Papá Character Analysis

When the train stopped in Mexicali, Papa told us to get off. “We’re almost there,” he said, looking at me. We left the station. Papa carried our dark brown suitcase. We followed behind him until we reached a barbed wire fence. According to Papa, this was la frontera. He pointed out that across the
gray wire barricade was California, that famous place I had heard so much about. On both sides of the fence were armed guards dressed in green uniforms. Papa called them la migra, and explained that we had to cross the fence to the other side without being seen by them.

As usual, they left me alone in the car to take care of Trampita, my little brother, who was six months old. I hated being left by myself with him while they went off to pick cotton. As they walked further into the field, I climbed
onto the roof of the car, stood on tiptoes, and watched them until I could no longer tell them apart from the other pickers. Once I lost sight of them, I felt pain in my chest, that same pain I always felt whenever they left Trampita and me alone. Sobbing, I climbed into the car and wrapped my arms around Trampita, who slept in the back seat.

“You should be ashamed of yourself. We could be fired for this,” he said. “Besides, your job is to take care of Trampita. Is that clear?” he continued, placing both hands on his belt buckle.

“Si, Papa,” I answered timidly. I was hurt and confused.

When I saw Mama and Papa without Torito, I panicked. “Is he dead?” I cried out. […]

“No, he isn’t,” Mama snapped. “God won’t let him. You’ll see,” she added in a harsh tone. Her face was flushed and her dark eyes were full of tears. I was surprised and puzzled. Why would she be angry at me?

Searching for words to tell Mama how I felt, I looked up at her. Her eyes were full of tears. Papa, who was sitting next to her on the mattress, lifted its corner and pulled out from underneath the white embroidered handkerchief. He tenderly handed it to Mama, saying, “Feliz Navidad, vieja.”

[Papa] had been in a terrible mood the last few days because he was not sure where we would work now that the grape season was almost over. Covering his ears with his hands, he bolted to the corner of the garage, grabbed the broom, and swung with all his might at my friend who was perched on the wire. Red, green, and yellow feathers scattered everywhere. El Perico hit the dirt floor like a wet rag. Instantly Roberto, Mama, and I started wailing. My
father shouted at all of us to stop.

The pounding of the rain on the roof woke me several times during the night. Every time I opened my eyes, I saw the burning tip of Papa’s cigarette glowing in the dark; other times I heard the rattle of his aspirin bottle. I did not mind the rain because it meant I could sleep in the next morning. The
cotton would be too wet to pick. Because we got paid three cents a pound, most ranchers did not let us pick cotton when it was wet.

I could not go on. Frustrated and disappointed, I walked over to Papa. He straightened up and looked down at me. His eyes were red and watery from the cold. Before I said anything, he looked at Roberto, who bravely kept on picking, and told me to go over to the fire. I knew then I had not yet earned my own cotton sack.

As we drove home Papa did not say a word. With both hands on the wheel, he stared at the dirt road. My older brother, Roberto, was also silent. He leaned his head back and closed his eyes. […]

Yes, it was that time of year. When I opened the front door to the shack, I stopped. Everything we owned was neatly packed in cardboard boxes. Suddenly I felt even more the weight of hours, days, weeks, and months of work. I sat down on a box.

The rest of the month I spent my lunch hours working on English with Mr. Lema, my best friend at school.

One Friday during lunch hour Mr. Lema asked me to take a walk with him to the music room. “Do you like music?” he asked me as we entered the building. “Yes, I like corridos,” I answered. He then picked up a trumpet, blew on it, and handed it to me. The sound gave me goose bumps. […] I had heard it in many corridos. “How would you like to learn how to play it?” he asked. He must have read my face because before I could answer, he added: “I’ll teach you how to play it during our lunch hours.”

That day I could hardly wait to tell Papa and Mama the great news […] but when I opened the door to our shack, I saw that everything we owned was neatly packed in cardboard boxes.

“Mr. Sims offered me the janitorial job at Main Street School,” [Roberto] answered, grinning from ear to ear.

“It’s a year-round job,” Mama said, looking at Papa.

Being careful with his back, Papa stood up slowly and hugged her gently. He then turned to Roberto and said, “Education pays off, mi’jo. I am proud of you. Too bad your Mama and I didn’t have the opportunity to go to school.”

“But you’ve taught us a lot, Papa,” I answered. I had not seen Papa that happy for weeks.

