Fragments of Hilcias and Taki’s Notebook
Chapter One
Elias looked up from the book in his lap as the Greyhound bus squeaked to a stop at the Greenville station.
The old woman next to him fell asleep on the trip up from Charleston and leaned her head on his shoulder.
Her face was as wrinkled as the bark of an ancient magnolia tree, and was colored the same beautiful brown as it’s trunk and branches.
She breathed in, and the air made a soft, whistling sound through her nose.
She breathed out, and it made a gentle, flapping sound through her lips.
“Life is a symphony,” he chuckled to himself, “Of whistles and kazoos.”
“Ma’am,” he whispered.
She didn’t move.
She kept right on sleeping and snoring.
“Ma’am."
Still only whistles and kazoos.
“Ma’am."
This time he reached out and patted her weathered hand.
She opened her tired, brown eyes and smiled a small smile at him.
“Thanks for a lettin’ me use yo shoulda as my pilla,” she said with a gravelly voice.
“First time I woked up beside a man in a long time.
Hope my snorin’ didn’t bother you none,” she giggled.
“No ma’am,” he said with a giggle of his own, “It was music to my ears.”
His knees and back snapped and popped as he stood up slowly and smoothed out the wrinkles in his pants and t-shirt.
“My goodness,” said the old woman, “You make music, too.”
He placed his hand gently on her bony shoulder.
“We could start a band called The Human Experience,” he laughed.
“People would come from all over to hear us whistle, flap, snap and pop.
What do you think?”
“Yep, they’d pay us a bundle of money to hear that.”
He pulled on his jacket and waved his hand to her.
“Goodbye, my friend,” he said.
“Thanks for the song.”
She waved back.
“Thank you,” she said.
“And do me a favor.
Lean on down here and let me tell you som'pin."
He leaned down and was surprised as she kissed him on his forehead with a light, tender kiss.
“That’s the kiss of a guardian angel,” she whispered.
“Listen to life, and do not be afraid.”
Chapter Two
He stepped off the bus and onto the street.
Small groups of people were standing around the bus, waiting to welcome their travelers open arms an “I’m so glad you’re here!"
No one was waiting for him.
“Oh well,” he thought, “I might not be welcomed with a kiss, but I was sent out with one.
And by a guardian angel at that.”
The early sun was bright in his eyes and made him squint to see the people and buildings around him.
A hint of warmth was beginning to ease the chill of the upstate morning.
He put two quarters into the slot of a newspaper rack beside the bus station and took out a copy of The Greenville News.
The headline of the day read “Governor Seeks To Keep Sanctuary Cities Out Of South Carolina.”
He walked a block toward Main Street and found a small diner that served breakfast in the morning and meat and three vegetable plates in the afternoon.
A little bell rang as he opened the glass door and stepped inside.
“Buenos dias,” said a waitress.
“Welcome to the Scrambled Egg.
My name’s Gabby and today’s my third anniversary of workin’ here.
I love it and I’ll be servin’ you today.”
“Buenos dias, Gabby,” he said.
He reached out to shake her hand and take a menu from her.
“My name's Elias.
Happy Anniversary!”
“¡Gracias!
Where you comin’ from?”
“Up from Charleston.
I rode through the night on a Greyhound bus.”
“Charleston, huh?
I love the low country.
There’s nothin’ like wakin’ up early, just before sunrise, and takin’ a walk on the beach.
Goodness.
I bet you didn’t get much sleep on that bus.
Come on over and have a seat at this table by the window. It’s the best seat in the house.”
“Muchas gracias.”
“What can I get for you?”
“Well, I could use a hot cup of coffee and a stack of pancakes.”
“Then you’ve come to the right place.
I’ll be right back with your coffee.”
He took out his notebook and pen and wrote as he read the article in the newspaper.
WHO
Governor of South Carolina
WHAT
Speech endorsing a bill that a state legislator from Greenviile intends to introduce that would cut off state funding for three years for any town or city that becomes a sanctuary city.*
Currently, there are no sanctuary cities in South Carolina.
A graduate student at Clemson University, who is working on a thesis examining teachers' attitudes and awareness about the rights of immigrant students, thinks the governor's comments are a 'political ploy,' thinks the state legislator's bill will make immigrants less likely to report crimes or cooperate with law enforcement officials, thinks the bill could increase the risk of 'families being ripped apart' if an undocumented immigrant is arrested for a minor offense and is deported.
*A sanctuary city (San Francisco, for example) does not share the immigration status of a person charged with a crime with federal, state or local officials.
WHEN
October 23, 2017
WHERE
Greenville County Courthouse
WHY
The president wants to build a wall between the United States and Mexico to keep undocumented immigrants out of the U.S.
