A Very Soft Coffin

Changa discovered he has diabetes when he became very intoxicated with his friends one night and had to be taken to the hospital.  Since then, he has been told about his condition and what he must do in regards to food and diet to control it.  I did not know him when it he first became aware of it.  I do not know exactly what the medical staff he has seen has told him, but I do know that there are other Mexican employees with the sickness who have tried to explain to him that many of the things he chooses to eat are not good for him.  Wh I found out about the diabetes because he was very down one day and began talking of death and returning to Mexico to die.  Unknown to me at the time,  had been drinking with his friends and again had go to the hospital because of the amount of sugar in his blood. I assume at the hospital he was again warned about what would happen to him if he continued to disregard his sugar intake.  There were doctor appointments that followed and he told me about how he had too much sugar in his blood.  Afterward,  I would see him drinking Coca Cola, eating whole fried chickens from the gas station or wolfing down two Hostess cupcakes.  I would go up to him in the break room, take the evil items he was ingesting and try to explain to him how he was making himself sick.  I would show him ingredient the ingredient lists (he can barely read Spanish, let alone any English), show him the where the diet sodas were at thecompany soda machine and print out in Spanish explanations of the types of foods diabetics should avoid.  At first, he seemed to follow what I said, and I felt like I had shown him the right path; I felt helpful.   But after time, I would catch him once again with items in his lunch bag that were inappropriate.   I tried going  through his lunch bag to make sure that everything in it was healthy, like some kind of food officer.  Eventually, I began to feel like a nag, his mother, an annoyance.  Like his other friends at the bakery, I had decided enough was enough and that it wasn't that he didn't understand, it was that he didn't believe it or that he didn't care.  He asked me about cemeteries in this country, how people are buried and how much it costs.  I explained to him about the cost of a plot, a casket, a vault (law in Minnesota) and headstones.  He told me that in his village in Mexico, the plot in the cemetery is free and that the cost is very little to bury someone.  It is big business here, often, tens of thousands of dollars are spent making the departed comfortable in their fine casket and sealed vault.  Whenever Changa is feeling ill, he begins talking of going back home.  He wants to be in the village plot, a soft plush coffin, near his family.

The Heat

Today was the hottest working day I can recall.  The high outside was 95 F, but inside the bakery, with all of the ovens going, it was oppressive.  There was sweat dripping off the faces of the bakers.  Changa, my assistant, was very crabby.  He laughed very few times and seemed annoyed at all of the tasks he needed to do, yet if he was not making pastry, he would have had to work on bread.  There was nothing to be done to cheer him up.  We did spend some time in the cooler as some of the pastries could not take the heat, so we brought them in the cooler to finish.  I also had him do some work packing cookies in the office.  This seemed to annoy the office manager, who is racist towards the Mexicans, but I did not care.  Bill sits in the air-conditioned office all day, staring at a computer screen.  He does not have to work in the stifling heat, lift 50 pound bags of flour, take hot pans out of 400 degree F ovens, so I do not care if he is put off.

There is something intimate about sharing these bewildering work conditions.  The faces we make at each other, the weary smiles.  It brings us closer.  It makes us one.

Ixtlico El Grande Calls

Emilio (Changa), my pastry assistant, has been talking seriously of returning to Mexico.  If he returns, I will miss him.  When I first asked him if he was interested in working with me, in learning pastry, I was unsure of what his answer would be.  Like the other Mexicans, other than a few questions here and there, he did not talk to me.  It was possible he would see it as an insult to work under a woman.  Now, I feel we are friends.  I have been to his home and he to mine, we gone shopping together and shared food.  He has invited me to visit him in Ixtlico El Grande and stay as long as I like.

Yesterday, he asked me why the people here (in the USA) work so hard, so many hours, while in Mexico, life is easier.  This is a question I cannot answer for him fully, and the language barrier makes it even more difficult.  I told him that Mexico is a poor country, where there are so few jobs, the people must leave their homes and come the the USA to find work and good wages.  I told him that the Mexicans who work here send a huge amount of money to Mexico and that if they didn't send this money, Mexico would be even
poorer.  I also told him that his country has huge problems with drug cartels and corruption.  All of this he agreed to.  Yet, I believe he will return anyway.  As illegal border crossing seems very dangerous these days,  he and I have discussed how hard it would be for him to come back, that if he leaves, it will be for good, or a very long time.  He has considered all of this.

To be home, with people who speak his language, accept him and know him, to feel a part of the world surrounding him again after 15 years here; this is what matters now.

