When I go home (to my parents’ house), I look forward to seeing that the plants look healthy. This makes me happy, because it indicates that they’ve been watered and tended to. This means that my dad has been outside arranging them and replanting them into other flower pots. This also means that my mom has had the energy to continue giving him orders, resulting in making him want to stay outside.
Maybe I’m over exaggerating whether that’s what is really going on, but for now, the plants look happy, and so I’m happy. Before going in the house, I look through the side gate and find that the dogs, too, are energetic; at least the younger ones. At one point there were eight dogs, but now there are only four left — Señor, Vampirin, Carita de Humano, and Tomasita. Pila (Battery) passed away in October (2010-2025). May she rest in peace.
Every time I go home, aside from the usual kitchen table updates for how things are going, it’s a must to visit the backyard. If the world has turned into a museum through my artist eyes, my dad’s backyard is the Mona Lisa. Here lies a true masterpiece of innovation and creativity.
Most things in the backyard are rich in history. Walking through the side of the house towards the backyard is a cement slab corridor filled with plants on both sides. Most plants are small; like sábilas, and various flowers. Some live in colorful clay pots, while others live in cut off former plastic detergent containers. They neighbor each other, and I wonder if they are chismosas (gossips), and how they feel about the dogs resting under their shade especially during hot summer days after they’ve been cooled down during the evenings.
The backyard used to be wider, but the house grew a storage space and a makeshift island shed that sits further back. Both the storage and shed are filled with things that we might need, so “no lo tires, nunca sabes” (don’t throw it away, you never know when we might need it.) Tools, toys, and thousands of things are stored in boxes. There is a logic to the madness. Some boxes are for boxes, while others are for seasonal decorations. It is not what they store that makes them important, but the memories they hold that makes them valuable. Probably to no one else but my father. I follow him around as he rearranges things and shows me his most recent acquisitions or found treasures. One of the dogs, Señor, and his sidekick, Vampirin follow us around as well. He is almost completely deaf, so he depends on Señor as a guide.
I often get the feeling they constantly look at me for signs of approval that things around here are pretty badass. But all they get is a “Hey! Chingao! Vayanse pa ya!” after either of them smells something a little too long. “Estos perros ya me méaron todas estas cajas” my father says loudly, complaining that the dogs have peed on the boxes.
My mind drifts onto a wall where a plethora of tools hang. The tools are rusted and old. They look like they have seen better days and are now tired-retired. Or maybe the better days are now. I look at a shovel that has been reconfigured, and I can’t understand how my dad would use it. That’s because the shovel is not a shovel anymore. “How do you use this?” I ask.
“Aver ayudame aca,” my dad asks for my help. He asks that I hold a metal rod to support a table in place and he pulls a tarp over some boxes and ties everything together with an electric wire. He lifts the corner of a table and kicks a metal can under the new extra table leg then slightly pushes and pulls the table back and forth to check for stability and says “ya quedo” (It’s good).
I take a seat in a mecedora (rocker) under the shade as all the dogs are together around my father. They are excited because they know the routine and that it’s time for dinner. This time there is an extra food bowl. My father pauses for a few seconds as he digs a plastic cup into the food bag. I look at my father and he avoids looking back. I think we both understand and feel that there is a little bit less energy in the group. He looks slightly to the side, and I do, too. There is a tiny empty box with a soft blanket sticking out.
He continues to fill the bowls and places them in different spots around the yard. There is little daylight left, and there are things to finish before the sun sets.
My mom peeks from the side door and yells that dinner is ready. We go inside, and as we are setting the table my brother arrives. He says hi to everyone, and after coming back from washing up, he sits on the couch to take off his boots. The boots look heavy, and after taking them off he says, “It’s been a heavy workday.”
I don’t say anything, but this reminds me of my father when we were kids and we would help him take off his boots. Not only were they heavy figuratively, but heavy in ways that I will never know, but can only imagine. Heavy in having the responsibility to continue pursuing the dream to co-provide the necessary things for the family to be together and survive. Heavy in carrying the extra weight that an education could have helped alleviate. Heavy in walking miles within a warehouse and loading trailers to make sure there was a paycheck at the end of the week. Heavy in knowing that there might be plenty, but maybe not enough.
Growing up with limited resources opens the possibilities for objects and purpose. Most forms eventually are forged into an average and given specifications for a particular serving purpose; maybe a pen, a tool, or anything else. The same thing goes for people. We are molded to be consistent because it is practical to be predictable. But what if we don’t want to be that anymore? Some of us have the privilege to catch a break, some may never.
If you feel that your dream was set aside por cosas del destino (by destiny), and you have to be a parent, a teacher, a tool, be the one that helps break locks, open gates, free the mind, heal the soul.
(Gil Rocha is a multidisciplinary artist and educator. His work is rooted in the realities of the U.S.–Mexico border. He serves as president of the board of the Laredo Center for the Arts. He has spent over 25 years fostering cultural engagement through exhibitions, workshops, and public programming. His practice spans painting, sculpture, assemblage, installation, and writing, examining themes of identity, crossing, and cultural resilience.)
