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MATEO from the island of Cuba
JOB HUNT
Fear is a fierce wind
that sends me reeling
down to the seashore,
where I beg for work,
any work at all,
any escape
to carry me far
from my father’s
furious fists.
Sailor.
Fisherman.
Lobster trapper.
I’m willing to take any job
that floats me away
from home.
I am not an ordinary war orphan.
Papi is alive, but the family part
of his mind
is deeply wounded.
He drinks so much rum
that he believes I am
his enemy—a Spaniard
from the country
that lost the war
and left so many
of its soldiers
behind.
Spanish veterans
flock the seashore, begging
for the same jobs that lure me.
I’m only fourteen, but I’m strong
for a starving boy.
So I shove and curse
along with the crowd
of muscular men, all of us
equally eager to reach
a fast-talking americano
Panamá Canal recruiter
who promises food, houses,
and money,
so much money . . .
The recruiter shouts and pounds
his fists in the air.
His foreign accent
makes the words sound powerful
as he describes a wild jungle
where men who are hired
will dig the Eighth Wonder
of the World.
He says the canal is a challenge
worthy of Hercules,
a task for giants,
not ordinary men,
but when he unrolls a map,
Panamá is barely
a sliver.
How can such a narrow
bridge of land
be so important?
After the confusing map,
there are pamphlets with pictures
of tidy houses, the orderly dining rooms
offering comforting details
that catch my eye.
Lacy curtains and tablecloths,
flowers in vases,
plates heaped with food . . .
So much food.
Barriga llena, corazón contento.
Full belly, happy heart.
That’s what Mami used to say,
before cholera claimed
her happiness
and mine.
With the flair of a magician,
the recruiter tosses two sun-shiny coins
up and down in his hand,
until the gold
American dollars
ring out like church bells
or kettledrums in a parade.
Those musical coins lure me
deeper into the crowd of pushing,
rushing, desperate, job-hungry strangers,
but as soon as I reach for the recruiter’s
paper and pen, ready to sign my name
on a contract, the blond man glares
at my green eyes, brown face,
and curly hair, as if struggling
to figure out who I am.
No cubanos, he shouts. No islanders,
just pure Spanish,
semi-blanco, semi-white—
European. Civilized.
His words make no sense.
Isn’t semi-white the same
as semi-dark?
So I start telling lies.
I let my skin fib.
I point out that my father
is blondish and my mother
was the tan of toasted wheat,
her hair long and silky,
her eyes as blue-green
as the sea,
just like mine.
Then I invent an imaginary village
in Spain, for my birthplace,
and I give my age
as twenty,
and I show off
my muscles,
pretending to feel
brave . . .
By the time I board
a dragon-smoky
Panamá Craze steamship,
I’ve already told so many lies
that my conscience feels
as hollow
as my belly.
