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THE BERRY MONSTER

Tue, 13 Oct 2009 07:44:57 -0700

YO SOY LUCAS, EL MONSTRUO COME-MORAS
I am Lucas, the Berry Monster

ME COMO TODAS, TODAS LAS MORAS
I eat all the berries

YUM, YUM, ¡ME LAS COMO TODAS!
Yum, Yum, I eat them all!

ESTA ES BILLY, MI CABRA COME-MORAS
This is Billy, my Berry-Monster goat

BILLY SE COME TODAS, TODAS MIS MORAS
Billy eats all my berries

YUM, YUM ¡SE LAS COME!
Yum, Yum, he eats them up!

¡ALTO! LE DIGO A BILLY, ¡NO TE LAS COMAS!
Stop! I tell Billy, don’t eat my berries!

¡B-A-A-A-A-A! DICE BILLY… ¡Y SE LAS COME!
B-a-a-a-a-a-a! Says Billy...and then eats them!

ENTONCES LO AMARRO DE UN ÁRBOL
So I tie him to a tree

ESA NOCHE, ME BROTAN DOS CUERNOS
That night, I grow two horns

Y UNA BARBA PELUDA…
and a bushy beard…

¡Y UNA COLA APESTOSA!
and a smelly tail!

¡B-A-A-A-A-A! LLORA EL MONSTRUO COME-MORAS
B-a-a-a-a-a-a! cries the Berry Monster

HASTA QUE PAPÁ ME DESPIERTA
Until daddy wakes me up

Y CON BESITOS BORRA LOS CUERNOS
And kisses my horns away

LA BARBA
And the beard

Y LA COLA
and the tail

YO SOY LUCAS, EL MONSTRUO COME-MORAS
I am the Berry Monster

Y ESTA ES BILLY, MI MASCOTA COME-MORAS
And this is Billy, my Berry-Monster-pet

JUNTOS COMEMOS TODAS, TODAS LAS MORAS
Together, we eat all the berries

THE HAT LADY

Wed, 12 Aug 2009 07:39:09 -0700

OF SHADE AND OF PALM

The lady is not a woman of the sea. She doesn’t like to expose her snow-white skin to the sun. Or smell the hideous odor of that bisque with its sewer stink -- and no wonder, with so many ignoramuses doing their necessities right in the water. She, who could just as well be in her clean swimming pool, ordering margaritas from the servant, is here instead, suffering her husband's Sunday whim. How he loves to mix with the hoi polloi! She can put up with almost everything from him, but what she really can't stand is that libidinous gaze he casts toward those young girls in tangas.

Raising a jeweled hand she summons the hat seller.

The hat seller has walked all the way from her village on the banks of the Pánuco River to the sea. She has come to sell the hats woven by her deceased mother. No one in Tancoco makes them anymore like she did: all of one piece and rolled in a spiral. They don't soften the zapupe at the break of dawn, nor do they sing their prayers in Teenek, nor do they weave the warp and woof in the sagra design. Nowadays everyone is in a hurry. They cut the palm fresh and work the strips dry, breaking them. They weave miniatures: little roosters or plumed birds that they sell at the tianguis together with imported caps.

"Chose one for me," she orders, rudely.

The hat seller offers her best, most finely crafted hat. It is the last one her mother made. The woman admires it. She is a connoisseur.

"I'll give you 20 pesos," she bargains, putting it on.

THE MONSTERS DOWNSTAIRS

Mon, 3 Aug 2009 10:48:44 -0700

For years, I have written stories to my nieces, nephews, brothers, sisters, friends and sons. But since my grand-baby Lucas was born, three years ago, most of my stories have been for him and about him.

I am posting the latest one for all to enjoy. It was my gift to Lucas for his third birthday.

The Monsters Downstairs

When the moon peeks over the roof

And the frogs start croaking

And the fireflies sprinkle the yard

EVERYWHERE

Lucas hears them

They are roaring

they are BIG

they are…

The Monsters Downstairs!

