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MAID IN MEXICO
Based on True Stories

by
Deborah Medrez Pier

Introduction

In the Mexican Jewish Community, the place where I was born and
raised, maids have a very special place. I had no knowledge of the
extent of my luck. Of having them in my lives up until I left home for
college. These women are not only housemaids. These women are the
home. Until the age of five, I thought my maids were actually the owners
of the house. No one attends to the details of the home as much as they.
Sometimes I feel like they are the ones running the home. They sort of
hold the home together. They permeate every surface. They are the
eyes of the house. They move the cards under the table. They cook all
the food.

Although, all of them come from similar backgrounds, they are all
very different-- lazy, hardworking, charismatic, loving, serious, dumb,
smart... maids that learn Yiddish. And say "Don't call me shikse! I know
what it means!" They are all very colorful. They are the strongest people
I ever met. They helped me connect to the real Mexico, - the magical,
warm and troubled country. For me, the best place in the world.

It is all exchange, but I probably got more of them, than they did of
me. Some of them I can call sisters, aunts, best friends or enemies. And
here are our stories... In memory of Lupita and Josephina

The Village Heroes

Mary Cruz Limon

We thought that she was incapable of loving. Or that we were

unworthy of her love. We didn't know if to blame it on her or ourselves.
We had not been able to establish that intimate bond, as we had done
formerly with other maids. I mean, after 5 years of working with us, one
would at least expect a heart to heart conversation. But nothing! From
her one could only get silence.

It is never easy to live at home with a stranger. As much as we

would like to admit our intense closeness to some maids we all know the
sad truth about them. They are our employees. They work, because they
need the money. They do not come all the way from their remote
hometowns and leave their children to others hands only for the nature
of the relationship. I have only heard of one case where a maid remained
in her job for the sake of love. This happened with Lupita, my grandmas
maid. After 50 years of working for her, she had certainly transformed
into family.

It gets weird at times when you stop and think about how this
stranger sleeps next door every night. She inhabits your space, but it is
never the other way around. How this places us in a vulnerable position.

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They are involved in almost every expanse of our domestic life. The
maid knows everything-- the sorrows, the pains, the dirty rags in the
family. She sees a lot of things that are best kept undisclosed. She has
judgments, but never renders them. She has feelings, but they are
hardly heard. She is the insider/outsider. And it gets worse when the
maid is detached. She might be spitting in your food for all you know.
And it was all even worse with Mary, because she had a heavy eye. And
because she never said a word. And because she never told us anything
about herself.

Everything changed on the day we received a telegram from

Marys parents. It said, "Please come mary wedding Tuesday. Stop." It
was an invitation to Mary's wedding! Mary was getting married? We
asked her "Is it true you are getting married on Tuesday?" She nodded.
My dad jokingly said, "you dont have off on Tuesdays, Mary. You'll have
to postpone the wedding, Im sorry!" She raised an eyebrow. "Just
kidding! We'd love to come Mary! Mazal Tov!" he said. She released her
eyebrow and nodded again. We were so happy. We created a Jewish
dance circle around her. She just stood there all stiff.

Mary's special day arrived. We drove to her town for about 12

hours. "Does she have to travel all this distance every time she visits her
home?" I asked. "I guess she does, but don't ask her, its offensive" my

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sister answered playfully. Things just kept getting poorer as we got
closer to the wedding location. People don't understand when I try
explaining the levels of poverty that exist in Mexico. These villages had
no running water, electricity or even real houses. Thin children played
naked on the roads. At several points in our journey, we were followed
by crowds of them. "Please, a little coin, please." They looked
zombielike, like in those "end of the world movies." The crops were dry,
the cows were dry, and their skins were dry. I plugged in my iPod and
looked at the other way. Where was God in their lives?

At last we arrived at the wedding. Three long tables set outside a

decrepit house. We beeped the horn of the car. Around a hundred people
spotted us and ran towards us in excitement, "They are here! They are
here! Everyone gather!" They hugged their thin bodies against our
vigorous bodies. I hugged them back. A little boy poked my eye, "Oh! Do
you see in blue? Does it hurt?" We didn't get a chance to even say
anything, because mariachis had already gathered around us with their
music.

