As a child, once I found myself looking up at a piercing blue sky, and smelling the heavy scent of gasoline dripping on me. As my mind came crowding back into its little body, I went to lift my minibike off of me, but incredible pain in my left arm prevented me from doing so.
The 80cc Honda was too heavy to lift off with one arm, nor could I just pull myself out from under it. I called for help. No one came. Finally, I worked out a solution. I unlatched the seat, which fortunately was hinged away from me, and brought my free leg up under it, and pushed the bike off with my foot.
I walked a sandy dirt road to the nearest house, a farm laborer’s dwelling, and knocked. A Mexican woman answered the door. I tried to explain to her that I’d broken my wrist, but she didn’t speak English. So I held up my left arm, with my right hand, which made plain to her that my wrist was completely broken.
She was suddenly full of kindness and concern and rushed me to the main farm house. I was then driven to the hospital.
This is what I know about Mexican immigrants.
Michael A. “Sasha” Miller