National Day of Listening–Interview with My Papi
Shrimp Fried Rice
My dad’s favorite meal is shrimp fried rice. I’ve always wondered why. So one evening last week, when I took him out for Chinese food and he ordered his favorite dish, I asked him about the first time he had shrimp fried rice. It was in Chicago in 1950.
On June 4th of that year he had traveled in a World War II bomber converted to passenger travel for Eastern Airlines’ flights from San Juan, Puerto Rico to New York. The red-eye flight took 7 hours. My dad was strapped into the side of the plane and all he can remember is the noise of the engines. To this day, he can’t stand that sound and he really doesn’t like to fly.
From New York, a popular final destination for Puerto Ricans at that time, my father continued onto Ypsilanti, Michigan—the closest airport at the time to Detroit, where his two older brothers, Carmelo and Abraham, were already working and living. They rented rooms in a boarding house across from what is now Tiger Stadium but what used to be called Brigg’s Stadium. The boarding house was run by a Maltese couple. The husband, John Feliz, worked at the Ford plant and directed my dad there for employment.
My dad worked on the assembly line installing shiny, chrome bumpers on the 1952 Model T. The air was rank with fumes from the production and he never saw another live thing, except humans. And then there was the noise. Kind of like a converted World War II bomber airplane. The Ford plant was a world away from the countryside of rural Puerto Rico, abundant in lush green foliage, fruit trees that burst with the weight of their harvest, chickens eagerly feasting on scraps and bugs, and a chorus of birds and frogs provide the soundtrack. My dad didn’t last two months.
He began selling magazines door-to-door. He didn’t speak much English. What English he knew he learned during his four years of schooling at the public (free) school in Aguada. The magazine company decided to move my father to Chicago to sell magazines there. A business decision that makes me seriously question the judgment of whatever person made that call.
My dad loves people and makes friends everywhere. Really, I mean that. Everywhere. He connects with anyone, gets people to laugh, plays with people (despite themselves sometimes) and can put most anyone at ease. Even when they don’t really want to notice or are able to reciprocate, he persists in showing them he likes them and it magically works. But he’s really not into selling things. He never really “got” the whole capitalism thing, if you know what I mean. When he and my mom were first married he had a job driving an ice cream truck. My mom made him quit after more than one paycheck went directly back to the company that owned the truck—my dad owed more than he earned because he would give away the ice cream to all the children who couldn’t afford it (and maybe even to some of them who could!)
Needless to say, he found himself in Chicago, without either of his brothers and without a job in short order. He connected with some cousins who worked at the Hilton in Chicago and roomed with them for a bit. They eventually got him a job in banquets. Apparently this was Puerto Rican turf. Many immigrant groups carve out certain industries or areas and get other members of their group employment. It’s more important who you know than what you know.
The first winter my father ever experienced that wasn’t a tropical winter was in Chicago. He still remembers seeing his first snow. And he still remembers the bitter cold, a chill and a dampness that entered his bones barely covered by a light jacket because, of course, this jíbaro had no winter coat to speak of. He became ill with bronchitis. His cousins took him in a taxi to the hospital to get him treatment but then he was pretty much on his own. Lonely, jobless, sick and alone in this strange and cold city he called his brother, Carmelo, who everyone calls “Pito,” for help.
In the middle of that mid-west winter Pito and his new bride Sally drove from Detroit to Chicago. As my father puts it, “Pito never had a new car.” What struggling immigrant ever does? The car had no heat but made it to Chicago. My ill, now-18 year old father was laid in the back seat and covered with whatever extra clothing there was and the trio headed back to Detroit. About halfway there, the car broke down. None of them had money to fix it. And now they had no way to get home.
Pito called his Mexican father-in-law, Mr. Garza (my dad still calls him that–the respect for this elder etched in his now almost 80 year-old mind). Mr. Garza drove from Detroit to collect his daughter, new son-in-law and ill brother of his son-in-law somewhere along pre-Interstate route to Chicago.
My father had a gold watch. It was the only thing of any value (except the car that needed fixing) that any of the three of them had. My father left it with the mechanic and asked him to fix the car with that gold watch as collateral. He promised they would return for the repaired car with money for payment. And eventually they did.
At some point in those few weeks of that Chicago winter when my father was looking for something warm to eat, he stumbled across a Chinese restaurant. Immigrants find each other. It’s just one of those things. He ordered shrimp fried rice. And it always stayed his favorite meal after that.
