Paletero

Maria Tejeda Solorzano

There used to be a paletero. In the mornings of the weekends and sometimes the afternoons too, I would pass by the old TV we used to have and see reruns of El Chavo del Ocho. El Chavo del Ocho is about an orphan kid who lives inside a barrel in a neighborhood, surrounded by eccentric people, who has a character whose name is Don Ramon. That’s really all you need to know. There used to be a paletero, and his name was Don Ramon.

My mama and I (and it was only her and I, back then) would follow my papa to the soccer fields at the park. My papa was around twenty eight, my mama around twenty six, and I around four. My mama and I would sit on the sidelines, with the pepsi-coca colored foldable chairs as we watched my papa be happy and new and free. There would be other women with their tiny brown kids too. Some kids had straight hair, others had hair that gently curved, and others, like me, had unruly, curly hair, all coiled up close to our little scalps. We would sit on the sidelines and scream and shout and cheer. My mama’s voice would get all breathy and hoarse and my voice would pitch impossibly high.

During the games and before and right after, too, when it was all being packed away, Don Ramon would make rounds with his little white cart. He would push it by the strength of dark, calloused hands. Don Ramon was an old man and would pass by those sitting on the sidelines, motion towards the kids and say, “diganle a sus papás que les compren una paleta.” Us little kids, with big eyes that held the wonders of the universe entire, would look at our mama’s and plead, “mama porfavor comprame una paleta!”

We would beg, clasp our little hands in supplication and shake our dark little heads in hope. Sometimes our mamas would cave, especially if the game was good, or had been won. My papa would leave money with us, carefully put away in my mama’s bag because money was difficult to get. She would bring it out if she said yes and say “escojela pues.” I would get a paleta de galleta or de limón. Sometimes, my mama would buy one as well, and sometimes, if it was after the game, my papa, sweating through the happiness of effort, would ask for one as well.

Often we would be some of the last people on the soccer fields, walking around and taking in the sun. Don Ramon would still be there with his white little cart and his wiry stature, and my mama and my papa would talk to him about life. I always waited around until the adults were done talking, eating my paleta. Then, when the adults were done talking about the future, we would walk to our red car, the first one we got three years into living in the United States, and drive back to the apartment.

I look back and think how fortunate I was to know a Paletero. Because many have only heard of Paleteros from their parent’s dreams and memories, not because they stood by at four years old as their parents spoke about life to them. Not because Don Ramon would reach inside the cold interior of that white little cart and scour through its intestines for their favorite flavor. I think about life back then and I think about Don Ramon the Paletero at the soccer fields, in the summer months of June and July, from eighteen years ago.

Holly Smith

Biography: I’m currently a third year fine arts student, focusing on drawing and painting. I’m a local to the area – less so Corvallis and more so the valley and hills surrounding. I grew up playing in the Willamette, running through Starker forest, and rolling in the sand dunes of the coast. My sense of home is deeply connected to the landscapes and people surrounding me, and that sense of home provides the main themes of my work.

Artist Statement: My favorite place on the coast, the cliffs falling into the sea will always make me think of my grandparents. Located only a few minutes from their house, we often piled into the car to make the scramble toward the ocean and windy bluff. While the Oregon Coast is rarely this vibrant, my memories of this spot are vibrant enough to make up for the gray.

Maria Tejeda Solorzano

Biography: Hello, I’m Maria, a third year graphic design and creative writing major, with a minor in studio art. As seen with my academic choices, I really enjoy art in any form it can be created and consumed. I focus on writing about dark, difficult, and tragic topics. I’m a Mexican immigrant which means my pieces will often include characters who have a similar background. Because of this, I often implement Spanish into everything I write. I love to read, draw, and eat sweet enchiladas too.

Artist Statement: In this piece, I explore a specific memory of childhood, and how rooted it has become in my mind, especially as a remembrance of latine-american culture.