That morning I woke early with an awed excitement that a bride must feel on her wedding day. Oh Rosa, be with me, I thought, squeezing my eyes shut and wishing hard. See through my eyes and share this end to our journey.
Berta drove me to the park, chatting to Luz but allowing me my silence. As we pulled to the curb, she reached over and took my hand. “You sure you don’t want me to go? I could help with Luz.”
A marching band not far from the car began to assemble in lines; beside them Aztec dancers adjusted their costumes. At the other end of the park, hundreds of people were gathered around a platform. I shook my head.
In my hand she placed her cell phone. “Call me when you’re ready. I’ll be waiting at home.” Then she leaned across and kissed my cheek. “Don’t be afraid to speak to her. Just push your way through the crowd.”
I smiled, thinking of the box cars, the Mexican officials, Señor José, and the blazing desert. If I had gotten this far, a friendly crowd would not be a barrier.
I stepped out of the car and eased Luz out onto the grass. After smoothing out her pink sweatshirt and straightening the bows in her hair, I took her hand and began to walk toward the platform. Fascinated by the feathers of the headdress, Luz stretched her arm toward the dancers.
“No, m’ija, not now. Later. We’ll see them later. Right now, we have to go over there,” I said, pointing toward the crowd.
She continued to watch the dancers as I dragged her along, finally forcing me to pick her up and carry her across the large field.
By the time I approached the rear of the crowd, I was sweating and short of breath. Luz felt like three times her weight. A woman was speaking but I could not see beyond the crowd, so I circled around to the far left and found myself on the side of the stage not far from the steps. I heard “¡Viva!” as the crowd responded to the speaker’s cheers.
And then I saw her.
After so many years and so many miles; each campesino, each weary traveler whose lined face spoke of sun, sweat, and struggle; each with a story about her that further piqued my curiosity or bolstered my fading strength: “What cojones, that woman! What determination and fire.” And just as I heard, first from my father years ago and repeatedly as I inquired throughout my long journey north, she was dressed in red. Bold. Determined. Red.
Dolores Huerta descended the podium and walked within arm’s reach. My heart raced, and I wanted to stop her. I wanted to take her arm and say, Dolores, because of you I stand here with my little daughter, Luz, squirming in my arms.
As if on cue, Luz arched her back and howled, “Down! Get down!” in loud, defiant English. But Dolores was walking away through the crowd of outstretched hands, her back obscured by dark-suited men, only flashes of red between them. The sun beat down with the fierceness of the desert sun that Rosalba and I endured. And I thought of the miles I journeyed, of the Guatemalan boys, the night of the blinding stars, the woman with the eyes of a saint, and, of course, of Manuel and Rosa. But mostly, I thought of my father, whose laugh was as clear in my mind as Luz’s face before me now.
I stepped forward.
“Dolores!” I said, my voice straining somewhere between a command and a plea.
As she turned, her smile was full and warm, like the sun breaking through a cool morning mist. Her eyes fell on Luz still struggling in my arms. Then she was beside me, the red sleeves reaching out, gathering my daughter to her hip, relieving me, for a moment, of my burden.
I paused, my heart racing; then she leaned forward slightly, her dark eyes fixed firmly on mine. She was listening, waiting, for me to speak.
“My name,” I faltered, “is Alma, and my father . . . he said . . . he said you were the fiercest woman ever to walk this earth.” Then I took a deep breath and began.
19
Waiting for Alma
I sat on the grass, watching Luz devour a blue snow cone. It dripped and splattered an elaborate design on her new pink sweatshirt, but it was the least I could do after our walk. We had marched the short distance between two parks with Dolores, trailing the Aztec dancers that kept Luz spellbound. During the walk, I poured out much of my story, and to my surprise it was she, not I, that asked most of the questions. We spoke mostly in English, with occasional Spanish for flavor, as Berta was fond of saying. I had become quite comfortable with my new language. After the march, Dolores had asked me to wait on the grass while she signed posters and T-shirts. When she was finished, she walked toward us, shaking hands along the way with her endless admirers.
“Can you manage a bit of a walk again? Let’s get beyond this crowd.” She reached down and helped Luz up as I stood. Together we walked again, the three of us hand in hand, Luz skipping between us.
We found a spot behind a tent where she managed to borrow two folding chairs. We settled ourselves and watched Luz gather tiny stones.
“Alma,” she said with such gentleness it touched my heart. “I am sorry to say I do not remember your father or Lara. I’ve met so many wonderful people throughout these years. But I think you expected that now, didn’t you?”
I nodded and added shyly, “I guess I just wanted to meet you—after all that’s happened—and to tell you my story.” I was slightly embarrassed, yet also comforted by her presence.
She sighed and seemed to tremble at the same time. “Well, Alma— there is more to
