He would run barefoot down
Paisano St. toward La Isla where the grey cinderblock houses didn't
have running water but alma y corazon were plentiful. The river surrounded
his neighborhood on three sides, just like a big American hug, welcoming
and promising. There, mama would be making tortillas by the glare
of a bare lightbulb. The side to side slap of the dough would continue
to be a welcome rhythm of childhood memory. A few years later the
new projects in the second barrio seemed like a dream, residents could
borrow the lawn mower once a week! Here the sidewalks were not broken,
there was a real lawn and street lights. The best part of course was
that Marcelino, his best friend, lived down the hall. Time and again
a new roof would signal a new start. Until the American dream became
a reality in the suburbs; his very own lawnmower now occupied the
other spot in the two car garage. But no matter where he ever was,
the barrio, in the barracks, or on Main Street, it was never home
until the tortillas came off the flame, hot, crispy and familiar.