Stories From the Life of a Migrant Child
“He was a red, green, and yellow parrot that had been smuggled from Mexico by Don Pancho, an undocumented farm worker who was my father's friend.
When we first got El Perico, he spent most of the time in a makeshift wire cage Roberto, my older brother, built for him. But once he learned to trust us and he became a family member, El Perico wandered around freely in the dilapidated garage where we lived while harvesting Mr. Jacobson's vineyards. Whenever he was out of the cage, we closed the garag...e door, the only opening large enough for him to fly out.
I, and the rest of my family, grew to love El Perico. I spent hours teaching him how to say "periquito bonito." His favorite pastime was walking back and forth across a thin, long wire that my mother sometimes used for hanging our clothes to dry. It stretched from one end of the garage to the other. I would place a grape box directly underneath El Perico, climb on it, stretch out my arm, and hold my index finger close to his toes so that he could perch on it.MoreLess
When we first got El Perico, he spent most of the time in a makeshift wire cage Roberto, my older brother, built for him. But once he learned to trust us and he became a family member, El Perico wandered around freely in the dilapidated garage where we lived while harvesting Mr. Jacobson's vineyards. Whenever he was out of the cage, we closed the garag...e door, the only opening large enough for him to fly out.
I, and the rest of my family, grew to love El Perico. I spent hours teaching him how to say "periquito bonito." His favorite pastime was walking back and forth across a thin, long wire that my mother sometimes used for hanging our clothes to dry. It stretched from one end of the garage to the other. I would place a grape box directly underneath El Perico, climb on it, stretch out my arm, and hold my index finger close to his toes so that he could perch on it.MoreLess
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