Crooked Plow

by Itamar Vieira Junior

“Being a tenant farmer means you got nowhere else to go. It’s your only chance to find work, to survive.” He squinted, looking into the ditch at his feet. “So, you go ask someone who’s hiring, ‘Will you let me stay, sir?’ ” Then my father looked straight into my brother’s eyes. “Work more, think less. Don’t set your eyes on things that don’t belong to you.” He stuck his hoe into the ground and rested his elbow on the handle. “A deed to the land isn’t going to give you more corn, more beans. That’s not what puts food on our table.” He took out some tobacco and rolling paper. “See all this land around you? A man’s eyes can get too big. He wants more. Are your hands strong enough to work all that land? Do the work that’s in front of you. From this land a forest grows, and the scrub, and the buriti, and the palm fruit, but without our hard work, it’s nothing. Worthless. Now, maybe it’s worth something to those folks over there who don’t do any of the work. Who don’t dig with their hands, who don’t know how to sow or reap. But for folks like us, it’s work that gives land its value. Without our hard work, the land is nothing.”