Mommy says: there are no monsters, Lucas

But Lucas says: Yes they are

THEY ARE EVERYWHERE!

So Daddy says, OK. Lets go fight them!

And he rolls up his sleeves

And he puffs his BIG muscles

and he goes downstairs

to the dark, dark, basement…

While Lucas waits at the top

And he waits and waits and waits

until his ears itch

because he hears NOTHING

So he slowly he opens the door

And suddenly…

THERE A MONSTERS EVERYWHERE!!!

But they are laughing

They are SINGING!

They are…

NICE MONSTERS!!!

So Daddy brings them all upstairs

and tucks them in Lucas’ bed

and reads them all a book

about frogs, and fireflies

until the moon hugs the sun

way over the roof.

FULL HOUSE

Sun, 12 Apr 2009 19:01:04 -0700

More than two hundred people joined us for the third event of our Beyond One Language Series, sponsored by 4Culture and the Seattle Neighborhood Programs. The event was held at the Langston Hughes house in Seattle. This time, we featured the Quechua language and music form Peru, translating their poetry from Quechua to Spanish and English. In addition, performers from the Afro-Peruvian connection performed to a captivated audience of more than two hundred people. Afterwords everyone enjoyed a traditional Peruvian dinner. It was a great time!! Our next event on June 12th, 2009 will feature Chile, and the Mapuche language, art and literature. Hope to see you there!

BEYOND ONE LANGUAGE

Sat, 14 Mar 2009 00:00:00 -0700

When: Saturday, March 14, 2009
7:00 to 8:00 pm • Theater and Poetry and Music
8:00 to 9:00 pm • Mingling, Munching and more Music

Where: Langston Hughes Performing Arts Center
104 - 17th Ave South, Seattle WA 98144-2107

Who:

Music by Quichua Mashis (with Francia Recalde), a music group composed of Native Quichua members, all originally from Ecuador. The group has performed in Europe, South America, Japan, Canada and the United States. Since 1993, Quichua Mashis has been based in Seattle. They play traditional instruments, made of bamboo, sheep hooves, goat skins and armadillo shells.

Theater by the AFrican ConeXion Project (directed by Rose Cano), which shows the blending of African and Spanish heritage in the Americas. The Project seeks to unite Latino and African theater, dance and music of the diaspora, making the connection between Afro-Latino and African American roots, culture, and history.

Poetry by Jorge Enrique González-Pacheco, the Havana-born poet and writer. González-Pacheco is the author of numerous books of poetry, published in Mexico and Spain. A former staff member of the renowned Cuban Film Institute, he began publishing his poetry in 1991, when he was 22.

For Whom: All are welcome • event is free and open to all

With Thanks: House of Writers / Casa de Escritores, Hedgebrook, 4 Culture; Seattle Neighborhood Matching Funds; La Sala; Mexican and Spanish Consulates in Seattle; and Viva la Musica

For more info: Paola Casla, paolacasla@hotmail.com
http://houseofwriters.blogspot.com

Cover Illustration by © Marcio Diaz / www.marciodiaz.com

LES DEJO EL MAR/ I LEAVE YOU THE SEA

Tue, 3 Mar 2009 14:29:22 -0800

Without Pilar (page 15)

Grandmother Feli came to her senses with a blow.
One day, her eyes finally dried up from so much crying and all of a sudden discovered, snuggled in her lap, her frail, salamander-looking granddaughter. At first, she thought the child was dead. But then she noticed the snot fluttering from the freckled nose, at the rhythm of her breathing, and she realized the poor child was still alive but about to perish from malnutrition.
For days, Meche, her faithful servant, had been warning her:
-For the virgin of Mercy, Doña Feli, be sensible. Can’t you see we are loosing this child?
But to no avail. Ever since grandmother Feli had returned from Veracruz, where she identified the dead body of her oldest child Pilar, she did nothing but rock back and forth in her wicker chair, without speaking or understanding, and without an ounce of desire to do so. In that terrible moment in which her eyes recognized the child she had given birth to, thirty three years before, something inside her had shattered and thus broken, the old woman had returned home, to the soothing comfort of her rocking chair in the city of Tuxtla Gutierrez. Her granddaughter had landed in her lap, because this is where her husband, Manuel, had strategically placed her, He hopped, against all odds, that the warmth of the young body would eventually untangle the knots of his wife’s head.

