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I'd like to thank Steve for giving me an old collection of short stories, published in 1988, where I found this simple & touching story.
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Piñons
by Tomás Vallejos

I remember, when I was in grade school, the nuns made it all seem so simple. God is up in heaven, they said, watching over all His creatures. It’s all part of an intricate plan, they would tell us, like a gigantic patchwork quilt. And everything, every little stitch, has its place in this grand quilt He designed. No matter what color you are, no matter what size or shape, there’s a place for everyone.

Sure. So they said. But they forgot to mention anything about people like me. I don’t seem to belong in anybody’s patchwork quilt. Even my own family treats me like a misfit.

Don’t get me wrong. I love my family, you know? But they can be so pigheaded sometimes. Such brutes. They just don’t understand. Dad says I’m too sensitive. “Delicado,” he says. And Mama doesn’t say anything. She just acts as if nothing is happening. She probably prays to God every night that it’s only a phase I’m going through.

Maybe Dad’s right. I don’t know. Why else would all the kids call me names? Even my own brothers. I remember the time my brother Eddie made fun of the way I walk. I was twelve then. I can still see all the kids laughing as he sashayed down the sidewalk, holding his arms tight against his sides, flipping his hands back and forth and wiggling his butt from side to side. I felt like sinking right out of sight into the grass, like a worm. Even Mama once mentioned that I walk as if I’m tiptoeing over eggshells.

And now, here I am, almost seventeen. I’m doing great in school, but out on the street I don’t know where to put my hands or how to move my shoulders when I walk. I feel as if everyone is watching me. More and more, I’d rather be alone than have all those people looking at me with that terrible look in their eyes, like I’m beneath contempt.

But here it is. Piñon season. No one wants to be alone during piñon season. At least I don’t. That would be like being all alone on Christmas. But things are so different since the last one. Seven years ago I was a little kid, picking piñons with the rest of the family. You know, just another family outing. Well, I guess I shouldn’t say just another outing. It was special, because piñons only bear fruit about every five to seven years. So we look forward to piñon season. Last time, we took all the empty flour sacks and buckets we had and tried to fill every single one of them. The whole idea was to gather enough to last until the next harvest.

Of course, they didn’t even last until the following summer because they taste so good, who could possibly keep from eating them? Just the aroma that fills the house when they’re roasting makes you want to eat them all that same night.

Last piñon season I was only ten and all I thought about then was getting as many piñons as I could. The whole family went and we spread tarps under the trees. Then we shook the branches till the piñons fell from the cones. And the little kids like me would hang from the branches and swing, sometimes until they snapped. The grownups and my older brothers and sisters shook the trees so hard it’s a wonder they didn’t destroy them all.

That’s what I mean about my family. I know they don’t mean to be that way, but God! They claim to be so religious, but it never occurs to them that trees are part of Creation, too. We should have a little respect. But try saying that to my Dad. Forget it. He just tells you to grow up and start acting like a man.

Tomorrow they’ll go out and spread the tarps again. Then they’ll shake the trees until they force the piñons out. I don’t even know if I want to go this time. If I do, I just know what they’ll say when I rock the branches like the autumn breeze instead of twisting them out of shape the way the rest of them do. The pendejos! They should know the tree won’t give its fruit until it’s ready. They just don’t understand. It’s a gift. You don’t have to tear it from the tree.

You know, I’ve discovered something about piñons. They’re hermits. Kind of like those cloistered monks the nuns tell us about at school. Kind of strange. And very shy. Their seeds are like that, too. You don’t barge in on them. You coax them from their little cells. Quietly. And gently. Don Mateo taught me that. He’s the old man who lives a couple of blocks away from us, in the projects. “Piñones,” he told me, “are the soul of the people who live here on these mountain slopes. They are rough and enduring, but sweet and delicate at the same time.”

“And most of all,” he said to me, with a look of reverence I will never forget, “they are rare. Always remember, son, those things that are most unusual in this world are miracles. They are special gifts to us. We shouldn’t abuse them.” That’s why Don Mateo says you should shake the branches gently. That way, you don’t get any green piñons. Just the ripe ones that taste the best. Then you move on to the next tree. Leave the rest to ripen, he says, and come back another day. Or leave them for someone else. It makes more sense than tearing up the canyon the way my people do. But try telling Dad that.

