A boy was born with a pagan name in Palacios, Texas. At the
baptism, the priest pleaded his mother to give her son a
Catholic name. This is when Jesús
dived into the river between Jacinto and Cardona. He loved
eating bread in the shape of a pig on the
front steps of St. Joseph’s Catholic church. Never forgetting
George Washington bread for his mother, who ironed on
humid autumn mornings and took him by the hand
into a school with one little, two little, three little boys with brown skin like
Jacinto’s. His Friday nights were spent in
khakis and loafers, headed downtown to see movies about black
lagoons or 50 foot women. He waited for his father to return home at
midnight, smelling of grease. He was the
number one fry cook in Alice, the Hub of South Texas.
On days of his father’s last summer on earth, Jacinto wondered if the taste of
pancakes still lingered in the corners of his mouth. His father slipped
quietly out of this world, with shoes that
read “L” on one and “R” on the other in thick sharpie.
Sometimes Jacinto visits Alice, pulling
the weeds and wildflowers out of the way of bronze plaques. He
used to write poems to honor the
veins of his mother’s life, a woman
who did not know how to sign her name, only a lonely
“X” on the page. Now Jacinto teaches the
youth about Jane Eyre and hero’s