Math Problem #1.
In Chiapas, 75 people sneak onto the train. At Checkpoint One, 64 people run into the fields, 33 are caught, the rest hide and manage to re-board the train. At Checkpoint Two, half of those now on the train are stopped and asked for money. One-third of those have nothing and are taken into custody to be deported. The rest pay and are allowed to re-board. How many of the 75 make it to Oaxaca?
Yes, Papá would be so proud.
6
Oaxaca Once Again
Early the next morning, we woke to the sounds of sputtering motors that coughed and hacked, just like Tito on Sunday mornings, until one harsh eruption left a sudden silence. Once dressed, we emerged with our packs from Lupe’s house to find two weathered pickups and a flat-bed truck waiting beside Lupe’s truck of crafts. Several men huddled beside the trucks, some talking softly, others silent except for long deep sighs with each exhale of cigarette smoke. A few women lumbered over the uneven terrain. Wrapping their colorful rebozos tightly around them, they hugged themselves as they walked. They were returning from one of the small houses beyond, where they had dropped off their children.
I caught a quick glimpse of Manuel as he climbed onto the back of the flat-bed with one of Lupe’s sons. I think he looked up at me from under those thick brows, but the shadows kept any message hidden in the dark.
Rosa and I climbed onto the back of a pickup, joining some men and women who worked the corn fields with Lupe’s sons. As the trucks began to lurch forward and gain momentum, we huddled closer together against the cool morning air. A sleepy silence gradually escalated to animated conversation, so when Rosa and I were asked where we were going, this time I chose to relay our story. I added only that we were journeying on to el norte to look for our missing father. Suddenly we were bombarded with warnings and advice.
“Don’t trust anyone! ¡Por Dios, ten cuidado!” one man said, which had been Manuel’s constant warning to us as well.
“This is not a journey for young girls. There will be no good end.” An old woman shook a scolding finger at us, but before we could answer, another voice rang out, “How do you know? You’ve never traveled farther than Mexico City and lived all your life in the village where you were born!”
“May la Virgen de Guadalupe protect you,” whispered a man with large, sad eyes.
And finally, “Save up your money and get a good coyote. There is no other way.” These words we knew to be true, but unfortunately the most we had between us was not quite 500 pesos. Even a cheap coyote was significantly more than that.
To divert this doomed conversation, I began to ask them questions to see if anyone knew of my father or even Dolores Huerta. Not a glimmer of a response followed; in fact, all conversation came to a halt. We rode in silence for several minutes, bumping along the road.
An older man, who had been sitting quietly in the far corner, leaned forward suddenly and shouted, “What was that name again?”
Everyone turned in his direction. My heart fluttered as I replied, “Juan Cruz. Juan Miguel Cruz Ochoa.”
Even as I stated his full name, I realized it was unnecessary. My father was Juan Cruz to everyone. He would nod his head and in one swift exhale say, “Juan Cruz,” while shaking the hand of a new acquaintance. But as I shouted those four full names loudly so the old man could hear, they rang out across the length of that truck bed like a roll call, like a simple statement of existence—Juan Miguel Cruz Ochoa.
They fell with a thud as the man shook his head. “No, no! The woman’s name. What was it again?”
I waited until a passing truck roared by. “Huerta,” I tried, but it got no further than Rosa beside me. He cocked an ear in my direction. “Dolores Huerta!” I offered again with a forceful grunt.
His weathered face broke into a grin as he lifted a fist in the air. “¡Huelga! ¡Huelga!” he chanted, as my father had told us the striking farm workers had done long ago. “Strike! Strike!” I crawled down the center over knees and toes and sat down beside him, rubbing my thigh and realizing that my shoulder barely hurt.
“Yes, yes, I remember her,” he nodded. “I was working the grapes with some Filipinos when all that got started. What a woman. ¡Mujer increíble! The growers were afraid of her—called her ‘the dragon lady.’ And the workers, some of them wouldn’t even speak to her. Said a woman belonged at home with her kids, not running around doing a man’s work.” He laughed, exposing a large chipped tooth. “But they were just afraid of her. Hell, I watched a guy try to cross the picket line. ¡Ay! She got in his face and shamed him until he turned tail and ran.”
“But my father? You don’t remember a Juan Cruz?”
“No, lo siento. Don’t say that I do, just the dragon lady,” he said with a wink.
“Have you seen her since? Do you know where she is now?” I asked.
“Oh, that was years ago. Many years. No, I wouldn’t know about now.” He looked up at the others as if they had an answer, then back at me. He shrugged. “No sé. Maybe she’s dead?”
I bit my lip and sat back. Dolores, muerta? I hoped not.
“Why do you want to find her?” someone asked further down the row, but before I could answer I heard another voice shout, “She said she’s looking for her father, and maybe that woman knows something.”
A few scattered murmurs were followed by silence, until a man’s voice spoke. “Muchacha, I
