Life and thoughts while living "undocumented" in America
Tuesday, April 17, 2012
Working Class Tacos
I had a moment of serendipity eating tacos for dinner tonight. Standing there, stuffing my face and sipping on my horchata, I found myself in a familiar scene. I've had my fair share of tacos, but as I saw a señor walk up and order six, I couldn't help remember a time when I was watching my father do the same. Still in his work clothes, hair a mess, grease on his hands and clothes. That my was my father.
In that little moment I thought about all the nights and occasions when tacos was our dinner after a days work. It didn't matter that we smelled or looked like we just crawled from underneath a car, but no one there at the stand cared really. And for all the issues and problems I have with my father, we never did go hungry or not have a roof on top of our heads. Things were never easy and we often found ourselves in corners, but he made it happen.