A girl, Martha, took me by the hand and brought me inside the

house. I couldn't believe it. There were portraits of us hung all over the
walls! Items we had thrown in the garbage were set all around the
house. "Welcome to our home, you are our heroes Medrez. Vivan los

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Medrez!" Suddenly I caught a small glimpse of the bride who was in the
back getting ready for the march. She saw my face and smiled a little.

I Can't Find Her

Rocio Rojas

Rocio, how to describe her to you? I'm looking for her. Please help
me find her. She knocked on our door 15 years ago. She was all wet. We
had never seen her before. And we have not seen her hereafter. She said
she needed a job. We said yes. She didn't look like a maid. Maids have a
certain look, humbleness. It is what it is. I have to be honest. Rocio
looked like a Victoria Secret model. Or at least that's how I remember
her. Like her name, she was morning dew. She'd wake me up every
morning with muffin, crumpets and sandwiches with cheese. Feisty she
was. She never did what mom or dad told her to do and thats the first
reason why I liked her. I think about her face almost every morning,
when I look at the grass. She was my favorite person.

Have you ever found someone that picks you up from your feet
and shows you the world? Can you help me find her? That person? Every
few weeks I look for her on Facebook. She is not there. She is not on the
Internet She is not in Los Angeles or in Miami, where we left her. Now

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she is even beginning to fade from my mind. I have no pictures of her.
She didn't like having her picture taken. She was Peruvian Shaman. And
shamans believe that having your picture taken steals your soul away.
Can there be anything more terrible than having your soul stolen away?

Every afternoon we had a different adventure. I wonder where she

is now. She is either laughing or crying. I know, because that is how she
is. She is the only maid that ever sat at the dinner table. My dad's jaw
dropped every time. She was feisty. He was afraid of her strength. She
grew up rich. She had no shame. She traveled the world. Had a baby
with a strange man. And had to leave her baby Rodrigo at home in Peru.
Because she became poor again. She cried every night for Rodrigo. I
used to come into her room and we cried together. I still cry for her at
night. Or I just cry, because I want to be like Rocio. I don't know
anymore. Maybe she is with Rodrigo now. Will I ever know? Please help
me.

Rocio Rojas was her full name. You would recognize her if you saw
her, because her light is the strongest. She took us, me and my sisters,
to the movies. She took us on road trips. She took us fishing, shopping,
dancing in the streets. At night we broke into neighbors pools. She told
me that the most important thing for a woman, is to know her self worth.
To be able to get up alone. Because in Latin America, where we come

8
from, women don't know their worth. We think we have free will,
because we can choose the guy we want to marry. But can we really?
No. We cannot decide anything beyond giving the Yes? We cannot even
pick the guy we want to date, he has to pick us. And I thought she was
being silly, but now at my 22, I can see that this is true. All my friends
are victims. They think, "If he don't love me, I am a piece of shit." And I
think, "If he don't love me, he is a piece of shit." If you see Rocio, thank
her for this advice.

Rocio, she is hard to describe. She reminds me of the morning. Of how

we are born every time we wake up. And how we die every night. She
reminds me of. I am beginning to forget. Of everything I was hopeful for
as a child. Have you seen her?

The Sisters Karamazov

Susana, Noemi & Miri

If you haven't read the Brothers Karamazov by Fyodor Dostoevsky,

you will not understand this story and many other valuable things about
the world.

He who is sensitive to art understands that it has the ability of

revealing greater universal truths about the human condition and the
self. An authors viewpoint can help us widen our understanding of
dynamics, personalities, situations, etc. I will take this a step further to
say that some people overlay the fictional situation depicted in the
works on to their own existence. It happens to me. Whenever I read a
book or watch a movie it completely takes over my identity. When I read
Tess of DUrbervilles by Thomas Hardy my life started going down the
drain. When I read Portrait of a Lady by Henry James, I got out of an
abusive relationship. When I saw Mean Girls at the theater I became a

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total Bitch. When I read The Sound and the Fury by Faulkner, just
kidding! Sometimes I wonder who I really am. And my problem doesn't
end here. I also tend to project the fictional characters upon other
people. And I don't know if this wicked habit enhances or undermines my
appreciation for the real person.

