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 niña 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?”
