FATHER AUGUST
His hands are calloused, and he has deep lines on his face that go well with a Stetson and a bolo tie. He’s never sad, quite the opposite, but his mouth naturally turns down at the corners and his cheeks are pronounced, giving him a heavyhearted look. He smells like the sun. Oh, not sunshine, not like the springtime or a breezy day at the beach. No, he smells like the end of August when the sun has spent a season beating down and the earth just hardens up as if to say “Bring it on, because I’m not going anywhere.” It’s the kind of olfactory quality that comes from growing up in Guanajuato, Mexico, immigrating to the States, and a life spent working in the US steel mills of Pittsburg, California.
This is how I picture Rosalio Torres Luna, although I never met him. I only know the stories passed down to me through four generations. I know that he came to the United States in 1915 by way of El Paso, Texas. I know the colorful anecdotes my relatives are so eager to provide. What considerations must he have made before coming to the States? Did he make a list of pros and cons, counting the benefits on his fingers? Did he move the beads on an abacus to calculate what would be given to what would be gained? And I wonder if I’m anything like him. Although I don’t have his pigmentation, I do have a natural downward curve to my mouth that makes frowning so easy — a trait that my father and his father carry. They call this an atavistic quality. But do the wrinkles around the corners of my eyes come from him? Do I too smell like the end of August?
Rosalia named his son Teofilo, but this was difficult for English speakers, and they took to calling him Phillip. He made it to the ninth grade before he started working in the steel mill with his father. They tell me he grew to be a stern man with strong hands, but when I met Teofilo he was near eighty years old and had a gumball machine in his house — the type you might find outside a store with a twenty-five cent price tag. He always had lots of quarters.
As with many fathers, Teofilo wished to make his first son a junior; however, “Teofilo” doesn’t do as well on a job application or with bank loans, so he named his son Phillip Luna Jr., an English approximation. Only one last name was passed on, following American custom. He did these favors for his son with hope that he would go a little bit further, do just a little bit better in life.
There are many stories, but now I will tell a story from my birth.
No one was more excited to meet me than my grandmother Lola. She held me in her arms for the first time and said, “Look at those blue eyes!” While she had many grandchildren, I was her favorite, and she told everyone I was her only American grandson. It was meant to be her compliment to me. As a kid, I didn’t contemplate what it means to be biracial. It never seemed important. Perhaps it’s because I only speak the little bits of Spanish I learned in school. Perhaps it’s because my classmates never gave much thought to me beyond my looks. My father doesn’t speak Spanish either, but he looks every bit the part. He once told me his parents didn’t speak their native language at home because they didn’t want the kids to learn an accent, which might make life harder. They were doing their kids a favor.
I found that I more closely identified with my father’s side — a big family filled with many cousins, aunts, and uncles. Like most Hispanic families, we were loud and gathered often. On Christmas it was not a turkey or ham in the oven. No, it was bowls of masa, corn husks, and shredded beef seasoned with cilantro, onions, garlic, and peppers. What flavor!
I remember one holiday my grandmother brought me a rosary. It was handsome, deep red with a wooden cross. A thoughtful gift, but my parents sent me to a Christian Bible study, and I didn’t get much use from it. When Rosalio came to the States, was this what he imagined? Was this his American dream? Am I his American grandson?
On an abacus we slide beads left or right and count the sum we’ve gathered, but while we are counting our additions, the other side has diminished. The beads are in motion, solving an equation, always seeming to move left and right. As I watch the former wither, I worry what it means when no more beads remain. When my son was born, the world began to move faster. My family is spread out and gathering is more difficult. Many of my relatives are gone and I’ve realized how much I relied on them. Suddenly, traditions became important to me. I tried to make tamales at Christmas because I wanted to pass on the traditions I know. I had to watch YouTube videos to learn how to make them. Why don’t I know how to make these? Another favor from my family?
My son didn’t believe me when I told him we are part Mexican. He thought I was joking, so I pointed to my father and brother as evidence. We thumbed through photo albums full of people he’s never met. On his fifth birthday I bought a piñata. This confused my in-laws, but it was tradition, so it stayed. The kids tired quickly when they tried to pummel candy out of the papier-mâché Shrek. Eventually I cut it open and poured out the contents.
I tried to teach my son Spanish when he was young, the small amounts I learned in school. He was only slightly interested at the time, so I implored him. I told him this is history, his history, and it mattered. He listened to me intently, patiently, with a solemn look on his face. Don’t worry — he’s not upset, that’s just the shape of his mouth. I told him we are the descendants of immigrants, of dreamers that sacrificed so we could have a better life. I called him my Mexican American son. It was my compliment to him.
When my son was fourteen and starting high school, I knew he would have more opportunities than any before him. He can make his own path. When he’s choosing his school electives there are so many options: Art! Music! Marine biology! He’ll never have to work in a steel mill. He decided to learn a second language because it will make him more employable, and maybe he will travel. How smart! Maybe I’ll learn Spanish too so I can help him out. What a favor I could do for him!
He’s decided to take French.
When I feel the weight of an abacus bead in motion, small but somehow heavy, there’s a memory I think of. It’s faded and curled at the edges like an old photograph. Still, I know what it means. It’s the end of summer when my son is six, and I’ve taken him fishing for the first time. There’s a lake near our house that doesn’t have much to catch but somehow offers exactly what I need. A log breaks the water’s surface toward the center and a turtle uses it to sunbathe. It’s a beautiful place.
It’s late in the day and the sun descends the horizon, inching toward the lake — the sun and the lake look like two lovers moving in for a kiss. When they finally embrace, the water blushes a soft pink, with flickers of light like glitter spilled across its surface. Red wavelengths extend a long and colorful farewell in the sky — the ardent sun a glowing white that dissolves to a proud orange like the molten metal from a California steel mill, a gradual change to a thoughtful red like that of the idle rosary, and finally a moody purple that fades to a lovely blue, not unlike the eyes of a newborn baby. I can’t help but admire the beauty in nature. But I find myself instead looking down the bank at my son. He’s running up and down the waterline, testing out his new sneakers to make sure they’re faster than his old ones. They are. He’s certain. I know the sunset is beautiful, but it is no equal to the light of his face. His world is whatever he makes of it, and that’s a sum greater than all the beads on the abacus.
When I finally look back at the horizon, the sun is gone, taking the sunbathing turtle with it. All the natural beauty seems to have dissipated, and the lake’s once rosy-cheeked surface feels dark and pensive now. But I can still feel the heat on my skin. I can smell the dryness of the late summer air and sense the warmth that radiates from the earth permeating into the stillness of the evening. An echo is what remains. But that’s the way of things, because August has ended, and the season has changed, as seasons tend to do. | PL
PHILLIP LUNA IV IS FROM THE BAY AREA; ANTIOCH IS OF HISPANIC AND WHITE HERITAGE. WRITING IS PART OF HIS JOB AS EDITOR OF “THE ECHO,” EASTERN OREGON CORRECTIONAL INSTITUTION’S NEWSLETTER, BUT HE’S ALSO FOUND IT’S SOMETHING HE ENJOYS RECREATIONALLY.
