Remembering My Life in Mexico Bryant Rodriguez
Late night.
Black hair and huaraches everywhere.
In our hands: a hot mug of chocolate with a concha. We drank in the cool darkness; it was quiet because the stray dogs bark less at night. We lacked electricity, lacked modernity, lacked nothing.
We drank like my fathers and mothers, sipping chocolate in wood free homes—the packed, dry earth littered with sweet crumbs. The chickens would wake in the mornings and eat them. In the evenings, we dropped our quehaceres and laughed until the chocolate was over.
Mi familia sacrificed their backs, their bones, and their health so their son could wear cardigans and black-rimmed glasses, so their son could sit in coffee shops late at night typing on a MacBook Pro.
17