The governor endorsed the bill because he is afraid "sanctuary cities will take root in our state."
He doesn't want any S.C. town or city to take part in "lawlessness."
The president attended a fundraiser for the governor the week before the speech.
*I do not call people "illegal" or "aliens." I say "undocumented" and " immigrants."
Gabby came back with the coffee.
“I don’t mean to interrupt what you’re doin', but your coffee’s here.”
There was a deep kindness in her brown eyes.
“Hmm,” she noted.
“You’re writing with a pen in a notebook. Don’t see that much anymore.”
“I’m old fashioned, I guess.
I still like to see the words I write on a page.
Helps me see that I’m moving from one place to another and getting somewhere.”
“If you don’t mind me askin’, what’re you writin’?”
“I don’t mind you asking at all.
I’m working on a story for my newspaper, The South Carolina Defender.
I’m a journalist.”
“Oh yeah?
What’s your story about?”
“It’s about a family I met in Charleston, a migrant family picking peaches and tomatoes on a farm on John's Island.
When I met them, they were living in a gutted out school bus behind the lower 40 acres of the farm.
There's an abuelo, a mamí and a 10 year old niño.
The boy hasn't spoken a word in his life.
He communicates by whistling.
I wrote a series of articles about them last summer so our readers might walk a mile in their shoes.
Or flip flops, as it were.
Chapter Three
Gabby took the bus home to her apartment.
“Cómo estás, Luisa?” she asked the small woman in the window seat as she sat down beside her.
“Bien,” Luisa answered.
“Un poco cansado.
I cleaned a lot of rooms at the motel today.
¿Y tu?”
“Si, bien.
A little tired, too.
I scrambled a lot of eggs at the Scrambled Egg.
I can’t wait to put my feet up and rest them.
What you doing this evening?”
“I’m going to cook for my family and take my daughter to help me clean the doctor’s office.
Then I’ll rest.”
Gabby put her arm around Luisa’s shoulder and hugged her.
“Eres una buena mujer,” she said.
I’m glad you’re my friend.
“Y tu, mi Amiga. Y tu.”
Gabby got off the bus in front of her apartment on the west side of the city.
She lived on the poor side of town.
She and her neighbors didn’t have much money, but they did have a lot of kindness for each other.
"‘Sup Gabby. How you doin’?” asked Bryant, who everyone called Big B.
He had just come home from his job as a mechanic at the auto shop.
“Hola, Big B.
Not much.
Just glad to be home.
How was your day?”
“It was all good.
The squeaky wheel got the grease, as they say.
Today and ev’ry day.”
“One of these days, I’m gonna buy me a car and the only person I’m gonna let work on it is you.”
“Deal!
If you need anything, let me know, okay?”
“Sure thing!
Same here.”
“You could come over and cook up some steak and eggs for me, you know.”
“Ugh, anything except that.
I’ve cooked enough steak and eggs today...and ev’ry day!”
“Bet.
I’m jus’ kiddin’ wit’ cha.
Night Gabby.
Be safe.”
“Night B.
You be safe, too.”
She took her key out of her pocket and opened the door to her apartment.
It was one room.
There was a holey sofa that pulled out into a bed with a small table and a lamp beside it.
Three books, The House on Mango Street, The Old Man and the Sea and Poems for a Brown Eyed Girl, were on a bookshelf made out of a cut board and two concrete blocks against the wall.
An ancient transistor radio was in the corner.
A painting by Jasper Johns of three American Flags, one on top of the other, smallest to largest, was on the wall.
It was a gift to her from one of her regular customers at The Scrambled Egg.
The room was simple and beautiful, like her.
She picked up the small book of poems, turned on the lamp, sat down on the sofa, stretched her legs out in front of her.
She opened the book to the poem An Ode to a Migrant Worker's Feet.
She read,
feet
are
calloused
and so cracked
like rocks in plowed ground
she walks over the land barefooted
as her abuelo turns the earth with donkey and plow
she has the feet of her abuelo, for she walks beside him down the long row of beans
her abuelo walks down the rows until his feet are broken and bent by genuflecting to land or the land owner
when her feet are in the soil, it is as if they are the land, as if they hold the secrets of the earth, the mystery of seed, dirt, water
becoming a bean in a pod, a kernel on an ear of corn, a red tomato
her heart is in her feet, in the land, the mystery
feet speak, "Estoy aquí," "I'm here"
feet are signs to us
"I'm human"
"I'm
here"
“Estoy aquí,” she whispered to the world.
“I'm here.”
- Trevor Scott Barton, stories for a brown eyed girl, 2020
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