The New York Times Sunday Magazine has a back-of-the-book feature called "Lives" and when I got around to reading this week's issue, I flipped to the back and was drawn to the headline "The Tire Iron and the Tamale."
The writer describes three instances of car trouble he's had in the past year. All happened when he was driving someone else's car and each time he was "disgusted with the way people didn't bother to help."
Cars and trucks whizzed by. Service station attendants offered lame excuses for not loaning him a gas can. He was exasperated and I could understand why. It's rare anymore that anyone disrupts their routine -- or crosses an invisible line of suspicion -- to help a stranger.
"But you know who came to my rescue all three times?" he writes. "Immigrants. Mexican immigrants. None of them spoke any English."
Well, I was hooked. And I hope you will be, too, if you take five minutes to read this moving essay.
Bonus: The story takes place in Oregon.
Double bonus: The author, Justin Horner, works and lives in Portland.
Triple bonus: As a third-generation Mexican American, I was proud of mi gente.
Illustration: Holly Weiss
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