How I loved the gentle energy of this city. Though I would come to know much bigger cities, at the time this was large to me, especially compared to villages that I had seen with Papá. Though we always lived on the outskirts, I enjoyed traveling by bus into the heart of Oaxaca City—to the old zócalo, the magnificent centuries-old Cathedral of Our Lady of the Assumption, and the colorful Mercado Juárez. I especially liked watching the tourists from all over the world with their strange sounding languages. At a young age, I realized that there was a whole world out there that I couldn’t wait to explore, but traveling south to Chiapas was not what I had in mind.
Bumping along in the back of the bus, I tried to block vivid images of Oaxaca City from my mind, but all I could see behind my closed eyes was color, color everywhere! Streets lined with buildings in varied hues of gold, blue, and peach; paper flags strung across streets and along walls, red and green, pink and yellow, fluttering like glorious butterflies; and of course, at the Mercado de Benito Juárez, the city long block with colorful displays of food and fabric, trinkets and toys. ¡Los colores! All of these images blended and burst forth like the kaleidoscope Papá brought back for Ricardo years ago. I was certain there was a rainbow of tears streaming down my face.
It was a long tortuous journey, first by bus, then by pickup along winding mountain roads, and finally on foot up steep mountain terrain. There was color here as well. Green hills, trees, and brush, blue sky with thick white clouds hugging the tops of distant mountains, and brown, lots of brown, especially as we climbed higher and reached the stick house with a tin roof that Tito called home. Surrounded by dirt on all sides, it stood a few yards from a dilapidated chicken coop, its chickens running amuck. Goats bleated in the distance. A clothesline was strung between the house and a tree, and hanging from it were two faded men’s T-shirts and a ragged pair of pants, which matched the pair worn by a bare-chested, disheveled man who stepped out of the doorway, rubbing his eyes and approaching Tito with an outstretched hand. He was a friend, Tito joked, who was happy to get away from his wife and kids, while he kept an eye on Tito’s place. At the edge of the dirt yard, stacks of wood served as the base of a long table made from the same metal as the tin roof. Several buckets were scattered about the yard, as well as a few upended plastic crates that looked to be used as stools. In one far corner, a few white calla lilies stood tall and proud in the midst of this dreary sight. I was so physically exhausted and numb with emotion, I couldn’t cry. There was nothing left.
Rosa turned to me and swallowed hard. “We will make it a home, Alma. We will do our best.” Then a flicker of hope as she added softly, “At least for now.”
Our third year without Papá, we worked from dawn till dusk on this sad patch of land where Tito grew corn along the hillside and raised a few goats and chickens. He promised Mamá that he would build a better house one day. I don’t know if she believed him. I don’t even know if she really loved him. All I know is that she let him do things beneath the blankets at night. My head would pound, pound, pound as I held back my own screams of anger. How could she betray Papá?
I clung to Rosa like Mamá clung to Tito. There was nowhere else to turn. No Papá. No school. No future. Each day was the same. Tending the goats and the chickens, fetching water, cooking, washing. It was Rosa who suggested I teach the boys their numbers since even they were not attending school that year. Mamá promised that maybe in time she would enroll them in the schools of nearby Zinacantán, but for now, nine-year-old Ricardo and seven-year-old José were my pupils. So, for part of each day, I would sit them down in the dirt with sticks, stones, branches, and leaves, and work on addition, subtraction, and division. At night, once we were wrapped in our blankets in the dark, I would make them repeat the times tables over and over until Tito would curse for me to stop, and I would smile to myself and chant one more time: 3 times 2 is 6, 3 times 3 is 9, 3 times 4 is 12 . . .
How I wanted to leave, to return to Oaxaca and work for Mundo and wait for Papá. I said this to Rosa day after day, pleading with her to end this nightmare of a life.
One morning I threatened to leave on my own, telling her that she would wake up to find me gone. “Papá would be furious if he knew Mamá brought us here,” I said. “No one comes to Chiapas. They flee. There is nothing here but poverty and civil war and misery. We are strong young women, Rosa. We can find work and make our own lives. If you won’t see it, then I’ll go by myself!” The chicken that I was holding much too tightly let out a squawk and leapt from my arms.
At the same moment, Rosa said sharply like a school teacher, “Sit down!”
Startled, I immediately