When the train stopped in Mexicali, Papa told us to get off. “We’re almost there,” he said, looking at me. We left the station. Papa carried our dark brown suitcase. We followed behind him until we reached a barbed wire fence. According to Papa, this was la frontera. He pointed out that across the
gray wire barricade was California, that famous place I had heard so much about. On both sides of the fence were armed guards dressed in green uniforms. Papa called them la migra, and explained that we had to cross the fence to the other side without being seen by them.

As usual, they left me alone in the car to take care of Trampita, my little brother, who was six months old. I hated being left by myself with him while they went off to pick cotton. As they walked further into the field, I climbed
onto the roof of the car, stood on tiptoes, and watched them until I could no longer tell them apart from the other pickers. Once I lost sight of them, I felt pain in my chest, that same pain I always felt whenever they left Trampita and me alone. Sobbing, I climbed into the car and wrapped my arms around Trampita, who slept in the back seat.

“You should be ashamed of yourself. We could be fired for this,” he said. “Besides, your job is to take care of Trampita. Is that clear?” he continued, placing both hands on his belt buckle.

“Si, Papa,” I answered timidly. I was hurt and confused.

When I saw Mama and Papa without Torito, I panicked. “Is he dead?” I cried out. […]

“No, he isn’t,” Mama snapped. “God won’t let him. You’ll see,” she added in a harsh tone. Her face was flushed and her dark eyes were full of tears. I was surprised and puzzled. Why would she be angry at me?

Searching for words to tell Mama how I felt, I looked up at her. Her eyes were full of tears. Papa, who was sitting next to her on the mattress, lifted its corner and pulled out from underneath the white embroidered handkerchief. He tenderly handed it to Mama, saying, “Feliz Navidad, vieja.”

[Papa] had been in a terrible mood the last few days because he was not sure where we would work now that the grape season was almost over. Covering his ears with his hands, he bolted to the corner of the garage, grabbed the broom, and swung with all his might at my friend who was perched on the wire. Red, green, and yellow feathers scattered everywhere. El Perico hit the dirt floor like a wet rag. Instantly Roberto, Mama, and I started wailing. My
father shouted at all of us to stop.

The pounding of the rain on the roof woke me several times during the night. Every time I opened my eyes, I saw the burning tip of Papa’s cigarette glowing in the dark; other times I heard the rattle of his aspirin bottle. I did not mind the rain because it meant I could sleep in the next morning. The
cotton would be too wet to pick. Because we got paid three cents a pound, most ranchers did not let us pick cotton when it was wet.

I could not go on. Frustrated and disappointed, I walked over to Papa. He straightened up and looked down at me. His eyes were red and watery from the cold. Before I said anything, he looked at Roberto, who bravely kept on picking, and told me to go over to the fire. I knew then I had not yet earned my own cotton sack.

As we drove home Papa did not say a word. With both hands on the wheel, he stared at the dirt road. My older brother, Roberto, was also silent. He leaned his head back and closed his eyes. […]

Yes, it was that time of year. When I opened the front door to the shack, I stopped. Everything we owned was neatly packed in cardboard boxes. Suddenly I felt even more the weight of hours, days, weeks, and months of work. I sat down on a box.

The rest of the month I spent my lunch hours working on English with Mr. Lema, my best friend at school.

One Friday during lunch hour Mr. Lema asked me to take a walk with him to the music room. “Do you like music?” he asked me as we entered the building. “Yes, I like corridos,” I answered. He then picked up a trumpet, blew on it, and handed it to me. The sound gave me goose bumps. […] I had heard it in many corridos. “How would you like to learn how to play it?” he asked. He must have read my face because before I could answer, he added: “I’ll teach you how to play it during our lunch hours.”

That day I could hardly wait to tell Papa and Mama the great news […] but when I opened the door to our shack, I saw that everything we owned was neatly packed in cardboard boxes.

“Mr. Sims offered me the janitorial job at Main Street School,” [Roberto] answered, grinning from ear to ear.

“It’s a year-round job,” Mama said, looking at Papa.

Being careful with his back, Papa stood up slowly and hugged her gently. He then turned to Roberto and said, “Education pays off, mi’jo. I am proud of you. Too bad your Mama and I didn’t have the opportunity to go to school.”

“But you’ve taught us a lot, Papa,” I answered. I had not seen Papa that happy for weeks.