Hector dreaded the inevitable confrontation with his father. He did not say it in the morning, when they drove to the outskirts of Oaxaca to collect the radishes. Neither could he bring himself to say it when, back at the village, his mother joined them on the patio. A sharp radish smell filled the courtyard as the three of them carved the large red vegetables into the traditional figures. Just like previous years, Hector carved the musicians. He completed the trumpet player and glanced at his parents. Julian was carving buttons on the tall puppet, while Teresa, using a sharpened stick, peeled the skin off a long radish to form the skirt for the female puppet. The "Calenda", a depiction of the popular religious procession, will soon be ready for the "Night of Radishes" competition tomorrow. He could not delay any longer.
He put down his knife, "Father, there is something I would like to tell you. I decided to have my own booth in the competition."
Julian stopped carving without saying a word. He looked at his son; his weathered Indian face remained passive. Hector could sense the flood of disappointment and betrayal sweeping over his father's heart. He felt guilty for causing his father such pain.
"For several years, I have asked you to change the theme of our display." He continued, "You didn't want to do it. I had no choice."
"You had no choice," Julian repeated slowly in a calm voice, "then leave! I don't need your help." He turned away from his son and resumed carving.
Hector, felt the sharp pain of misunderstanding, but he too had his dignity. He stood and walked away. His mother tried to hold him back.
"Stop this foolishness" she implored her husband and son, but Julian kept carving without a response.
On his way out, Hector looked at the faded photograph on the wall. He saw his grandfather, proudly accepting the first prize in the Night of Radishes. That year, his grandfather chose the Calenda as his theme. Every year since then, the Mendez family presented the same scene in the Christmas event. When Hector became old enough to hold a knife, he joined his father to create their entry. He enjoyed the family time together; he also enjoyed the thousands of tourists and locals that flock to Oaxaca's Zocalo to enjoy the lavish radish sculptures.
In a friend's house, Hector set to work, his knife transforming the pile of radishes into the vision he nurtured for so many years. Before him was the figure that will be lying on the altar. With small, careful incisions, a round radish became an anguished face. Using a cactus spine, he connected it to the larger radish forming the body. He was ready to start on the work's centerpiece, the Zapotec Priest. He could clearly imagine the robes, the plumed hat, and the upraised arm holding the dagger.
The next morning, when he arrived at the Zocalo, the display tables were already placed along the edges of the town square. To the outside of the tables stretched an elevated walkway that enclosed the perimeter of the exhibition area. He knew his father was on the other side of the square, and he was glad he could not see him. He assembled the display on the table, his excitement and anticipation growing while the scene was taking form. At four, the show opened and the first visitors appeared on the walkway. He scrutinized their reactions with apprehension. Soon, the delight on their faces made it clear that they liked his display. Some even called out and congratulated him on his work. Satisfied, he relaxed, and sat behind the display, almost invisible. From his vantage point he could quietly enjoy the flashing cameras and admiring exclamations. The official results will come late at night.
After dark, when the stream of viewers became a thick, slow river, Julian could no longer contain his curiosity. He climbed the walkway and, with the rest of the visitors, made his way around the square. As he approached his son's booth, he moved to the back, and peered into the display. He was stunned. He knew Hector was a talented sculptor, but he has never seen figures formed with such an amazing detail. Their faces were full of emotion, and the ceremonial robes were cut with elaborate decorations. He absorbed the dramatic effect of the scene, and he sensed the others around him responding in the same way. A warm feeling welled up inside him. He was amazed that his own son produced this wonderful work of art. He was so proud of his son, and he knew that his own father was now here too, looking from above and smiling. Overcome with emotion, he did not notice that he wound up in the front line, staring at his son's work with wet, blurry eyes.
An inner instinct made Hector look up. He saw his father on the walkway; he read the emotions on his face. He crawled under the display table, emerged in front of his father, and helped him climb down. Without words, Julian put his hands on his son's shoulders, and they stood there, oblivious to the crowd, peering into each other's eyes. It was Hector's turn to shed tears of relief and happiness. His father embraced him tightly.
"It is wonderful, my son."
The clock on the Cathedral tower showed nine. It was time. Together, they entered the old colonial palace, and waited for the prizes to be announced. Teresa sat between husband and son, holding both their hands. The Oaxaca secretary of culture announced the third, then the second prize.
"The first prize," he continued, "a sum of 10,000 pesos, has been awarded to a scene from our pre-Columbian heritage…" his mother's grip tightened around Hector's hand, "…'The Sacrifice,' created by Family Mendez!"
In the roar of applause that followed, Hector observed his father's surprise turn into understanding. Rather than use his own name, he registered the booth to the whole family. Both Hector and Julian pushed Teresa forward to accept the prize.
