I’ll tell you a story, Jorge said. I’ll give you some numbers that will blow your mind.
Ok, so in 2007, there was a heat wave in Chicago. It was bad, real bad. In our neighborhood, we lost eight, nine hundred people. People dying in closed up apartments. So many that grocery stores were lending the morgues their refrigerated trucks. It was horrible. But, guess, out of those, how many would you guess were Latino?
No idea, I shook my head.
Two, he said. Two. Do you know why?
Something clicked. Yeah, I said, yeah. The people who died were white, elderly alone in their apartments.
Exactly, exactly, he said, excitedly. Because we don’t do that. For Latinos, our grandparents live with us. We take care of them. We say, m’ijo, go fan Grandma, ask her if she needs a glass of water. We don’t leave them like that.
