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Beatriz is not her real name.
Beatriz worked in a taco shop. When she was thirteen, some relatives had brought her up from Mexico to work for them. She lived with the relatives. It was a big, wealthy family. They owned property, and taco shops, among other things. Their house was always full of people. The owners had several children, and there were brothers and sisters of the owners, and their children, and there were also friends and visitors coming and going all the time, at the house and at the taco shop. Every day Beatriz worked in the shop. She worked there from six in the morning till eight in the evening when they closed. In the mornings she stood over the griddle and made tortillas. She cleaned and operated the big machines in the back that ground the corn. All day she cooked and made orders and washed dishes and cleaned the taco shop.
A brother of the owner began a relationship with Beatriz. She became pregnant and had a baby. Two years later, she had another baby from him. No one in the house acknowledged the relationship. The brother was caught molesting a young girl in the house and the family ran him off. Beatriz stayed on with the family, living in their house.
I would go over to the taco shop and Beatriz and I would talk while she worked. One day I asked her to write something down for me. She said she couldn’t. She said she was “analfabeta,” illiterate. She had dark eyes that could read your thoughts. We would talk about men. We would talk about our children. The family paid for Beatriz’s daughters to go to private Catholic schools. When the amnesty came, the family helped Beatriz to get her citizenship.
When her daughters were grown, Beatriz met a man who was living out of the neighbor’s basement. They started seeing each other in his room downstairs. Beatriz, in her forties, became pregnant. The man abandoned her. The daughters were ashamed of their mother. Beatriz worked all through her pregnancy. I would go in the taco shop and see her making tortillas over the hot griddle, her belly near the flames. Beatriz would go on the bus from work to the Sharp Mary Birch Hospital to see her doctor at the clinic there.
One day someone told me that Beatriz was in the hospital and had had her baby by emergency C-section. I went to see her. She was laying in bed, alone. I asked Beatriz what happened. She said that she had gone for her monthly clinic visit and was in the waiting room. When they called her name, she stood up and felt as if she were wetting herself. She looked down and blood. The last thing she remembered was seeing a security guard looking at her and walking toward her, calling to the nurse. She said the doctor afterwards asked her if she remembered anything and she said No. The doctor shook his head and said good. The doctor said she was extremely lucky this had happened in the hospital. I asked her where her daughters were. She said they had just left. She said her daughters had cried. I took her hand. I said that it wasn’t possible to believe that I had seen her one day and the next I would never see her again, breath and tears choking the words in my throat. Tears began to trickle down her cheeks.
Some months later, her man re-appeared. He and Beatriz found a little cottage apartment. The five of them moved in there and lived as a family, until the two older girls moved out, now it’s Beatriz and her man and the boy. Sometimes just thinking about when he was born, I cry. Beatriz works at another taco shop now, for a sister of the owner.
That day in the hospital when I visited her, Beatriz had looked at me a long time with her dark straight gaze. She had said, “En un abrir y cerrar de los ojos.” In an opening and closing of the eyes.
(Next week: Consuelo)
Beatriz is not her real name.
Beatriz worked in a taco shop. When she was thirteen, some relatives had brought her up from Mexico to work for them. She lived with the relatives. It was a big, wealthy family. They owned property, and taco shops, among other things. Their house was always full of people. The owners had several children, and there were brothers and sisters of the owners, and their children, and there were also friends and visitors coming and going all the time, at the house and at the taco shop. Every day Beatriz worked in the shop. She worked there from six in the morning till eight in the evening when they closed. In the mornings she stood over the griddle and made tortillas. She cleaned and operated the big machines in the back that ground the corn. All day she cooked and made orders and washed dishes and cleaned the taco shop.
A brother of the owner began a relationship with Beatriz. She became pregnant and had a baby. Two years later, she had another baby from him. No one in the house acknowledged the relationship. The brother was caught molesting a young girl in the house and the family ran him off. Beatriz stayed on with the family, living in their house.
I would go over to the taco shop and Beatriz and I would talk while she worked. One day I asked her to write something down for me. She said she couldn’t. She said she was “analfabeta,” illiterate. She had dark eyes that could read your thoughts. We would talk about men. We would talk about our children. The family paid for Beatriz’s daughters to go to private Catholic schools. When the amnesty came, the family helped Beatriz to get her citizenship.
When her daughters were grown, Beatriz met a man who was living out of the neighbor’s basement. They started seeing each other in his room downstairs. Beatriz, in her forties, became pregnant. The man abandoned her. The daughters were ashamed of their mother. Beatriz worked all through her pregnancy. I would go in the taco shop and see her making tortillas over the hot griddle, her belly near the flames. Beatriz would go on the bus from work to the Sharp Mary Birch Hospital to see her doctor at the clinic there.
One day someone told me that Beatriz was in the hospital and had had her baby by emergency C-section. I went to see her. She was laying in bed, alone. I asked Beatriz what happened. She said that she had gone for her monthly clinic visit and was in the waiting room. When they called her name, she stood up and felt as if she were wetting herself. She looked down and blood. The last thing she remembered was seeing a security guard looking at her and walking toward her, calling to the nurse. She said the doctor afterwards asked her if she remembered anything and she said No. The doctor shook his head and said good. The doctor said she was extremely lucky this had happened in the hospital. I asked her where her daughters were. She said they had just left. She said her daughters had cried. I took her hand. I said that it wasn’t possible to believe that I had seen her one day and the next I would never see her again, breath and tears choking the words in my throat. Tears began to trickle down her cheeks.
Some months later, her man re-appeared. He and Beatriz found a little cottage apartment. The five of them moved in there and lived as a family, until the two older girls moved out, now it’s Beatriz and her man and the boy. Sometimes just thinking about when he was born, I cry. Beatriz works at another taco shop now, for a sister of the owner.
That day in the hospital when I visited her, Beatriz had looked at me a long time with her dark straight gaze. She had said, “En un abrir y cerrar de los ojos.” In an opening and closing of the eyes.
(Next week: Consuelo)