We had the good fortune of having the Hernandez sisters work for
our household--Susana, Noemi & Miriam, three fine and very different
human beings that entered and departed from our lives countless times,
creating a space to put in action my ruthless custom of superimposing
the fictional personalities of The Brothers Karamazov unto their own. To
me, they are one and the same.

Susana the oldest sister was Dmitri the oldest brother. Both
ruthless, violent tempered, turbulent and dominated by their passions.
With Susana we became most familiarized with maids' blatant ability to
appear and disappear at their convenience. We stopped taking it
personally. She would run away without saying a word and sometimes
return back for work months or years later. There was always a sense of
redemptive pain that would blind us from her chutzpah. She couldn't
leave her pants on for very long. This I knew, because we would gather
at night when I was only 6 and she would tell me all about her sexual
experiences. Like Dmitri, she would always prefer the shmock vulgar guy

11
over the respectable one. The way Dmitri leaves his fianc Katerina for
the vulgar Grushenka. In the end her impulsive and animalistic actions
would drive her to a remorseful penitence that only brought her to a
closer connection with God. She was always swept by emotion and
passion. She was Freud's "Id," the instinctual drive of all humanity, and
the most primitive of forces.

Noemi was Ivan, the sandwich in the family. Like him, she was all
about seeking the answers to unanswerable questions-- The existence of
God, the absolute, the roots of human suffering. A natural philosopher.
Her analytical mind drove her to madness sometimes. Although she was
not my favorite sister, I really resonated with her, because I am similar.
We would get into long debates about the roots of morality and things of
that sort. We always ended up more confused and more depressed then
when we began. It was uncanny to watch a poor village girl with no
education engaging in these existential inquiries. All her anxieties were
rooted in the problem of evil, because she was incredibly attuned to the
human suffering around her. She was not committed to one way of living
for long, because she was always trying to establish the common ground
for the dualistic nature of the world. Like Ivan, she lost her mind and had
to go back to her familys ranch. Now her visits are painful experiences,
because it reminds me of how we are still the same, incapable of living
at peace with the world as it is.

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Miriam was Alyosha, the baby in the family. She was my favorite
one, because she was all about giving, sharing and nurturing. She had
an innate love for humanity and it all mirrored in the way she drove
herself through the world. She was selfless, always dedicated to others.
Her mature faith in God was the motor to her goodness. Not one second
did she doubt his existence. She was too good for this world and this
crippled her in some ways. I remember one time my mom accidentally
slammed the car door on her hand. She did not speak up, because she
did not want to embarrass her. It took me about five minutes to realize
that her jammed hand was creating a large puddle of blood.

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The Pineapple Pear

Petra

It seemed that the best place to find a housemaid in the US was at

the cashier section of the supermarket. You can really tell if someone will
be good at this type of job by the way they handle the intricacies-- if
they pack the grocery items with care, have good timing and positive
attitude. My sisters, my mom and I sat there a while, just trying to detect
these factors. We all came to the funny conclusion. The one on the 18th
register was the best one, because she brought so much joy to
everyone, but we forgot and completely disregarded all else.

The puerto-rican swung her splendid curves and sang to the

sounds of the store. She sympathized and told jokes to all the
customers. "Why do poor people crawl on the supermarket floors? You
dont know? Well, because they are looking for the lowest prices!" or

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"Why are the windows of our supermarket round? Because we want to
the sun to come in!" Everyone that passed her way left the store with a
smile. She could penetrate any heart with her dark eyes. She gave
lollipops to the kids and hugged the elders.

The next day she arrived at our home with 5 different types of
juicers. I never thought there was more than one type of juicer. She set
them up in the kitchen without asking for directions. My mom called her
into the different rooms to show her what type of work needed to get
done. She nodded her head and returned to the kitchen to juice out all
the fruit. While she did this she whistled the sweetest tunes with her
robust rosy lips. This filled the house with a delicious fragrance of
pineapple-pear. And although her name was Petra, we began calling her
"La Pera-Pia"-- "The Pineapple Pear" and she loved being called this
way. She called me the apricot in return, because the orange little hairs
that cover my body look like apricot fuzz. I love it! My older sisters
turned into a peach, the little one into a prune, my dad into a papaya
and my mom into a pumpkin. Soon after we stopped using adjectives
and it all became about fruit. "Stop being a persimmon! Youre annoying
me! "Don't pay attention to what he says, hes just a grape". We were a
happy cocktail.

