Ducal Beans: My Displacement since Moving from California

Once I stepped out of the airplane in August, I was on unknown soil. Being a native of California for over 20 plus years, and now arriving in a different state, I was inclined to be adventurous. To test myself. My parents had done the same, but their decision was based on force—a social & political force. The dictionary defines displacement as “the displacing in space of one mass by another”. When I read this definition, then thought about the word, I knew there was something much more invested in the word. Displacement first arrives into my mind when I think about my parents arriving to the United States without any money, without a place to sleep, and no food. They arrived here at a young age, or as adolescents. That is displacement. Both my parents are from Central American, my mother from El Salvador, and my father from Guatemala. They both brought with them pieces of their land, although displaced, they are rooted in their world. The displacement I have faced is nothing compared to the millions of refugees from these countries. In many ways, displacement can be simple. For example, when moving to the New Mexico, I missed my family. In my family, we gather together at the dinner table and share stories. What we eat is always good because we have each other. Now that I live alone, I think about those moments, and the one moment that always comes to mind is the refried canned beans my father always bought every Saturday morning. They are called Ducal beans. He buys two big cans, and a paper bag of baguettes from the French bakery in downtown Long Beach. What happens is this, in New Mexico, these same beans are not in the grocery aisle. This is the displacement I face by being away from my home, from my space. I ask my father to send me some cans, to eat in memory of this custom, I still have one can sitting in my cupboard. I am holding on to it.

Here is a poem...

A Truck Driver’s Paycheck

Every Sunday morning
my dad is always the first to wake up.
He’s not wearing his work clothes

but his body carries the stench of diesel

by the sea, junk yards
he visits to collect truck parts.
He still places his key chain, wallet, 
and cell phone on his dresser.

Still wears dark blue jeans, 
held tightly by his black leather belt.

I walk down the hall way
he stares at me, rubbing his worn out
wallet, slides into his back pocket.
When I ask him where he is going, 
he doesn’t respond. But I know
we’ve had chicken the whole week, so
he must be going to get the usual: 
Ducal beans and baguettes from
the French bakery on Long Beach Blvd.
I imagine he’s tired of waking up
at 4 am each morning, sliding on
the same brown boots and safety visibility
vest for his late night shift.

The years are playing with his face,

the brown rings around his eyes,

the long nights of working

to come home to a microwaved meal, 
and a tall glass of water, a cup of coffee,

and pan dulce from the Concha bakery,

just waiting for someone to thank
him for today’s meal.

©MelGar2014