There is one thing I really like about piñon season. That’s the way the families get together in the evening to roast the piñons. I love the way the house fills with friends and relatives, all the kids playing and running around in the back yard. And out there in the cool darkness, the air crackles with the sound of breaking shells. They crack between your teeth and you pop that warm little nut into your mouth, savoring the subtle sweet taste. And everywhere you walk, you hear the thin crunch of broken shells underfoot. It’s a big party that lasts until you get so sleepy your head is ready to slip down into your shoulders.

But you know what? My Dad and his compadres end up spoiling that, too. I didn’t notice it when I was real little because we fell asleep before they started acting like brutes. But last time I got to stay up late and I learned one thing — tomorrow, I’m leaving before they start getting drunk and acting like a bunch of pigs.

I almost ended up crying right in front of them that time. It was bad enough the way they were acting, bragging about all the women they’d done it with and having arm wrestling contests to prove who’s the strongest. But then they tried to make me and my brothers and cousins do the same thing. They even got my brother Eddie and my cousin Abe into a boxing match. And to top it all off they made bets on who would win, as if Eddie and Abe were dogs or fighting cocks. They didn’t mind, but I hate that. So, because I wouldn’t do it, they started calling me names. And my Dad was just as bad as all the rest.

Well, not me. I don’t like getting my head knocked in. You know what I do like? I like to walk way out into the canyons and just watch. And listen. Out there, I don’t have to listen to the priest and his stupid answers when I ask questions about God’s justice and mercy. I don’t understand how God, if He really exists, can condemn anyone on this earth when He’s the one who made us imperfect in the first place. But the priest always ends up telling me the same old thing. “That’s the mystery,” he says. “You have to have faith.”

And out there in the canyons, I don’t have to hear Mama mumbling on and on, rosary after rosary. And Dad, telling me how God made men to be this way and women to be that way. I’m supposed to feel like some kind of freak because he says I’m too delicate. He calls me a weakling. But when things go wrong, he’s on his knees in church, begging God to make them right.

What I like most of all about the canyons is being among the piñons when there’s no one else around. Not that they’re the most beautiful trees in the world. Far from it. They’re squatty and gnarled, kind of like old hunchbacks. Not like regular pines that stand so tall and stately.

Still, there’s something brave about them. I don’t know if I can explain it. It’s not like being brave the way my Dad tells me to be swinging blindly while someone is cracking your nose with a boxing glove. Feeling it burn and tasting the salty blood dripping down into your mouth. No. It’s something deeper than that. Something those pendejos wouldn’t understand.

I go out to the canyons in summer and see the piñons almost writhing in the heat. I’m especially fascinated by the ones on the steep canyon walls. They remind me of some fierce bird, like a hawk, with knotted talons clenched tightly in the soil. There’s something lonely about those trees, something lonely and tense. Like the shrill whistling of the dry wind. Or those almost electric screams of the cicadas looking for mates.

In the fall it’s even sadder. The cicadas are gone. All that’s left of them are empty shells that you can see through, and wonder where the life went. I stand on the edge of the canyon and listen to my echo bouncing off the walls, repeating itself until it fades away. The trees there are windswept, as if they’ve been beaten low through more lifetimes than you can imagine. Some are huddled and lopsided. Others have their branches splayed. They are frozen in that awkward position, like an animal fighting for its life; locked forever in a struggle against some brute force.

But how could I ever explain that to my folks? Mama would probably think I’m possessed by the Devil. She’d make the sign of the cross all the way to church and light twenty candles to the Virgin. And Dad would just say something like, “Why do you waste your time thinkin’ such stupid things? .. If you ain’t gonna go out for football, why don’t you get a job?”

I do love my folks. And sometimes I wish I could be the kind of man they’d like. But I think maybe those nuns were right after all. Just because people don’t appreciate something doesn’t mean it has no place in the world.

Let them think what they want. I’m going out tomorrow to pick piñons the way Don Mateo told me to. Nice and gentle. The only way I know.





From Shadows of Love: American Gay Fiction, edited by Charles Jurrist, Alyson Publications, Boston, 1988