Tag Archives: poverty

Growing Up George: Ch. 2 Cilantro Seeds

You ever get the feeling you’re capable of more than people give you credit for? It’s like I always surprised people that I could read and write.

And then there’s the opposite. People giving me too much credit because they expected a lot outta me. They expected me- little George from the Barrio- to grow up and become Cesar Chavez and then president and come back, repave the alleys and build a bridge to paradise. And I couldn’t even figure out who my dad was. Much less, college scholarships.

Not that I was even trying. Not for the scholarships, anyways.

My auto shop teacher knew a guy and I was going to start working there twelve, maybe sixteen hours per week. Help my aunt with the bills. Get a decent phone. Maybe buy my own ride. Eventually get a girlfriend. Girls didn’t want to ride bikes by that age. It’s like they grew up too fast and that killed part of the magic. But you couldn’t date a freshman cause then you knew eventually you’d break up cause you’d be 18 and she’d be like 15 or 16.

But if you had a nice ride, then you couldn’t lose. You’d get a girl your own age and if you really liked her you could get really down with her in the car. But then if it didn’t work out, eventually she’d go to college or move closer to the city and you wouldn’t even have to break her heart. That’s what the guys on the varsity team said.

I was going to try out for varsity soccer that year but I wanted the job more than the extracurricular credits.

I guess what I wanted was the girls. Or maybe just one girl.

Cindy Nuñez had moved to the other side of the neighborhood along with her seven brothers and sisters back when we had started middle school. She didn’t speak English back then but she didn’t have to say much to get to know her. It didn’t take her long to fit in or become popular because she was so sweet. Her straight long brown hair just barely covered her bare waistline when she’d wave at you and then turn around hurrying off somewhere. I had been studying her summer schedule and figured out she always went grocery shopping with her oldest sister on Wednesday mornings.

So the following Wednesday, I asked my aunt Matty if she needed anything from the store.

“I just went Monday.”

I was afraid she’d say something like that so I had drank half the milk and orange juice the night before, and poured the other half down the drain.

“Yeah but we’re outta milk.” I opened the fridge. “Looks like we’re outta o.j. too.”

“Already? Jeez Louise, are you training to become a wrestler? You’re already tall enough. Stop drinking so much milk.”

I was really only like four inches taller than Aunt Matty, which wasn’t saying much.

“I was thirsty.”

“Alright alright, that’s not how I meant it. Here, get me cilantro seeds.” Aunt Matty handed me a ten dollar bill.

“That’s alright, Tía. This one’s on me.” I had been weeding out my neighbor’s yard and had about twenty dollars on me. I reached for the car keys by the door.

“What are you gonna take the car for? It’ll fit fine on your bike.”

I clenched my mouth and looked up at the ceiling with my eyes closed. Took a deep sigh.

“I did some work on your car last night and want to see if it’s running good,” and I shot out the door.

“Mentiroso!” she yelled behind me, liar, and I heard one of her rubber chanclas that she wore hit the door, but I was already backing out of the driveway in a cloud of dirt.

I scanned the grocery store parking lot and saw Cindy’s sister’s Corolla there under a magnolia tree. Checked myself in the mirror. My hair was too long and bushy, beyond the help of gel. I slapped on my Pirate’s cap and glided inside. I had to extend my two minute trip inside to be long enough to bump into her.

Luckily, she was in line at the register reading tabloid headlines when I walked in. Everything else seemed to fade in her presence. Sounds became faint and echoed, like when you’re under water. She was wearing her hair in a bun and had a strappy red camisole on. If I said her name, she’d turn around and smile, and I’d have enough to live on for another week. But then she might expect me to say something back to her, and I wasn’t prepared for that.

She must have felt someone staring at her because she looked up and our eyes met. I felt the soles of my shoes melting into the floor. She waved.

“Hey George. Are you trying our for varsity this year? I just got an email saying the girls’ tryouts are tomorrow and Friday.”

“Uh. Yeah. Of course.”

Because, duh, the girls’ soccer players always went to the guys’ games and vice versa and Cindy had played defense the year before. How could I have forgotten that minor detail?

“Good luck!” she went on, “Hopefully I’ll see you around then.”

“Looking forward to it.” Well, that was stupid. What a loser thing to say. ‘Looking forward to it.’ The words resounded in my head for like the next forty-eight hours. Cindy had just giggled and held up a magazine that said someone important had broken up with someone less important. I shrugged and went on my way.

‘Looking forward to it.’ Man was that stupid.


Watered-Down Honey by Ave Valencia

Watered-Down Honey

His hands were like rain dripping over her desert body.
Rain water from a broken clay pitcher that had been glued together with honey.
Yes… That’s what it tasted like… Watered-down honey.

The full moon shone through the curtains. Everything did. There was hardly any point in having them. Non-conscientious shadows could be far more telling than conscientious lovers.

But Kaylee’s mother had insisted on hanging them when she helped her move across state to go to school. It was part of the arrangement. Just like she wasn’t supposed to have guys over, or she wasn’t supposed to be working a night job. Or like she was supposed to be having the life her mom never got to live because she’d forgotten to take the morning-after pill.

They were promises that stretched as far as a single mother’s savings can go. First there was no coffee. Then no eating out. Then she couldn’t even buy the clothes she needed. That’s when she met Junior.

Junior (who swore that was his real name) introduced her to city-life. He had no romantic motives- he was just “trying to play nice.” No one asked her for her fake-id when she was with him. And when she wasn’t, the image of him would creep up inside of her and fill this painful void of self-loath.

It was weird- the way he’d watch over her. There she’d be- dancing with his buddies. All the drinks were always on him. She never quite remembered what had happened the previous night. Her head would hurt til noon so she switched to evening classes.

Junior wasn’t suited for school. He had some sort of businesses to take care of. It was always hush hush when she’d ask about it. She didn’t know she was working for him til she told him she ought to get a job.

“What for?” he asked, as he washed his face at her sink one night. “Ain’t I paying you enough?”

…Was he joking? “I’m worth more than what I get,” she said, playing along.

“Oh yeah? Prove it.”

“How much you got on you?”

He opened up his wallet. $650 cash. That was enough to pay her rent and buy groceries. She laughed.
…But he didn’t feel like taking her out that night, nor the next.

Weeks passed. Kaylee’s mom had been trying to get a hold of her, but she’d just receive messages: “I’m OK. Having a great time. Love you.”
Then the messages stopped.

Now Kaylee no longer really needed to finish school to make a living. But that night as the moon shined through her curtain she heard her phone beep. As Junior did what he did best, she reached over and read the screen: “Kaylee please come home.”

She felt a tear stream down her face. She caught it with her tongue. That’s as sweet as her life would ever be: drops of watered-down honey.