Looking for sons in law and Seville (page 21)

Adelaida Astudillo de Álvarez de la Reguera possessed the longest and most pretentious name in the whole new and old Spain. And faithful to her name, she was a complicated woman. On the one hand terribly warm to her beloved but on the other, unmercifully hateful toward those who made a grave mistake and annoyed her. And right now, señorita Oneto, matchmaker by trade, was about to be thrown from one frontier to the other for not paying proper attention to her daughter’s marriage requests. Four months had elapsed since she had hired the woman to find suitable husbands for her daughters, Joaquina and Pilar. And as far as she knew, the matchmaker had not, as of yet, secured a single proposal.

The price of doubt: Two Our Fathers (page 221)

Either he was gay or he wasn’t, but somehow Licho had to find out and settle the matter once and for all. This business of his older brother always calling him a faggot in front of the whole wide world, had to stop. He bugged him so much, that often the vulnerability of his thirteen years would get the better of him and make him doubt. It was then that terror would creep up and squeeze his soul prompting him to commit acts which, just to think of them, made him feel ashamed.
-Excuse me, señora –he had asked that very morning to the fruit merchant in the market- I’m not a faggot, am I?
-And what the hell do I care? -She had replied, angrily- Nasty brat, thinking up dirty stuff. Are you paying for that papaya or do I pull it out of your sack?

A light in the horizon (page 435)

In this life, one of two things happens: either we actually endure hardship or we spend our lives afraid that one day we will endure it. What’s good about having been in the first category -of those who have already suffered loss-, asserts aunt Cris, is the peace one feels when the pain subsides and gives way to resignation.
Licho resigned to his widowhood shortly after returning from Manzanillo. As soon as his leg healed sufficiently, he ironed his white hospital gown, he put it on and he knocked at the Serdán Hospital’s door asking for work. They hired him at once, of course, and before long, he had saved enough pesos to open his clinic, once again, on the same corner of Arista and Clavigero.
Swift as a candle’s wick burning, the rumor spread that the agreement between doctor Victoria and the famous stork had been renewed. That once again, with his able hands, the young widow doctor would slap the butts of precious bundles to deliver them into the Jarocha society.
At this news, the women in town returned, carrying bellies of various sizes, and sometimes without them -which was precisely the problem- to seek his services. Teresa, the nurse with monumental breasts and golden dyed hair, retained by doña Pilar herself, bless her soul, right before her passing, -because of the woman’s ability to fill out the agenda, - would welcome them at the door. Pointing her large breasts, like pistols, this time she demanded payment in advance. This time, doctor, she’d tell Licho, "we are not in a position to do charity”.
It was then that life took pity on Licho and decided to give him back all which had been taken from him so suddenly: his health, his work, his house and his children. Slowly, his vital organs settled once again where they belonged and started to function as God intended them to. Treatments finally stopped and, although physical therapy continued for quite a while, eventually, all that was left were three medications and a cane. And then, not even that. Later, in his old age, his body would recall the injuries suffered and force him to face them. But in those days, when the one thing he had left was plenty of will, he managed to keep his impairments at bay, resolved as he was to live the life of a healthy man. His financial situation improved as well. After a few months, the revenue from the hospital and office generated enough to pay for the deposit of an apartment and the first two weeks of one of the topsy-turvy nannies that would parade in and out of his new home. Nonetheless, his major achievement was, without a doubt, the fact that he had gathered his children who, with their customary joyfulness, filled his life again with chatter. And thus, distracted, with the mishaps of their upbringing, and his new routine, Licho suddenly found himself, feeling happy.

