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One Pinto Bean
- Texas A&M University Press
- Chapter
- Additional Information
One Pinto Bean RAY GONZALEZ One pinto bean is all I have left from my stereotype, an image I gave up decades ago when I got tired of my brown shadow. The pinto bean is brown, too, and sits on my bookshelf. I had it glazed, wanting to preserve the last bean from my past so I could meditate upon it, now and then, staring at it when I missed the old days of stuffing myself with pots of frijoles, stacks of tortillas, and handfuls of hot jalapeno peppers. My pinto bean shines with a lacquered glow as it leans against a tiny wooden pedestal I made for it. If I get closer to the shelf and stare at the bean, it sometimes moves a fraction of an inch, until it resembles my bald head. I wish I had the words to describe how I feel when I see my bean is a miniature re-creation of myself. I want to deny this because I believe in the freedom to separate myself from my past, though my act of preserving my bean is something I could regret because the bean is shrinking, its brown skin wrinkling despite the lacquer I sprayed on it. It is turning dark and ugly and reminds me of the moles I have on my skin. I don’t want to see myself on the dots that mark my throat and arms and keep searching for my face in the pinto bean. I know the resemblance is there. I grab the bean off the shelf, hold it in my closed palm, and walk into the kitchen, wondering if the vegetable soup on the stove could use a touch of something I have not tasted in years. ♦ ♦ ♦ ...