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We all thought that the juice-fruit thing was temporary. That she
would really begin cleaning really soon. Time went by and the pitchers of
juice in the fridge went on reproducing, but so did the dirty laundry and
the dust. My mom who is the manager of the house doesn't have the
essential meanness that is required for survival in this world, she tried
suggesting, "mmm Pera-Pia! Your green juice was fantastic! I just read
a study that says that juice is not great for child development, did you
know?". Petra laughed, "I have drank juice all my life Dr. Mango, jajaja,
look how developed I am" as she squeezed together her splendorous
breast, "let me give you a little back massage, you need to relax".

It so happened that our hygiene standards declined noticeably, but

why did it matter to us if we were a happy family? My mom swept here
and there, but it all became about play and salsa dancing. My dad and I
started developing a not so funny allergy from all the dust. We would
wake up breathless at different intervals of the night, but Petra who
stayed up during most nights writing letters to her friends would give us
a little massage. "Relax Apricot, you must be in so much stress, you
need to loosen up, come on Ill tell you a little joke," she would hug me
close to her, "Why do we have full and empty juice pitchers in the
fridge? For those thirsty and for those unthirsty! come over here. Let's
dance."

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One day as I was peeing into the toilet something slimmy grazed
my butt. I looked down and it was a frog in the toilet. Two days later
frogs began appearing everywhere. A week later rats began appearing
everywhere too. My mom payed us one dollar for every trapped rat. We
earned about 20 dollars in less than a month. But then families of
cockroaches and lizards migrated to our house. This was not right, this
definiteley could not be something fixed with juice and massage. The
orkin men, the ones that deal with animal infestation control told us to
evacuate the house, because the dirt, the mold accumulated in the
sewages, corners and closets becoming an invitation for pestilence. This
happened commonly in Floridayy, but it could of been avoided. A green
tent was to placed on our house for the duration of 2 weeks. We moved
to a hotel temporarily and Pera-Pia was fired without further
explanation.

When we returned to our home it didn't feel all the same, no

music, no massages, no juice. We started getting into fights, because
our tensions found no relief. And we were a little miserable all the time.
We knew our favorite fruit was missing. We got another maid called
Marlene Yaoska, who was a hypochondriac. She was always sick in her
room, crying and my mom had to take care of her all day. So no cleaning
was getting done either. One night when the rain was falling heavily and
everything about us felt dense, we heard the doorbell ring. It was her!

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the Pera-Pia with her juicers! With a smile she said, "I'm back! Ive
missed you. I will clean this time" and gave us one of her comforting
hugs. She "worked" for us another year. Another year of happiness, dust
and Juice

Grandmotherland

"To the people of New York, Paris, or London, "death" is a word that is
never pronounced because it burns the lips. The Mexican, however,
frequents it, jokes about it, caresses it, sleeps with it, celebrates it; it is
one of his favorite toys and most steadfast love."-. Octavio Paz, The
Labyrinth of Solitude

In Mexico, "The Woman" figure is viewed with a dangerous dual

regard. The most representative icons of Mexican culture are two
women, "The Virgin Guadalupe" and The Old Lady of Death "La Catrina".

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The Virgin is the mother that sustains life. And The Old Female Death is
the one that concludes life. The traditional depictions of these two
images are ironically contrasting. The Virgin who represents the mother
who gives life is sad and poor, and the old corpse that takes life away is
rich and happy. The reception of the Virgin Guadalupe is a melancholic
one. And the greeting "for the death" is a happy one. This dual imagery
hints on the Mexicans complex relationship to not only the woman, but
to life itself. Life seems to be a sad thing and death a good thing.
Men are excluded from this cultural dilemma. This can be seen in
the way modern language in Mexico deals with the respective roles of
"The Mother" and "The Father." The common adjectives for "the bad,"
"the run down" and "the painful" are linked with the mother figure. For
example, when something is bad we say, "eso es una madre" -- "that is a
mother." The mother always represents the struggle, the plight. When
someone has been beat down or hurt, we say "me madriaron" -- "they
mothered me." In the case of "the father" "el padre," it is all related to
that which is good. We say, "Que padre!" "How father!" when we express
admiration for something or when we communicate a pleasurable
experience. The father stands for the ecstatic desire for liberation so
present in Mexican Identity. And the mother represents the painful, the
stressed, and the beaten. Why?