A LA FUERZA / BY PURE FORCE This story is being published in the Spring of 2009 forthcoming issue by the literary magazine Nimrod

Tue, 3 Mar 2009 13:46:55 -0800

(Translation by Wendy Call)
Now, at the ripe old age of seventy-three, I finally understand that my father was wrong when he said, “Nothing ever fits by pure force, m’hija. Not even old shoes.” And so he warned me when I was a child, lulling me to sleep in the hammock, under the flamboyant tree at dusk. Tired after another day hacking at sugarcane – that ungrateful bush that crushed his spirit, broke his back and his dreams – for a fistful of beans. There, swinging in the hammock he counseled me, at the hour when mosquitoes hold sway.
Today, I still hear his rasping voice, hardened by too much liquor and tobacco – neither of which, in the end, managed to assuage his sadness. “Not even shoes fit by pure force, m’hija,” he would murmur, and I, that little girl nodding off in his arms, believed him.
I believed him until I was thirteen, until that dreadful day that he took me to the city and delivered me to the rich people. After all, it was time for me to earn a living, and further, “Here, you will want for nothing, m’hija, take good advantage of what these people give you; remember, not even shoes…”
“Will fit by pure force.” I finished the old saying, because his voice caught in his throat and tears flooded his eyes. I promised to do my best in this new life, though I had never needed anything other than his scent of woodsmoke and wet earth.
As it happened, in the rich people’s house, everything did fit. It came in by pure force. The señora’s screams pierced me, for not picking over the lentils well enough, for failing to get all the stains out of the soiled underwear, for washing the dishes poorly, for speaking like an Indian peasant. The slaps crossed the threshold from all directions, especially from the cook, for getting in her way in the kitchen, for messing up the pantry, for poking my nose around and spying on her when she was necking with the gardener. The pinches from the spoiled girls also came in, unbridled, for not having made up the beds, not having braided their hair perfectly, or simply because they were bored and had nothing else to do.
The patrón entered my room one day, without knocking. He came in drunk and vehement, to teach me that by pure force, everything could enter – of course it could! With just a shove and a smack or two. By pure force, the shoe will fit. By pure force, even Cinderella’s glass slipper fits the calloused foot of a sleazy Indian like me. No point in being stubborn. Better to close one’s eyes and go limp. Better to let everything go limp – most of all, one’s conscience.
I wanted to show my father his mistake. I returned barefoot, walked all the way to my village, but I arrived too late. In the hammock, in the shade of the flamboyant, I waited for him until dusk fell. I waited for him all that night and many more. I waited until all the nights fell, at once, on my broken body. When the cane-burning began, I ran over the cloak of ashes, ferreting through desert rubble. I overturned rocks, scratching at fire scars and clearing away scorched roots, without finding him. The dusty rumor that clung to my footprints swore to have just seen him, dead in some ravine. The cane – and the drink – took him away, it whispered, he was taken kicking and screaming. By pure force.
I set out again headed North, barefoot, walking on my charred soles, chasing that fistful of beans that had so eluded my father. I crossed mountains, rivers and borders, doggedly pushing ahead, my perforated body as my only shield, the same shield that so deftly deflected misfortune and mishap. And so I arrived here, intact, on the other side. To lush, irrigated valleys. Abundant orchards. It was then that I, a pierced woman, demanded everything from life.
Yes it can, damn right it can, has been my motto. With my eyes closed and my conscience stifled – but lucid – I earned it all: my living, a roof over my head, a full pantry and a pile of children and grandchildren, who I never gave away to anyone. I surrendered my life to the apple – that ungrateful fruit that has left my back bent but my dreams intact. And now, though these prison bars would detain me, my essence flees. Like sand through a sieve, my old age slips through the cracks. And I walk free, leisurely, through rich fields. I walk barefoot, a dark-skinned Cinderella, smelling of woodsmoke and wet earth, which I reclaim day by day, with this arthritic fist, by pure force.