Zapatos con Dedos/ The Vibram Five Finger Shoes

Changa had seen one of the college students who works selling the bakery bread and pastries at the farmer's market, wearing Vibram's Five Finger shoes.  The student had come up to the pastry work table to talk to me about how the market sales were going. While we were talking, Changa seemed fascinated by the toe defining shoes; he couldn't take his eyes off of them.  I jokingly asked him if he wanted to buy a pair.  He said he did, which surprised me.  Changa sends most of his money to Mexico to support his father.  Changa shares a 70's era townhouse with 4 other people from his Guerrero village; he spends $200 a month on rent, does not own any type of motorized vehicle and seems to spend his spare time watching television, eating and sleeping.  His clothing is simple and plain.  He spends very little money on himself or on life's little luxuries.  If he wanted to spend $100 on a pair of toe shoes, I assumed he must really want them.

We had to go to REI, an outdoor sports store for the shoes.  I picked Changa up at his house, but I knew I could not go in if he offered, as I would not get out again for what could be hours.  He and his housemates are very hospitable.  They will have me watch television novelas, offer me food and things to drink.  Another time, I would be happy to, but on this Saturday, I only had time to take him for the shoes and return home.  He, of course, asked me to come in, but I told him no, another time.

He seemed lost at REI.  It is a large store full of sports gear, sports clothing and Midwestern people of European descent all speaking English.  The shoes are in the very back of the store.  There were 7 or 8 models of the Five Finger shoes.  He chose a pair geared for runners (no way), with laces.  I asked the sales person for his size, as he cannot speak English.  He had trouble getting his toes into the right places.  I felt the toes on the first attempt; there was a toe compartment without a toe, and one that had two.  We laughed.  He eventually got his toes in the right places, but his feet are wide; they seemed stuffed into the shoe.  We asked for larger size, and after a little easier time getting them on his feet, he walked around (after me insisting) and then shook his head affirmatively.  At the cashier, he handed over a $100 bill and received a nickel in change.

I haven't asked him yet if he likes them.  I haven't seen him wear them to work.  I am sure the other Mexicans would roast him for it, but I would like to see this act of individuality once before he returns to Mexico.

Wenceslao

Wencelslaos' nick name is Gallina, chicken.  He is thin and wiry, with a shaved head and has a tattoo of Jesus Christ's sorrowful face with a crown of thorns on his head, and a tear falling from his eye, on his left arm.  Gallina has an eye for women.  He is on Facebook with an assumed name.  When he recently friend requested me, I looked  over his "friends".  They are almost all scantily clothed women, jutting out their breasts, their asses or both.

He does not have a drivers license, but it can take an hour and a half for him to get to the bakery, so, he illegally drives.  I know he has pulled over at least  twice and both times he has had his vehicle confiscated.  He then saves his money and replaces it with another.  He has been in the USA for 5 years.  He does not speak any English.  Like Changa, he has very little education.

He has been watching and smiling at me since the day I started.  I am old enough to be his mother as I believe he is 22 or 23.  If I return his smiles, he becomes more bold.  He touches my arm or manages to place his had over mine while he helps me with a bread rack.  He told me one day that I needed a lover, like him.  He said we could run away to Mexico, have a couple children.  Mexico has lots of horses.  Did I like horses?

I now try to avoid him, looking at him or being in the break room alone with him.  "Are you angry", he asks.  I do not have the Spanish words to explain to him that he is transparent, a womanizer a man I believe thinks only of himself and his own feelings.  I believe that if one day I was alone in Mexico, surrounded by a gang of murderers and thieves in the middle of the desert, I might look around at their faces.  Perhaps I would spot his,  familiar and smiling.  He would nod to me in recognition, pat me on shoulder, ask me how I was, say "It has been a long time since the days at the bakery.", then kill me without a second thought.

Carne

I recently asked Changa, what in life made him happy.  He replied, eating meat.  This to him is the epitome of the good life.  Once, while in my car on the way to the market, we saw a very large, unhappy looking woman crossing the street.  Changa said, "Ella es muy gorda.".  I said yes, she was and she also seemed very unhappy.  He replied, "Por que? Ella come muchas carne !"

Today while working, I was trying to explain to Changa the concept of vegetarianism, something he does not seem to comprehend.  Why would someone choose to not eat meat, if it were available.  I told him about a friend I had who did not eat meat because she did not want to eat an animals; I said she felt a connection to animals and did not think it right to kill them for food.  He shook his head.  I have been reading about the Spanish conquest of Mexico, most recently, Bernal Diaz's account, The Conquest of New Spain".  There are many accounts of the Aztecs and neighboring tribes killing and eating human captives.  Some speculate that there was not enough wildlife in the basin of Mexico to give a diet of meat to the inhabitants, so they began feasting on enemies they captured during battles.  It was also part of their religious belief, to sacrafice young humans to the Gods.  As I mentioned earlier, Changa has very little education.  I do not know what he was taught and what history of his country he knows.  I told him the Aztecas ate humans for meat.  He immediately replied that Gallina (one of the bakers who is very, very thin) would not be good for eating, but that Bill (very large, who works in the office) would be very good for meat indeed.

