Mexicanos in Oregon: Their Stories, Their Lives

Testimonio by Ricardo Larios

237 THEIR STORIES, THEIR LIVES Testimonio by Ricardo Larios This testimonio is the product of an essay commissioned by the authors for a book on 1.5 and second generation immigrants. Ricardo had just recently graduated from Oregon State University when he wrote the piece and was studying for his Masters degree at Willamette University in Salem, where he currently is a public school teacher. The essay appears as written by Ricardo. I sit here typing. At last count, my best words per minute was thirty-four. I can even type without looking at the keyboard. I glance at my hands: they are a walnut color on the backside and chalk white on the other. They are soft with no visible blemishes. They tell the story of another generation, the transition my parents have always dreamed of. My father, Cipriano, sometimes known as “Sip” in English-speaking circles, comes from a different place, a different time. His hands have not had the same experience as mine. If you were to shake his hands, you would immediately detect the sandpaper quality of his palms. From a distance, his fists reveal a rock-like appearance with ridges cut long ago into the flesh. On his right hand, the tip of his middle finger resembles an awkward seven. A table saw and my father’s middle finger met for a brief and painful moment; bone, cartilage, and skin were no match for the 300 rpm blade. There was no money for doctors, and I imagine his pride prevented from visiting the médico as well. “Sip’s” inflexible and determined demeanor matches the description of his caramel-colored hands that I imagine were once soft and tender like mine. They starkly contrast with the smoke black remote as he flips through his sixty-five-plus channels of cable on his thirty-two-inch color TV. With the expansion of media, through networks like Univision, Telemundo, and now Telefutura there is no shortage of visual connection to the homeland. The word homeland conjures a metaphorical womb that engendered, cared for, and colored the existence of Cipriano Larios. However, my existence would not be possible without the literal womb of my mother, Socorro, once mispronounced as Soraco by a secretary calling to remind my mother of a pending dentist appointment. At her panadería, she is simply known as Doña Coco. A survey of her hands reveals a honey glaze pigment. Her nails are expertly taken care of by the Korean nail technicians at Nails Now, whenever her busy schedule permits. On special occasions, fancy 238 Mexicanos in Oregon Testimonio: Ricardo Larios jewelry adorns her fingers and wrists. My mother’s grasp is visionary. Her palms are soft but firm. They weren’t always like this, however. When she opened her bakery, the seventeen-hour shifts took a toll on her hands. The skin of her hands looked like wrinkled silk from washing so many dishes. Her nail polish was spotty at best. There was no room for jewelry because there were neither special occasions nor the financial ability to obtain them. Underneath the hardened epidermis stood the strength to steer an entire family, a business, and a king-like husband. It is this union of hands, in marriage, in faith, that allow me to sit here and type, the comfort to sit here and type. Twelve years ago a computer in the Larios household would only exist in mail-order catalogs. Twenty-five years ago the Larios household consisted of a single-bedroom house. The front door was the only entrance and exit to the humble home. My grandmother, Chuy, tells me with her root-shaped hands that the floor was cement with a light blue hue. The walls were brick, adorned only with calendars from local businesses and religious icons. It only had one bedroom. The living room and the kitchen were separated by a makeshift wall made out of a curtain strung on a wire. In the far edge, as far away as possible, stood an outhouse made of cardboard and scraps of wood. To wash clothes or the dishes, my family, just like everybody else, relied on a pila, a rectangular-shaped open water-storage tank. Running water was and is a luxury in this little pueblo. Conservation is key as the water arrives every third day. Built right into the cement structure is a washboard. Many hands have gone down this path, washing clothes, washing babies, and washing dishes...