Ay, Mama: Part II

We took a train to Guadalajara. My mother called the mountains we traveled through the Sierra Madre. She told me stories of the Indians who lived there, and along the way we stopped in small towns and bought jewelry and fruit from them. We took photos beneath waterfalls and sat on the balcony space at the back of the car watching the fireflies in the darkness and listening to the train roll through tunnels.
When we finally got off of the train for good, we took a taxi to the school where I would be living. Jus t like my mother had promised, there were fields full of the most beautiful flowers I’d ever seen all along the way. When we finally turned on to the last long dirt road, I caught my first glimpse of Our Lady of Eternal Sorrows School for Girls. It looked like the old missions I had seen in books in California.
Holding my mother’s hand, I followed the woman who met us at the two open, large wooden doors. She was dressed in a nun’s attire, and didn’t look at me, even when my mother introduced her to me as Sor Adela. They spoke to each other in Spanish; I could only understand every other word. The woman led us through a courtyard through which men and woman bustled, carrying flowers, baskets, blankets, and trinkets of all the colors of Copper Canyon.
“We’ll look around later,” she said “sit here, mi vida, I’m going to talk to the sisters, don’t move from this spot.” My mother motioned to a row of benches along the west wall of the courtyard. Behind the row of benches was a small garden of flowers with bees bouncing from the bright, open precipices of flower petals. I sat on the very last bench, on the edge closest to the door through which my mother followed Sor Adela and her  straight mouth.
The courtyard, I noticed, only had one true exit, the giant wooden doors doors through which I entered. Directly aligned across the courtyard from the two front doors were the equally large wooden doors of the church, which were also open. The church building was beautiful, with a humble bell tower atop its head, like a crown, descending from the highest point in the middle in the shape of two staircases leading to the two corners at East and West. Here, the church building merged into the walls that lined the courtyard, boxing it in. Both walls were decorated with a series of doors and windows, with women and girls emerging and disappearing into them carrying dishes, brooms, food, candles, and bundles of clothing.
From somewhere in the crowd, the sounds of guitar strings started up in a fast-paced rhythm that snapped and popped, then stopped. Then a man’s voice floated into the air, it rose high, high, high, like smoke. A long, sad cry that vibrated and held then dissipated. Suddenly, guitar and voice sprung back to life together in a quick, happy rhythm that I couldn’t understand..
“Mi Vida,” I turned to see my mother at the door through which she disappeared, waving me over. “We’re going to take a little tour of the dormitories, you’ll see where I used to sleep when I lived here, and won’t that be cool?”
“Her name is Sor?” I asked my mother. She through her head back and laughed. When she looked down at me again, there were tears in her eyes.
“Sor is how you address a nun, mi vida. Her name is Adela. It’s kind of the way you would say ‘How are you today, Father so-and-so’ to a priest. Right?”
I nodded my head at took her hand. I held it hard; I sensed it would be a very long before I felt my mother’s skin again.
Just then, the church bells began to toll. There had been a church near our little house in El Paso, and I was use to the sound of the bells, but these were different. These bells were terrifying, like the sound of a disaster alarm. 
My mother led me into the building, which was lit entirely by the rows of windows that lined the walls. It was, essentially a long hallway, speckled by doorways every few feet, windows between every door, and small paintings and photographs of saints. I didn’t know who any of them were.
Sor Adela took us on a short, curt tour of the school and dormitories. I was beginning to think that everything about Sor Adela was short and curt, aside from the fact that she was very tall. She walked us quickly through the different rooms I would become familiar with: the small T.V. room with its three love seats and coffee table, the busy kitchen where the girls prepared meals for the nuns, the washroom where I would do my own laundry in a large sink, the rear courtyard where I would hang my clothes out to dry.