BLUSA BLANCA / WHITE BLOUSE University of Almeria’s Anthology “El Arte en las Migraciones” (2008)

Tue, 3 Mar 2009 13:43:44 -0800

(Translation by Wendy Call and House of Writers)
SeÒora Joan is willing to tolerate the fact that Aurora always arrives late, that she seems incapable of adequately dusting the shelves, that she doesn't make the beds with hospital corners, and that she will not -- not even incidentally -- lift the rug to sweep the damned marble floor. But this -- the way that she takes the laundry and throws it in the basket without folding it, the fact that she couldn’t care less if the sweaters are in knots and the pants wadded up like pork rind-- this makes her blood boil. The clothes wrinkle, and no matter how much they are ironed later, the wrinkles remain. And she, a well-respected attorney in a prominent law firm, can’t afford to be seen with a bunched-up skirt covering her rear end. And neither can she waste her time on housework. Which is why she pays that woman the fortune that she does. So that the clothes will be ironed as God willed. And that woman, rather than kiss her feet for giving her the job that so many illegals would die for, goes around trashing everything.
Aurora will not return to work in seÒora Joan’s house. At the end of her day, when she says goodbye, the seÒora hands her an envelope with the rest of her two-week pay. She also gives her a black plastic bag filled with clothes.
ìDon’t even bother to show up tomorrow, my dear,î she says, in that English that Aurora hardly understands. ìAnd if you don’t want this clothing, please feel free to give it away. I hope you have fun ironing those wrinkles.î
On the bus back to her house, Aurora opens the bag and finds the same clothes that she had left to air dry. The seÒora’s elegant and complicated machine scared her. She never understood which of the buttons she was supposed to push and she feared that the clothes would shrink. She didn’t want to ask the seÒora about it, either, because of her bad temper. She gets so angry when Aurora doesn’t understand. You need to improve your accent, the seÒora hectors. You are in this country, learn to speak properly. I don’t understand a word of your Spanglish.
Aurora has spent months going to classes at the church to learn how to speak properly, but mostly, to please the seÒora. Twice a week, every Monday and Wednesday, she goes with her neighbor, another norteÒa, to the Santa Luisa parish church, where a sweet old woman tires to explain the tangle of her language. They go after tidying up their houses and putting the children to bed. They go, but only when their husbands are in good moods. The real problem isn’t the classes, but the homework. Every time Aurora sits down to study vocabulary, her eyelids close and she falls asleep. But the worst part isn’t how tired she is, but that there just doesn’t seem to be space enough in her gourd. In Mexico, she’d never attended school. But now...well, none of this mattered. SeÒora Joan fired her. She lost her job because she is as dumb as a burro. Because she is lazy.
Aurora gets off the bus and walks the ten blocks to her house. The bag is heavier than a sack of onions. She makes slow progress, shifting it from arm to arm. The afternoon wanes; the rain comes down harder. At the sixth block she stops to rest her feet, which are puffed up like pork tamales. At the next bus stop she takes refuge from the rain under the shelter. Sitting on the bench, she opens the bag again and examines the clothes more carefully. At the bottom, she finds that blouse that the seÒora likes so much. Snow-colored and soft, it has a label that reads Liz Claiborne. Impulsively, she takes off her coat and puts it on, over her threadbare dress. The lace on the sleeves is lovely, as are the pearl buttons. It smells of expensive perfume.
The bus is late. When she finally gets home, her angry husband confronts her. -- ìYou’re late, again.î He yells, and then ìHurry up, woman. We're hungry!î
Aurora’s husband is willing to tolerate the fact that his wife keeps the house like a pigsty, that she doesn’t know how to make a sorry pot of beans, and that she can’t take care of the children -- who run around the neighborhood like little wild animals. He tolerates all this, and even more. It has been months since his wife opened her legs. Night after night she brays about her aches and pains, how tired she is, as if he himself didn’t bust his ass working in that hellhole, of a fish processing plant. Yes, he has plenty of aches and pains when he comes home, reeking of rotting fish. He forgives her all of this, even her snubs, but what he isn’t willing to tolerate, what he simply can’t stand, is he fact that his wife doesn’t have a shred of pride. Putting on her patrona’s used clothing, as if she were a beggar, as if she didn’t have a husband who takes care of her, infuriates him. Besides, like the saying goes: a monkey may be dressed in silk but she is still a monkey. And the monkey, standing there, dressed in that expensive rag, rather than show her gratitude to him for everything he has given her -- they’re poor, it’s true, but they’ve never gone without -- she goes around so full of herself, showing off those charity clothes, probably to flirt with someone. She's probably been opening her legs for someone else -- since she wasn’t for him. That’s for sure. Which explains why she always comes home late. The slut! Wrapping her legs around some good-for-nothing on every street corner.
Aurora wouldn’t see the white blouse again. Her husband, maniacally angry, tears it off of her. Two pearl buttons roll across the floor. He grabs the plastic bag, ripping it. When he leaves the house, he slams the door and that the windows rattle. The scandalous squeal of tires from his pick-up truck alerts the neighbors that it’s another one of those days, and they better close their blinds and their doors, they better not even come close, unless they want to suck the barrel of his shotgun. When he arrives at the Goodwill deposit box, he smokes his brakes on the pavement, gets out of the truck and flings the bag into the green wagon. He kicks the box for good measure. The white blouse lands on a beat-up lamp.

