirts of the Distrito, jumping onto busses, selling bracelets and jewelry made by her and other women in the barrio. Living in a room of a tin and cinderblock building that growing up I felt so fortunate to have. And now I live in a country where all the windows have glass. I could never have imagined this in the cinder and shantytown, even when I'd gaze at the possibilities of life in the large statue of Guadelupe on the hill. I carefully move my arm around to pat the pocket containing the card with her image.

I can barely breathe for a moment. My back refuses to straighten. My skin is scorching and I pull off my shirt. In the stagnant dampness, I consider fanning myself with it but they’d catch me, so I continue to move sideways in a squat as fast as I can without missing a berry.

Francisco is in the air conditioning right now. I can almost feel the cold air. My brother is in the air-conditioning, with a pool, with ice cubes, with a shade umbrella over his lounge chair and wearing the most comfortable linens cocaine can buy. What makes him so much better than me? I shake the thought away.

For an instant I see stars in the sky. I gasp. The sweat is dripping down my back, sticking to my pants and legs. I continue picking from the bottom. Though the world looks black for a moment, I don’t dare sit down. My ears are ringing. I look around for a second. It’s only me and the sky and my long row in the berry farm. I came here for the possibilities, I remember. I came here to be free.

In the corner of my eye I spot many berries above me. I realize I must go back and get them. My eyes close. Sweat is pouring down my shoulder blades. Each breath is nearly a gasp. My back refuses to move. I think of Mami and my barrio and my brother, God save him. I have to keep going. I think of the life I want to have one day. I have to get up. I have to stand up.

A bead of sweat falls onto a berry and I watch it evaporate on the delicate skin. Another falls into the basket from my neck and another drops from my brow into a small patch. I imagine the berries in the market cooler and I smile as I rise. I bet they’ll taste salty.