She took us to see the room where I was supposed to sleep. It was very white, like the walls, floors, and sheets had all been soaked in bleach and left to fry in the sun. There were six small beds along the walls, and at the end of room were two large armoires which served as closets for the girls. She pointed to spot where my clothes would go, and to the drawer where I could put my things.
“Was this your room?” I asked my mother.
“No, but it looks just like it. I’ll see if we can take a detour to my old room.” She smiled at me then looked over to Sor Adela and began to open her mouth.
La niƱa no habla espanol?” Sor Adela interrupted sharply, with her eyebrows up to her hairline. She wanted to know if I spoke Spanish. My face was turning red. While my mother explained to her the explained to her the extent of my linguistic abilities, or lack thereof, I turned my attention to the windows through which the voice of the man in the courtyard was dancing. I noticed, while the woman scoffed at my stupidity, that a woman had joined him, as had a violin. I wanted to peer through the window, to see if I could find them in the crowd below.
“Mija, you’ll have to speak Spanish only here, ok? It will be good practice for you, hm?” She said as she squeezed my hand. I nodded.
Sor Adela walked briskly past us and left the room without looking at either of us. We followed her to the final stop of our tour; apparently we would not be visiting my mother’s room. She led us to the chapel of the church, and explained that the girls were to report to mass every morning at five.
As we stepped into the chapel, I was struck first by the smell of incense. The room was not very large, and it was much darker than the rest of the building, lit only by candles decorating the altar at the head of the room.
When my eyes had finally adjusted to light, I noticed a small subsection at the back of the room which housed a single pew that faced away from the altar. While there was nothing really separating it from the rest of the chapel, it looked very private. In front of the single pew was a large painting of Jesus Christ.
 While my mother continued to whisper to Sor Adela, I wondered over to the painting, which looked so real to me from a distance. I noticed, when as I approached it, that it looked very real up close, too. Jesus was wearing a brilliant white robe and descended from the clouds with his arms outstretched. His skin looked like powder, his eyes so blue, and his smile so gentle and warm. As I stared, I felt as though the clouds were beginning to wisp and float around his feet and out of the canvas. I wanted to reach up and touch the flowing brown locks that blew in the celestial wind of paint.
I turned to sit on the pew, and was startled to find a woman kneeling in front of it. I hadn’t noticed her there, and it didn’t look like she was aware of me, either.  She was kneeling before the painting with her eyes closed; she held a rosary to her breast and was praying in a soft whisper.
She wore a white cotton dress which glowed crisply in the candlelight against her mocha skin. She was so, so beautiful. Her hair was the darkest I’d ever seen, and its thick strands were held neatly in a braid that fell down the length of her slender back. I was frozen by the vision of her, like a deer in headlights. I could do nothing but stand there and listen to her pray; I dared not move and risk the moment’s end.
“Mija?” My mother’s voice broke the silence. The woman opened her eyes and glanced at me. She looked confused for a moment, and then smiled. I ran.
“There you are! Come on, I want to take a little walk with you before I have to go.” I remembered suddenly where I was, and what this day meant. I was about to say good-bye to my mother.
She took my hand and led me from the chapel toward the brightness of the courtyard. So Adela was nowhere to be found. We walked around the church building to an open field of wildflowers directly behind the church. It looked like we at the edge of town, there was nothing else behind the church.
“Sit with me, mi vida.” My mother said as she settled into the grass, adjusted her skirt, and patted the spot next her. “I want to have a little talk with you.” I did as she asked.
“Now,” she began after a few moments, “I want to make something very clear to you before I go: I love you. I don’t ever want you to think that I’m leaving you here because I don’t love you. Do you understand that? I love you so, so much; I love you more than anyone else in this entire world, and I would do anything to keep you happy and safe. Do you understand that?”

