Harvest Song

This following story is based upon an encounter I had with a migrant worker two years ago. I often wonder if Roberto has returned home to Guatemala or if he continues his work in the fields of America.

Harvest Song (an original publication by Joseph Taylor in 2011)

Roberto had not said a word during the entire English lesson. Unlike the other migrant workers who eagerly participated in the makeshift classroom on the edge of the sweeping tomato fields, he sat in silence looking at the easel filled with conversational pleasantries.

He had not smiled when the other men in the class accused Carlos of being a gringo because of his superior ability to speak English using complete sentences. He did not even react when his classmates comforted Manual as he sobbed about his father’s recent death in Chiapas.

Manual was unable to forgive himself for not having saved enough money to return to Mexico for the funeral. All but Roberto assured Manual repeatedly that El Senor es bueno, and that because God is good, He would make sure that Manual would see his father again someday in heaven.

It was not until I had packed up the portable classroom and began to drive away that Roberto suddenly became animated. He ran toward my car with my guitar firmly clenched in his hands darkened by years of work in the fields, overexposure to pesticides, and the acidic burn of tomato residue. In a haste to pack up the classroom against an onslaught of heat, humidity, flies, and mosquitoes, I had forgotten my guitar, and Roberto was determined not to let me leave without it.

¡Teacher, Teacher, su guitarra!

I stopped the car and then hesitated a moment before turning off the refreshing blast of air conditioning. To be honest, I was in no hurry to return to the brutal July heat and humidity of coastal South Carolina. As I rolled the window down to thank Roberto for returning my guitar, he just stood there clasping the instrument by its rosewood neck. I will not forget the contrasting image of the elegantly, handcrafted instrument in the permanently stained hands of this small, quiet man from Guatemala.

In his facial expression lay a yearning for something far greater than I could provide with my trunk full of school supplies. The cynic within me suggested that Roberto was looking for a reward of some sort. God knows that he wasn’t ever going to make a decent wage picking tomatoes for the rest of his life. Thinking that a small, financial compensation seemed reasonable for his efforts, I began to reach for my wallet.

Toco la guitarra, he said beginning to smile.

Roberto plays the guitarra, I announced in Spanish to the other members of our class who continued to stand around the site of our former classroom.

I got out of the car, and Roberto sat down with the guitar on the edge of a sea of tomatoes. By the time he had tuned the instrument and practiced the chord progressions he would need for his original composition, the rest of the stragglers had joined our circle. All eyes were now on Roberto. With the strum of an E-minor chord, Roberto began to sing his song.

He had left his wife and six children in the mountains of Guatemala three years earlier. Within several months of promising to return after one harvest season in the United States, he knew that he would be forced to break this promise. Not only did his wife and children depend on his work in the fields, but his parents also relied on his weekly deposit of money as well. Although his wife pretends to be happy when he calls her once a week, he can hear her tears. He also hears the sadness in the voices of his children.

When will you come home,
My son? My love? My papi?

I will return when the harvest is done,
I will return when the Quetzal sings.
I will return when it’s time to rest.

Until then, I will sing my song.
Until then, you can sing my song.
Until then, you can sing my song.

There was a brief moment of silence after the final, minor chord dissipated into the field of ripe tomatoes.

Le gusta la cancion? Roberto asked the group, clearly proud of his composition.

I cannot say for sure that they liked his song, but they were certainly moved by it.

Several of the men fought back tears before resuming their stoic view of life.

One of the men asked Roberto if he knew La Bamba by Ritchie Valens.

That is a happy song, he said. I don’t like sad songs, he added.

Roberto did not answer him. He turned toward me and asked if I had liked his song. Le gusta la cancion, Teacher?

Yes, I liked it very much Roberto. It was very beautiful. I believe that you will get home someday. I know that you will get home someday. You just have to keep the faith, Roberto.

Manual was the first to stand up and announce that it was time to go to bed.

Teacher, very hot to-morrow, he said. Many tomates to peek. See you next class.

Carlos began to laugh at Manual’s perpetual struggle with English, but the mood of the group had now grown too somber for any further criticism.

Buenas noches, Manual. I said while standing up to return to my car. Only Roberto walked with me to my car barely visible now in the humid veil of the late evening.

I will see you next week in school, I said as I shook Roberto’s hand. I believe that you will return home some day Roberto. Thank you again for your beautiful song.

You are welcome, Teacher. It is your song now. You can do with it what you want.

I will, Roberto. I will, my friend.