From Russia with Love
1 de abril de 2017
Toc Toc Toc: Working Hands and Gentle Wisdom
#DiasporaStories
“What’you doing here, pretty?”
He didn’t look at me when he said it—just kept mopping, slow and steady, the way only someone who’s done it for years knows how.
I told him I was waiting to be called up to clean an apartment.
He nodded, mop never stopping.
“Ah. You clean like me,” he said with a soft smile.
And just like that, we were in the same crew.
He wasn’t flirting. He was claiming kinship.
There’s a difference, and if you do this kind of work, you know it instantly.
He was drawing long, straight lines across the floor, each pass of the mop a rhythm all its own.
And then—
toc. toc. toc.
The mop head tapped the base of the wall each time he reached the end of a row.
Toc. Toc. Toc.
It was oddly comforting. Hypnotic, even.
I smiled, watching him work, admiring the quiet artistry in his motion.
And then, as I kept watching… I stopped smiling.
He looked like he could be as old as my father.
And suddenly, I couldn’t romanticize it anymore.
Don’t we want our viejos to be resting by now?
Drinking beer or coffee on a porch?
Talking to neighbors, complaining about the news, playing dominoes, taking afternoon naps with fans blowing in their faces?
Wouldn’t that be fair?
But life isn’t fair. Especially not for men like him. Not for men like Papi.
My father’s still mixing cement in Puerto Rico. Still building with his bare hands, even when his bones ache.
It always breaks my heart to think about it.
I didn’t want to sit there and get sad. So I reached for something lighter—something silly to fill the silence.
“Don’t you think this building is really ugly?” I said, glancing around.
“Looks like a giant fish tank from the outside. All these windows. Chicago has way better buildings.”
He paused. Finally looked at me.
Then laughed. A deep, honest laugh from someone who’s heard a thousand opinions and only responds to the good ones.
“You not from here, right?”
That made me laugh. Big and loud. And he laughed even more hearing me.
“You?” I asked.
He winked.
“From the Russia you will never see.”
And with that, he turned back to his work.
Toc. Toc. Toc.
All the way down the hall, the sound of the mop dancing against the wall, a rhythm of resilience echoing softly behind him.
I stayed seated. Still smiling.
Click.
#DiasporaStories
#CleaningChronicles
#WorkingHands
#ResilientElders
#MopAndMemory
#InvisibleLabor
#ImmigrantWisdom
#WorkingClassSolidarity
#BoricuaInTheDiaspora
#TocTocToc
#MiViejo
#ChicagoBuildingsAndStories
#SmallTalkBigTruths
#FromRussiaToPuertoRico
#JanitorPoetry
#WorkingClassJoy
#RespectTheElders
#StoriesInTheHallway
#DominoesAndDaydreams
#HandsThatBuiltHomes
