By Angelica Jimenez –

As I got ready for mass this morning, memories of my tío Mike came rushing to my mind.

Tío Mike was one of my mom’s six brothers, and he acted as the head of the familia and breadwinner. He began working at the young age of five as a migrant worker in Mexico and continued working until the age of 70. In 1952, my maternal grandparents migrated to the Chicago area looking for work.

His birthname is Ismael Alfaro, but his cronies at the factory where he worked found that name too difficult to pronounce and deemed him “Mike,” a name that remained ever since. Tío Mike had no formal education but was able to teach himself to read and write Spanish and some English.

He taught me the meanings of hard work and self-sacrifice. Tío Mike is a part of my extended family, a concept familiar to many Latinos. He helped raise and support the younger generations, and he passed these values onto me.

Tío Mike was 23 years old when they moved to unincorporated West Chicago, a small suburb about 40 miles from the city. He spent the next 45 years working on the assembly line at Jel Sert, the place that made flavor ice I loved so much as a child.

All of his paychecks went to the family. Tío Mike never married, but my younger brother’s godmother, Janie, was the love of his life with whom he spent every day. Janie’s son would not have been able to receive an education if tío Mike did not chose to pay his tuition. He did so because he saw her son as a part of his own family.

He spent most of his life at the home the familia built just outside of the city limits. They had little choice since in those days, no one would sell a house to a Mexican family. He stayed living in that home until April 2008, when the doctors found tumors in his brain and spine.

My tío Efrain and tía Pera moved him into their home which was about a half a mile from where he grew up, near the forest preserve where he would take his daily walks. I knew that stretch of land very well. When we were younger, my brothers and cousins would spend virtually every Wednesday and Sunday visiting my grandfather, tío Mike, tía Esperanza, and tío Pete.

The three were siblings and remained at the home caring for my grandfather. We would always have dinner together, and I was often responsible for calling tío Mike down from his room to eat. He would come down the stairs, give us hugs and begin eating the food that was prepared for and served to him.

He was always well groomed with his dark hair slicked back. I never knew how old he was nor did I dare to ask, but for some unknown reason he never seemed to age. He towered over me but was not menacing. He was thin and had a long face as though the weight of the world was on him.

Tío Mike was a quiet man who didn’t speak very much. When he did, he shared stories about his childhood in Mexico or discussed the church. He told stories of traveling from town to town for work and the people he met along the way. Even though many lived in poverty, they knew how to celebrate life.

Tío Mike would sneak into the dances as a child where the townspeople would dance on the dirt because they could not afford to build a dance hall, but that didn’t stop them from letting down their hair and having a good time.

As tío Mike grew older, his devotion to the Church became stronger. We spent Sundays mornings at St. Mary’s Church and always sat in the back pew along with tío Mike and tía Esperanza. But tío Mike would not spend the entire mass sitting down. Every week he took the collections. He was very serious most times, but when he stopped at our pew, he would smile at me, and I felt so proud that my tío did so much for the church.

When he became very ill, he could no longer attend mass. I couldn’t help to think when I saw him in those later stages how much he sacrificed for his family and how he continued to struggle and suffer. He was a man of few words, but he truly led by example.

He gave to all of us and asked for little in return. He devoted his life to his familia and his faith so completely. His example and support played an integral role in shaping the person I have become today. I wish I could have told him that before he left this world.

Tío Mike never was able to attend school but wished that he could have. He would watch the news in Spanish and read the newspaper religiously. He was well-versed in the politics in Mexico, and he could have gone on to become a politician if he had the opportunity.

On our Mexican Independence Day, Sept. 16, we paid our final respects to our tío Mike at St. Mary’s Church. I like to think that on that day he finally gained his independence and the freedom to do things he never could in this life.

Angelica Jimenez is a graduate student in journalism at Columbia College Chicago.