In a Country I Do Not Belong In

by Lizette Ramirez

In the summer of 1989, Cayetano Morales wandered the aisle of a local supermarket, in search of  a packet of corn tortillas; he would be using the few dollars he made from picking grapes in the  fields that Thursday afternoon. He roamed the store with a cart that became difficult to push and  steer, so he gathered his sole item and continued. Cayetano could not read English, even less  speak it; so, he analyzed the images on the boxes and cans that contained food on the shelves. He  wanted to be certain that the food he bought was going to be eaten, or earning those few dollars  under the scorching sun would have been made in vain.  

He placed the packet of tortillas under his arm, while his tired eyes scanned the stocked shelves.  One arm searching for his next meal, the other holding onto the edge of his loose, overused and  mud-stained jeans. As he waited in the checkout line, his eyes slowly closed, then opened; he  yawned, then became distracted. Cayetano noticed a box with an image of a pink piece of cake,  which had been left behind in an abandoned cart. He analyzed it, and chuckled – he wondered  about the taste of a pink cake. So, he placed it onto the counter, along with the tortillas; it came  to a total of $5.31. Cayetano placed his wrinkled one-dollar bills onto the counter, slowly  counting. With his broken English, he turned and apologized to the impatient customers that let out their frustration in exaggerated sighs and eye rolls. He cupped his hand like a beggar,  patiently waiting for his change, but he noticed a disgusted glare from the cashier and left in  humiliation.  

By foot, Cayetano made it back to the place he found refuge in – a garage overcrowded with  illegal immigrants, just like him. By the look of their skin, it was clear that they were not from  the United States. They were often told that, specifically by the blue-eyed white man, whose name they could not pronounce, and who owned the property that Cayetano and the rest of the  immigrants lived in.  

As Cayetano stepped foot inside, he noticed the lonely sound of a television speaking complete  gibberish in the distance; he now stood in an empty garage. His fear arose as he wondered where  the rest of the world he knew and felt secured by had gone. Cayetano caught a glimpse of an  envelope, and then upon a few more, which were scattered onto the concrete floor; his eyes then  rested on the one that provided his full name. With his teeth, he ripped it open, as it revealed  a letter, which read that he would be sent away to train for a war – a war he had heard truly little  about.  

The opening sound of a beer can startled him – he turned his head to a man, named Luis, who sat  on a green milk crate, in front of the television, staring blankly into it – news of the war. And, at  last, Cayetano made the connections: the immigrants’ disappearance was due to the fear of being  taken away to fight in some war – and perhaps die for a country they did not belong  in. Cayetano understood, so he was to do the same. He was to catch a Greyhound  bus and return to Mexico the next day. He, like the rest of the immigrants, was not brave enough to risk his life for a country he simply did not belong in. He planned to cross the border again when the issue was settled.  

Cayetano turned on a lamp, which flickered, but to him, it was better than no light at all; and sat  on a wooden  chair, worrying about going back home, which made his appetite slowly decrease.  Nonetheless, he desired sweetness, for all the hardships he went through, and all that he would  encounter. Cayetano opened the box with the image of a pink piece of cake, which revealed only  flour, and not an actual piece of cake.

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