This feature is part of our print and online portfolio of writing from the immigrant farmworker community. Read more online or in Issue 26.
1.
A moaning by the labor camp dump caught my attention. Inside a junked car with no doors, our neighbor, Diana, was hugging and kissing a big boy not quite a man. I never knew his name, so I call him Novio—boyfriend. In the tangle of arms and hands, her white, ruffled dress slid off her shoulder. From a near distance, her husband, Rogelio, in full Sunday clothes right up to his Panama hat, made a beeline toward the car, his hands in fists.