Ay, Mama: Part I


When I was four years old, my mother and I left El Paso, Texas for Tijuana. We were going to live with my father, she told me, on a big house right on the beach. When we got there, it was just like she said it would be. The house was big and every wall was painted a different color. There big plants growing from every corner, even inside. Everything smelled good, and my room had two bg doors leading to a balcony; I could hear the sea foam splashing on the shore at night.
At night, sometimes I would sleep in my parents’ room. I would sneak through the dark house to wide spot between them. I think I did it for comfort, but I often found that even from there,   the shadows of the trees and lamps resembled witches and strange men.
During the day, my parents would take me to the beach and teach me to fly kites. They would let me ride the horses you had to pay for, but I was never allowed to swim in the water. On some evenings, my father would play his guitar and my mother would sing; she always looked at me when she sang, and smiled so big.
Sometimes my father would leave, and while he was gone, my mother would cry. Then he came back, and my mother would take me to grandparent’s house down the street for a couple of days. One day my mother picked me up from my grandparent’s house and took me straight across the border to San Diego.
“We’re going to make a little change in our lives, okay?” She told me as we drove through the sunset through the streets of La Jolla. She stopped several times to use payphones and make calls, every time she came back to the car in tears, though she tried to hide them.
We pulled up to a two story yellow house where she got out and went inside to talk to the people who came to the door.  After a short while, an elderly man came to the car and pulled our suitcases from the trunk of the car. He was followed by an elderly woman who opened the car door and smiled in at me.
Bonjour, mon petit,” the woman crooned, “what’s your name?”
I didn’t answer. She kept smiling anyway and scooped me out of the car while my mother helped the man with the suitcases.
“My name is Suzanne, and I live here. How would you like to stay with me here for a little while?” I looked at my mother who smiled and pinched my cheek. We stayed in the yellow house for three days during which my mother spent a lot of time on the phone.
“Mija? I have something to talk to you about.” It was sunny day; I had just come inside with a jar full of lady bugs. “I’m going to have to go away for a little while.”
“Where are you going?”
“I’m going to Pheonix, your Tio Chuy has a restaurant there where I can get a job and work to make a little bit of money so that we can have our own house again. Wouldn’t that be great?”
“I can’t come with you?”
“Well, no, not right away sweetie. But I’m going to take you to a very special place I know about, somewhere that I spent a lot of time when I was a little girl your age.” She picked me up and hugged me to her breast. I could feel her tears falling into my hair.
“Where is it?”
“It’s a school for girls; it was the first school I ever went to. It’s just outside Guadalajara, Jalisco, where there are flower fields as far the eye can see! And guess what? The journey there is almost as beautiful as the destination; we’re going to have a fantastic vacation before I head to Pheonix. Pretty cool?”
I nodded my head and sucked my thumb.

Concrete Jungle

Finding somewhere to park on a Saturday afternoon in downtown El Paso is no minor feat. I roll the window down in my tin can car and let the warm breeze cool my sweat as I wait at the red light. Heat rises from the cement, and the feet of the men and women crossing the street in front of me sizzle in the blistering waves that make me thirsty.
When I find a spot and step into the heavy sun, I feel my clothes peeling from my back and thighs. The friction of walking into the busy crowd warms my body further, and as I pull my woolen hair into a bun, my elbows bump the sticky shoulders of the women talking loudly to their daughters. The shops compete for the pedestrians; young girls with big smile scream for you to step on in, step on in.
Children cry and reach with filthy fingers for the candy dripping from the silver carts at every corner. As I stand at one of these and reach into the sloshed ice to pull out a glistening bottle of water, I feel the steam from the ice evaporate against my skin. The water vanishes with a sizzle on my tongue at first, then finally small, cool river reaches my throat, my teeth freeze, my pores rise. I press the fogged plastic against my forehead and feel the loose stands of hair hug the bottle as I pay the young man who won’t look me in the eye. The cold sweat of the bottle mingles with the heat of my own and rolls over my temple and cheek, slips off of my chin, and disappears into the yellow sidewalk. I feel strong enough now, I think, to brave the heavy sun for one more block.

Virgin Hills

Think emerald. The mountains of Copper Canyon are a shimmering vision of a thousand emeralds. When I stood on the open deck of an old train as it coasted along the cliffs of Creel, I could close my eyes and inhale the moist foliage. The waterfalls’ mist rose from the river below, carrying to my lips the scents and flavors of wild flower blossoms which married my warm sweat- salt and honey.


The blue sky rules the mountains with its bright hot queen, the sun, who heats our bodies and sets, dimming in a dome of blood red and ocean blue. In the twilight, the fireflies glisten and bounce, and the sounds of the train groaning and thundering are all you have to remind you that you aren’t flying. The mist chills your skin, curls your hair, and quenches your lips. The dark mountains lord their beauty over us in the dusk; they look like looming nuns, guarding the virginity of this land.

Desert Storms

Sunday nights were usually rather quiet in the cantina at the edge of town, but this Sunday night felt like the smell of wet cement and lightening in the distance. The sounds of the twelve horses thundering over the desert hills shook the glasses on the shelves and Jonna, the lone bartender, put a shawl over her shoulders as if to protect herself from the rain surely about to fall.