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In Mexican society the problem of "Paternity" is palpable. The
national joke, "What is the most confusing day of the year?" and the
answer is "fathers day." The father is absent from the household,
because he is entitled to the psychological aspect of liberation. The
father is unshackled and excused from the struggling aspects of life that
the woman embodies. He is either left to reinvent himself in another
realm or he is thrust out of home due to his excesses -- usually alcohol
or women. He represents the fantastical, the imaginary, the leisurely,
the passive. That is why the man reaffirms himself as the "Macho,"
because he occupies the strong psychological aspect of fantasy so
important in our culture-- that self-entitlement. The mother is also
absent from home, but for other reasons. She becomes the provider of
the home, that component of struggle. So If the father leaves the home
and the mother is the one to provide for the family, who stays at home
with the children?

Ding! Ding! Ding!! The Grandmother, La Abuela! The one who resembles
the much adored iconic symbol for happiness "The Old Lady of Death"-"La Catrina."

I see this pattern, this anecdote repeating itself in the stories

expressed by my housemaids. I have had around 35 different maids and
all these women have the same story. They are forced to leave their

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homes in order to provide for the children. They are the sad virgins, the
selfless fighters that sustain life. Their obligatory departure from their
homes creates a rupture from their children. In Mexico, the mother
stands for the abandonment and poverty of the child. Life itself is turned
on its head when the supposed nurturer of love is driven away from her
nest. The man in Mexico is nothing.

For example- Lupita who now rests in heaven, had to kill her
husband, because he raped their daughter. Lupita had to then move to
the city to make money to support her children. Her children hated her,
because she left them to the care of grandma.

The Grandmother is the "Old Skeletal Woman", the one closer to

her own death. She is the one that gives the comfort to the children. No
wonder she resembles, the elegant woman who smiles. Because, at the
end of the day their relationship to this older being becomes the
blueprint of what they most desire which is Love. Love is all we need.

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Every Way Has Its Puddle

Lety

I reclined on the sofa in contempt while Lety swept the dust from
the floor. I was thinking that we are just a speck of whatever in this huge
universe and we are decaying matter-- that someday we will die. That
our fossils might not survive the stone ages and that all we dreamt,
accomplished or didnt accomplish will fade from our consciousness into

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a black hole, that someday will suck us in. That there is nothing much
we can do in the great collective sense when we think of the 30 million
people who are still slaves in this world. That if you are reading this text
you should feel guilty for being born. That if you are born poor your
whole life will be invested in surviving and if you're born rich you are a
motherfucker to be doing whatever you wish. That you have not helped
enough people and never will, not even yourself, because someday it
will all be lost to nothing. The laws that rule our universe only scientists
really know. And religion is a nice little tale that keeps us going when we
think of the illusions we must give to our children to survive the cold
outer space that permeates the membrane of all living things. That we
werent born with a single manual, but with many and have to pick one
to make sense of ourselves, because if we dont work with guidelines we
are swimming in a hot soup that will boil our blood and turn us into a
matzo ball.

Lety saw me lost in these deliriums and turned her face in anger.
And so to distract my mind from all these circular thoughts, I asked her
for her own story. When she was born, she already had 14 siblings from
different fathers and no food. And she didn't have time to think, because
poverty was swallowing up her insides. Her Father's job was hunting
down snakes. Every time he left the door they'd say goodbye just in
case. Her uncle stuck his dick into her every night for 3 years, because

23
nothing is strange when everyone around you lives the same way. Her
mother went blind when she was eight because she stayed in a sauna
for too long. She saw portraits of her grandfather who once was rich and
left her wife for "a younger bitch."

