Co-Worker Part 3

For Sesshu Foster

The first time I heard you speak Spanish you spoke it well. Everyone was impressed. Especially all those brown parents. I bet they thought it was weird, were maybe even a little skeptical when they walked into the half-Asian English teacher’s room and were told no, they wouldn’t be needing a translator. Please, take your children and have a seat, front row if you like. 

You stood up there by the white board and started tsking and rolling your rs and shrugging like you do. No big deal, not for someone who grew up in City Terrace, someone who was part of those Mexican gangs at Wilson High. They took in a Japanese kid ’cause you were cool, or dangerous maybe. You fit in with them, and still do.

I sat in the back. I wasn’t even in your class, just needed a place to hang out for three hours, an excuse to listen to you. 

You impressed me too, you know. This brown kid who couldn’t understand the half of what you were saying, just liked how the words sounded coming out of your mouth.

I remember the day you drove me and my friend to King Torta after cleaning your classroom. The menu was in Spanish so I said I’d order last. Both of you got lengua and I had to ask what lengua was. The only thing I recognized was carnitas so I ordered it in English. 

On the drive back you guys talked about what growing up Asian was like in East LA. Being able to walk into Mexican markets and know what you were buying, order an aqua fresca on the first try with no stumbles or lo siento, no, solo poquito. People could look at the both of you, a Japanese man and a Filipino kid, and know you had an excuse for not speaking Spanish. 

I was sitting up front next to you, the sandwiches warm in my lap while you looked in your rearview every so often at my friend in the back seat. I felt like I shouldn’t have been the one sitting next to you. Felt like I shouldn’t have been eating a torta either. 

I know someone who’s got the same parent set up you do–white deadbeat dad, full Japanese mom. He’s also got the same half-orphan set up I do–dad died of colon cancer, mom found someone else. We both didn’t cry when our dads went. He said he was standing on top of his sadness to get a better view of the hospital bed. I just thought crying was what everyone expected me to do, so I didn’t. No one would have been able to hear me anyways over my grandma.

There’s this professor he and I like, both see as a father figure. We know where he lives so we stood outside his house one night, deliberating. 

“It’s hard not having a dad.”

“Yeah. But I wrote something about him last year and everyone took it the wrong way so I’m not trying to make him a father figure anymore.”

“I am.” 

“I still want to. But it’s different when you don’t have a dick.”

You’re in Mexico right now. My dad went to Cancún once, and when he got home he told me and my sister he regretted not taking us, said, ‘I’m never going back there unless I bring you guys with me.’

He never spoke Spanish to us, or even tried to teach us. Just told my sister to never say chinga again when she started making up words out loud. 

He knew how to make damn good burritos though that no one can remember how to put together. I don’t think it matters. They’ll never taste as good as his. 

I still think about the poem you wrote about him. 

Mornings, sometimes my co-worker is limping in late; I was told scans reveal new spots on his lungs. When I park in front of the quiet house on the hillside, the car door slams and the dog barks in back.

I wonder if you know you’re my dad. I wonder if you could teach me Spanish one day. I wonder if when you get back from Mexico you’ll tell me you’re never going there again, unless I come with you.