Jacinta Mextzin returns to Mexico tomorrow. They say that la migra is building walls all along the river and she’s far too old to go around climbing walls. Yesterday, finally, she bought her bus ticket. It was painful to give up the blessed bills, that she had kissed so many times, each time she received them, as she carefully rolled them up, like a taco, in a rubber band. Five years of hard work and sacrifice at the hands of that man with vulture eyes-- better that she forget him. That man, who should have helped her bring her daughter Lupita al Norte. Instead, just when had saved enough, it turned out she, herself, had to return. But such is life; only God knows why things happen this way. ìYour daughter has cancer,î the doctor said, ìand before you are separated from her forever, by this wall or something worse, God forbid, better that you return home.î Because of this, Jacinta is returning to her rancho by the same path that she left it. The only thing that Jacinta asks from la SantÌsima Trinidad is that He not yet takes Lupita to the heavens. Let me give her a blessing, merciful SeÒor, she prays to the Omnipotent One, reciting another Our FatherÖ.
At the Goodwill store, Jacinta finds Aurora’s white blouse. She tries it on; it feels so soft and smells so good. It’s size ìMî – exactly Lupita’s size. She imagines her daughter in white, black braids resting against the lapels. She counts the loose change in her wallet and sees that yes, there is enough. A dollar for the blouse and fifty cents for the two buses that bring her to the trailer she shares with her niece Herminia in White Center. Jacinta gets off at the last stop with her paper bag that says Safeway. The afternoon is waning and the rain is coming down harder. When she finally opens the front door and takes refuge inside her home, her niece confronts her, scolding. ìThere you are, tia, buying more junk,î she yells, punching Jacinta's overstuffed duffel bag. ìWhere do you think you’ll put this, with everything else you gotta carry? Don’ think for a minute that the bus driver is gonna help you, they ain’ here like they are in your rancho. No mulas in this country to help you!î
The niece has put with so much from her Aunt Jacinta. She’s put up with her snoring, her constant bitching, and her candles, rosaries, incense, old wives tales, and the whole collection of virgins and saints. All for who the hell knows what. For nothing. She has been putting up with all this shit, out of respect for her graying hair, and now, because her aunt’s daughter is dying. But what she cannot not tolerate, not for one more minute, is the way the woman goes around criticizing how she earns her living. ìAsk God to forgive you, m’ija,î Jacinta tells her all the time. ìThere are other ways to earn our tortillas.î As if the old woman were better than everyone else. ìAll work is dignified work, seÒora,î Herminia had to throw back at her. ìEven bein' a puta. Jus so you know, I don’t need God’s pardon. I do it outta necessity and so it’s not a sin. You don’t need to go around crossing yourself, cuz if it weren’t for my work, you wouldn’t have had a place to live, or food to eat, or anything to pay that damn bus to take you back t’your little rancho. That miserable twenty bucks they pay you a day to chase aroun' those snot-nosed brats, wouldn’t even be enough for you t’go round the block.î
Lupita will never wear Aurora’s white blouse. When Jacinta finally crosses the bridge over the brook, just half a kilometer from her rancho, she finds her granddaughter, MarÌa, scrubbing clothes on a rock. When Jacinta sees the black ribbons twisting through her thick braids, she knows she has arrived too late. MarÌa lifts her eyes, discovers her grandmother and runs to greet her. Jacinta wraps Maria in her arms and plants on her damp forehead the blessing she has been saving for her late daughter. She doesn’t have to bend down to offer it. Her granddaughter is no longer a girl. She is a tall, beautiful young woman, the image of her Lupita. The grandmother pulls the white blouse from her morral and hands it over. It is just her size. Maria has never touched cloth so soft and perfumed.