They always told Lety that she was born a bad witch, because she
had a white line that went all across her retina. A child blessed by El
Diablo! Everyone feared her. They always told her that if someone died it
emanated from her thoughts. That if she passed next to a bridge it might
fall and that was a blessing. That the bad people followed her
everywhere and the black dog with rabies was her friend. They gave her
much to drink one night to know the truth and she admitted guilt,
because it was the only thing she was ever told about herself. She
claimed that witches turn into peacocks and balls of light that float
above the trees, but this never happened to her.

Her town was famous for the apple trees that grew and grew.
"Zacatlan de las Manzanas" just two hours from Puebla, a town with 365
churches, one for each day of the year. The town was not a poor one, but
where she resided was, in the outskirts, the fields. She always found
repose in the crops of pears, berries, garlic, marihuana, and maguey
cactus, peppers. In her backyard she had two cows, a few hens, rabbits,
dogs. "Nature always makes you feel good, don't know why," She said.

24

She continued-- "I couldn't leave the house without a cape,

because a man could come and take me straight. So all the men hid
behind the bushes when I came to the river to wash my tujes. The first
one came unannounced, his penis looked just like a little mouse. I did
enjoy it though, but he wanted out. To marry a girl whose eye was
marked? Nine months later nature took its course. My sisters hated me,
because my child came out white. "That is part of your black magic, you
witch, you have betrayed our home!" I named the babe Ariel. I moved
into a room in the house and that was lucky, cause not everyone gets to
sleep by her child. I remember holding his hand really tight all through
the night. I supported myself working in the fields; my blind mother was
there also there to harvest."

"I fell in love with my cousin Manolo, because he was different, he

didn't drink and was soft. Ariel also liked him. We made love all day. He
then gave me another son. We named him Bruno like the cute mouse in
Cinderella. He moved into my room and we were like a real family, like
the one I grew up in. Those were the happiest days of my life. He left a
few months later by surprise. I didn't know that all he dreamt about was
to move to the states. He didnt say when we embraced. This is the life
of every Mexican woman. We must be grateful to Jesus. We don't ask for
no more or any less. We say at home "Every way has its puddle."

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Money was scarce in the town and I was tired of it all. There was
nothing else to do, but to pull myself together and come to the city to
work for your rich Jews. My mom promised to take care of my children
and I promised to come back, every weekend, or whenever I had a
chance. And I came here to work for you and you know it is hard, but I
will not complain, because I have everything I need at hand. What is
missing, what made your heart so bitter? Why are you always crying and
depressed? You spend way too much time on that sofa. Did you lose
something?

I said-- "I think its something chemical in my brain. I don't know."

She said-- "You make me so angry Deby! Everyone wishes they were
you"
I said-- "I guess, every way has its puddle."

States of Dumbness

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Oh The States, the supremacy of the immense-- the malls,
supermarkets, candies, cartons of milk, buildings, opportunities, all
grand. United States, the place where dreams come true. Where
Freedom is praised. Injustice grabbed of from peoples hands. Everyone is
educated. The streets are clean, broad. Everyone is blonde, tan,
beautiful and in need for sex. The food is cheap and delicious. Anyone
can find a job and climb up the ladder as he desires. Oh the splendor!
United States of America, how big a shadow you cast upon United States
of Mexico. (This is the name of our country if you didn't know.) It
permeates everything and everyone. We adapt our round bodies to your
anorexic style of dress, our restaurants to your exemplary gastronomy of
fried fast foods, our entertainment and values to your top-notch reality
shows. Your beaming advertising light shines through all out television
screens, helping us forget our identities by creating new voids within us.

When we moved to the United States we wanted to transport

everything we had in Mexico into our new home. That included the grand
piano, our warm blooded emotions and our most valued individuals, our
maids. This was not an easy thing to do -- The US migration policies are
very strict about letting Mexicans inside the country and the situation is
getting increasingly worst with time. The rules keep getting tighter,
because the presence of illegal aliens keeps on accumulating in the US.

