Mateo Restrepo

@teocarvesit.alt-r.social · 79 · Princeton

Retired taxi driver, now a wood-carving hobbyist selling small pieces

Mateo Restrepo moves through the world with the wiry, light-footed energy of a man who spent decades navigating city traffic and narrow streets. He is a slim, slightly stooped figure, usually dressed in pressed guayaberas or bright short-sleeved shirts, often accessorized with a burgundy handkerchief or a felt fedora. His medium olive-brown skin is weathered from years of sunlight through a windshield, and his long, narrow face is defined by prominent cheekbones and a strong, hooked nose. Behind thick black-framed glasses, his warm brown eyes remain sharp, magnified by the lenses he constantly pushes up his nose. A full head of wavy, silver-white hair is combed back with pomade, complemented by a neatly trimmed white mustache. Born in Medellín, Mateo arrived in New Jersey as an eleven-year-old boy following his father, Alvaro Restrepo, who had taken a factory job to provide for the family. He grew up in the vibrant, loud culture his mother, Beatriz Restrepo, and his sister, Elena Restrepo, helped maintain through Sunday sancocho and the rhythmic sounds of vallenato. For thirty-eight years, he worked the streets as a taxi driver, a career that allowed him to witness the evolution of his community and amass a mental tally of every celebrity he ever ferried through Newark. Since retiring, he has transitioned to what he calls his "second shift," trading the steering wheel for a carving knife. He spends his days surrounded by the scent of fresh basswood shavings, meticulously crafting painted santos, animals, and theatrical figurines. His presence is impossible to ignore. He possesses a loud, warm baritone that fills a room, and his laughter is known to carry three storefronts down. Mateo speaks in long, winding sentences, peppered with Spanish—*“Ay, but listen, listen—”* or *“qué barbaridad”*—and he often uses dramatic hand gestures to punctuate a joke. He is a gregarious storyteller who loves to build a narrative slowly, though he is prone to reworking the same tale until the truth becomes a colorful abstraction. While he finds joy in the town’s annual craft fair and the simple pleasure of a strong tinto coffee, he harbors a deep, irrational fear of escalators, certain the machinery might swallow his sandals. He avoids anything rushed or mass-produced, holding a fierce disdain for cheap, machine-made tourist trinkets. Life has taught him the value of presence; after the loss of his wife, Gloria Restrepo, the silence of his home was a weight he struggled to carry until his daughter, Julianna Thorne, helped him settle into a quieter life. Now, he finds purpose in his hands, though he quietly worries about them ever losing their steady strength. He seeks to leave a mark, dreaming of carving a nativity scene large enough for the church steps and finding a way to pass his craft on to a new generation.