Changa

Changa is my pastry assistant.  His real name is Emilo, but many of the Mexican bakers have nick names and Emilo actually prefers to be called by his.  He has this name embroidered on his work shirt, by his choice.  Changa has been in the USA for over 10 years.  He does not speak English and he has no intention to.  He is about 40 years old, single, no children.  He is one of 10 children.  His mother died many years ago, but his father still lives in the puebla of Ixtlico El Grande where Changa lived until he came to the USA.  Changa crossed the border by walking, paying coyotes about $2000 USD to guide him across desert terrain for two days and two nights.  He does not have much education, so when I began to train him to make pastries, fractions were difficult for him to understand.  He also had never used a measuring cup or measuring spoons.

He seems like an asexual being.  I do not see him watching women or men with any sexual interest.  I do not feel any awkward moments when I must press behind him to get to something I need or when he holds my arm to look at a new bruise or burn.  He once told me he wanted to marry and have children, but he seems to have no motivation, or perhaps it is confidence, though he can be very stubborn and sure of some of his beliefs and views.  He told me today that he did not think he would stay here much longer.  He has not been home for many years and he would like to see his father and family again.  The border crossings are seen as too dangerous to try again, so he does not believe he will return.  I do not know if he will really go, as he has said this before, then changed his mind.  I do not know what I believe would be for the best as he has no work in Mexico and has been recently diagnosed with diabetes.

The Curious

I had not worked in a real bakery since first beginning my pastry career 14 years ago.  My pastry training began in a French bakery two blocks from my home in Minnesota.  They were looking for a pastry chef and being a frequent customer, the counter manager put in a good word for me with the owner, though I didn't even know how to turn on a Hobart mixer.  My college degree was in computer science and I had worked in this field, doing business systems analysis and programming, for seven years.  I had hated every day of it, but that is another story.  After two years at this bakery and being trained in the basics by French pastry chefs, I began my odyssey of working in restaurants.  Now, after 12 years, I returned to the smell of hundreds of loaves of bread baking in large ovens and ovens filled by the labor of immigrant workers.

At first, the Mexicans never came up to my work space when I was there.  I would see one or two standing in my area when I was returning from the bathroom or lunch, staring at whatever work I had in process.  They would leave before I got back, walking quickly back to their table or machine.  I could sometimes tell when they were talking about me or the work I was doing.  I would look up and one or two of them would smile, but the rest looked at me without emotion on their face, as if I were someone they did not recognize and had no desire to.

Work Space

The bakery production manager, Alfredo told me to choose an area on any of the large wooden work tables for my own space each day; all I had to do if someone else got in my way was to tell them to move.  This seemed easy enough, but even as he told me, I knew I didn't have it in me to tell someone who had worked there longer than me, knew what they were doing better than me and had every reason to dislike me to move.

Alfredo had worked his way up from a baker to the production manager.  His father, Epifanio cleaned the bakery at night.  Two of his brothers, Osiel and Misiel worked as bakers.  He and Osiel were the only bakers that spoke any English.  Alfredo had a monochrome somewhat rustic Virgin of Guadalupe tattooed on his chest. He told me he had it done when he was young, by someone in Mexico, a friend who didn't have any training.  I almost always, when glancing at him, assumed it was hair on his chest, then remembered his chest was hairless and smooth and that it was the simply rendered religious icon looking out from his open shirt.

Each day I carried my heavy red tool box into the bakery, looked for the least conspicuous place to stake out an area and began to work, in silence.  Often, I felt the eyes of the curious turned on me.

The First Days in the Shop

All of the production workers in the bakery are male Mexican immigrants.  I felt intimidated walking into the shop to work for the first time, carrying my red tool box, having heads turn and eyes follow me as I walked across the painted cement floor with a little insecurity in my step.  I do not really speak Spanish.  I am female and of European descent.  I have a college education.  I am over the age of 35.  I told myself from the beginning that I would never fit in and be one of the "guys".  How could I be?  I couldn't even understand what they were talking about; only two of the 15 employees could speak English.  I would come in, work and leave.  I would not feel bad about being alone.  I was not there to make friends, I was there to build a pastry department.