As the thunder surrounded the small cantina, the three men at the bar exchanged knowing looks, stood, and faced the doors. Then there was silence, beautiful, terrible silence, and for a moment as the doors swung open and the light from the setting sun fell on Jonna’s wet face, it seemed as though the clouds were parting. Then, like a flash of lightening the shots erupted in a clap of thunder that drowned her final scream.

Crossing the Line

       The last time I went to Mexico was with my mother during the summer. It was a bright, white-hot day, the kind which is perfect for slipping into a shady restaurant patio for a beer (or two). We sauntered through the Mercado, poking our heads through the stands and picking through knick-knacks. Exploring the Mercado was my favorite things to do on weekends we spent in Juarez. It was noisy like a busy street; music seemed to come from everywhere. The colors were like a dream, some virtual hallucination; it felt hot, stuffy, sweaty, but I liked it. It felt intimate. I looked at the dresses and all the full, bright skirts; I studied the hammocks, pictured myself floating on one of those hand-made rainbows with a margarita in hand. I browsed the shoes hanging from the walls of one stand, huaraches like caramel slippers, smooth leather and braids. My mom sighed and said something about seeing better ones in Mesilla. In the end, I bought nothing. Nothing, that is, until I saw the young mother standing across the street.
She stood in the heavy sun, her long skirt making her look tilted in the warm breeze. She was so young, with watery eyes and a poignant, strong blue gaze.  She seemed to be waiting for someone to walk by, and when we did she stepped forward and held something out to me, but said nothing. She had a small child strapped to her back with a small, round, sticky face snuggled to the nape of her neck- big eyes that seemed to be laughing at me. I reached out and took the earrings from her, they felt cool to the touch; they were made from smooth brown watermelon seeds woven together into a teardrop pattern, dotted with beads. They almost looked like fish hanging from hooks. They were nothing like the colors of the Mercado (save for a couple of turquoise beads), but they seemed, somehow, more colorful and elaborate than anything inside.  I bought them, and a matching bracelet.
As we walked away my mother scoffed at me: “You know those women rent those babies to make people feel sorry for them, right?”
“You don’t know that,” I said under my breath as I cradled my new treasures in my glistening palm. “You don’t know that . . . for sure.”
We walked back to our car and made our way through the squealing breaks and unrelenting windshield washers that were the racket of the border. I had no idea then that it would be the last time I crossed that line. If I had known, I might have paid more attention, maybe I would have bought that rainbow hammock. I still have those earrings; I wear them all the time, and every time I pick them up, they still feel cool to the touch and they still look more bright and colorful than anything else in the room. Maybe wearing them makes me feel closer to the other side.  Maybe it makes it easier for me to imagine that the woman and her rented baby are standing outside the Mercado door today, under the heavy sun, holding her collection of brown weaved-seed jewelry. Maybe when I wear them I feel as though I could close my eyes, tug them three times like some sort of ruby slippers, and find myself in the shade of the Mercado again, sipping a Corona and laughing like the flapping of birds’ wings- wings that know nothing of borders.

"I have a barbed-wire fence neatly bisecting my heart."

Luis Alberto Urrea really said it best, didn't he?

In class this week we discuss the direction in which we believe Chicano/a literature will be going in the future. We read excerpts from Brides and Sinners in El Chuco, we read about Scenic Drive, the days when going to Juarez for a drink before your 21st birthday was a right of passage.

We all nod our heads in agreement as as someone talks about the sorrows of this generation of Chicanos and Chicanas living along the border: the memories of Mexico, dentists/doctors/pharmacies we visited, the places we like to shop/drink/dance/eat, the little half-built, salmon or sky-colored houses we lived in as children, the families we haven't seen in years, the home we cannot return to. Her voice cracks and she says it breaks her heart to abandon Mexico, the shame in giving in, the shame in being afraid.

"I hope this is over by the time I have children, I don't want them know Juarez like this; I want them to know Mexico as I once did, I want don't want this for them."

"Even when it's over," someone adds, "even when it's over, it won't be the same."

We all nod in agreement.

A Community Divided