“Cherries! Cherries! Sweet cherries! Blueberries! Strawberries!” is yelled in a rhythmic and catchy pattern in front of the Chinese “Thanksgiving Supermarket” grocery store.
Miguel Loeza is a young thirty-four-year-old man in plain clothing. Wearing a white t-shirt and blue jeans, he is short, but well built. He needs to be for his job.
Encompassing the front side of the store is a canvas of colors. In the background is the sound of the nearby elevated train tracks, and dozens of people walking, talking, and touching the produce being unloaded to make sure it’s fresh and unblemished. Miguel unloads packages upon packages of heavy produce, picking at most of the blemished and rotten foods that slipped through the cracks before the customers could ever find them themselves. Only the best can be on the shelves of this Thanksgiving Supermarket. The yellowest lemons, the greenest peppers, and most importantly, the reddest cherries.
“Cherries are my favorite fruit. I grew up in a farm in Mexico and I remember my mother would always put fresh cherries in my breakfast.” Miguel is completely focused in his work setting up the produce ranging from watermelons to apples to corn in a well stacked and organized fashion.
“Believe it or not, the worst part of my job is unloading the cherries. They are very small and if you don’t unload them in the container carefully, they will roll off to the floor. It happened once. The bosses were not happy” he laughed.
Miguel came to America alone eleven years ago. “It was very tough coming to America. I knew no English and I sent most of my money back to my family in Mexico.” Single and alone in America, the bulk of Miguel’s money went to his parent because their farm has been going through some tough years.
When asked why his childhood farm isn’t doing well, he sighs “Corruption and drought. The two killers.” Miguel’s family’s farm is located in Nuevo Leon, a state in Northern Mexico in a town called General Teran. His family could simply not afford maintaining the farm and Miguel took it upon himself to come to America at the young age of twenty-three to supplement his parents income. “I don’t make much money here, but every dollar counts. And in Mexico, every dollar counts twice as much.”
Miguel’s face becomes tired and sad on the topic of the farm, but this quickly disappears and in place a cheery aura is exuded when he sings his cherry tune. “Cherries, Cherries! Sweet Cherries! Blueberries! Strawberries!”
“I didn’t come up with that myself. I actually heard another worker in Dyker Heights say it, but he didn’t sing it like I do and I added the sweet cherries part. I always loved how it rhymes, so I’ve been saying it ever since.”
When one looks at Miguel, the first thing they would notice is how strong and large his arms are. The grocery packing work is grueling. Long hours, heavy boxes, and a constant requirement for attention to make sure no one steals any of the produce.
“I could have gotten an easier job, but I don’t mind. I am a farm boy, I have always been doing hard work and I am good at it.”
And good at it he is. Miguel makes something as seemingly as mundane as packaging and unloading into an art form. His movements are concise, flexible, and quick. Occasionally he even juggles some of the fruit. Little things like that, as well as the comradery the coworkers, most of whom are Mexican, seem to have keep things enjoyable at this little grocery shop.
“My friends here are so helpful and nice. We always make jokes and talk about soccer games and memories of Mexico with each other.”
Miguel concedes though that they often make fun of him for singing his little cherry tune.
They called me “el hombre de cerezo, The Cherry Man.”
“Better than banana man I guess.”