Octavio Reynoso puts up with everything about Maria because never before has he laid eyes on a Chamula as tasty as her. That's why, the day she showed up at the maquila looking for work, he hired her immediately. It made no difference that the teen hardly spoke Spanish and he didn’t give a damn that she had shown up in his office without an appointment, wearing huaraches and a peasant’s huipil, wrapped up in a shawl that reeked of burned sugarcane. Underneath the thick embroidery on the rough fabric, Octavio could see those juicy melons and knew that no one else had nibbled them. At that very moment, he decided to take them as his own. Since then, Octavio has tolerated everything about the Chamula: that she shows up late for work, that she breaks the thread on every seam, that she sews the buttons in the wrong place, that she can’t get the pleats straight. But what he absolutely cannot tolerate, the thing that boils his blood, is that every time he wants to charge her for her carelessness – with an innocent little nibble or a quick grope at the sweet thing under her skirt, MarÌa reacts as if she were a society woman and not some criadilla who is lucky to be his employee. No. Octavio is not willing to tolerate her snubs for another minute. Who knows what she thinks, that little brat, but it’s high time to ride her from behind and tame her, once and for all. That’s the only way ungrateful bitches like her understand. Someone has to educate her, teach her some respect, teach her to accept her place in the maquila, though at first she’ll grumble. They’re all the same. As soon as they get a taste for his untamable animal, he can't get them off of him. The whores!
MarÌa will not sew another blouse in the maquila. As soon as her trembling hand stitch the tag of the last Liz Claiborne blouse of her shift-- a blouse identical to the one she wears, the one her grandmother Jacinta brought her del norte -- she rises from her seat, walks over to the office and collects her pay. She flees the building without looking back. In tears. On the bus back to the rancho, MarÌa rips off her blouse under her poncho, opens the window and throws the white blouse, still soft and perfumed, to the wind. The fabric opens and cartwheels, a kite that, for an instant, resembles a white dove. Little by little it descends, zigzagging, until it is lost in a cornfield. The vast countryside, the color of straw, opens and envelops the dirty rag, thrown away, without a label. One more garment exposed to the sun, to the rain, and to the night dew.

SeÒora Joan has spent the day rubbing shoulders with the professional cream of the city of Seattle. On her way home she stops at the mall, parks her BMW, and walks into Nordstrom store to buy a white blouse. She is anxious to replace the one that she had to give to that useless Aurora. When she finally finds it, on sale, she pays with her visa. She wants miles on her Continental account. She only needs ten more for her next trip to Europe.