27
When we brought the maids to the embassy they were turned down
immediately. From the moment they entered the large hall, they were
looked down upon and talked rudely to. Was it because they are known
to be hard working, or because they are dark skinned? We were
accepted into the US without a hesitation and brought into a VIP hall
where we were offered free cookies, tour guides and convincing
brochures detailing the benefits of being as US citizen. Was it because
we look European and our bank statements had allot of digits? I wanted
to dye my body dark from the shame.

USA government, you must either be dumb or racist. The Latin

American and in particular, the Mexican is in large demand within the
US, because he is certainly needed here. Whether legally or illegally, he
will keep immigrating to the US because he always finds employment
here. And he finds employment here, because there is employment for
him here! So don't bring up that bullshit excuse, where you say that
Latins are grabbing away all the job opportunities. Because during my
experience in the US, I have seen my Mexicans undertake the most
tedious and dirty of jobs. Those jobs that you have no desire or interest
in doing. If we were to leave your country, it would all dissolve into
chaos.

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If you don't have a Job, it is because you are lazy. Because as I sit
in this cafeteria or at any other business in the country, I see Mexicans
and other unrequited races operating the cashiers, the kitchens, the
crops, the garbage trucks. And they work the hardest, because only that
leave their comfort zone can grow. There was a time where being a
grocer or a waiter in the US was a respectable job, but now you have
transcended into this "superior" being that needs to be served. You have
become lazy. No one is taking your money. Learn a little bit about
economy, the money pie theory was debunked centuries ago. And
wasn't "the melting pot" or the so-called "foundations" of this country
based

on

expanding

the

capitalist

economy

by

welcoming

the

hardworking, the driven? No wonder your economy is a mess these days,

a void. People here don't even owe what they have. The government
must provide you with loans, credit, and mortgages to go on with their
daily life. Your economy is not sustainable. For example, you wont get a
respectable job if you dont go to graduate school, but you need to
spend around 200,000 dollars on college and then another 200,000
dollars on a masters degree, then get into debt to buy a house and so
on. How motivating! And you reinforce this sluggishness when you kick
out and superimpose this fabled misconception on my people. The
rejection to our people is surely the cherry on top of your milkshake of
crap. Youre going down if you keep up with this attitude.

29

Fractured
Paty Limon & Veronica

If you touch the crown of your head, around the area where your
hairline begins (if you happen to have a hairline), you can feel a small
crease in your skull that marks the beginning or the end of the left and
right hemispheres of your brain. This indenture in me was deeper than in
anyone I ever saw and it caught my attention early in life, because it
throbs in moments of excitement, initiating blurred visions or what
others call deliriums. It could have been avoided.

Pa and Ma were late to synagogue that morning. They ran off with
Yael, my older sister and life companion, leaving their one-year babe to
the care of Paty Limon.

The Medrez family usually has two housemaids around the house.
They were always busy. The first, the kitchen maid, was Veronica. This
post required more skill and responsibility than the other-- cook three
meals a day, scrub the first floor, entertain the older children, answer
phone calls and other logistical tasks. The second post was for Paty
Limon, the chambermaid; she cleaned bedrooms, laundered & ironed,
took care of the dog and me.

30

Paty Limon was roughly 15 when she started working for us. She was
dishonest about being 22. Age granted her with some sway of credibility.
Her work did not reflect the finished touch that comes with maturity.
Paty made things seem clean on the surface; counters, floors and steps
were always spotless, but under the rugs and curtains, all the filth was
hiding.

When the patrons are gone, the housemaid festivities begins-Televisions and radios blast, phone calls are made to international
numbers and boyfriend visit. You have to stay sick in bed from school to
see it. Paty Limon left me on a couch while the frenzy went on. And since
I've always been a curious one, I probably tried doing something like
walk or fly.

Paty found me on the floor with my skull cracked open. She locked
me with her in a bedroom. She wanted to safeguard my fracture. Instead
of calling an ambulance or telling the other maid what had happened,
she tried gluing my head together with crazy glue. Not only did she not
ask for help. When my parents arrived they tried entering the bedroom.

31
She could not bring herself to open the door. She screamed, "I cannot
open. The child is hurt. I am so sorry."

Mexico conceals a lot, and especially its fractures. The beautiful

cities built on top of other cities, on top of old pyramids, temples, lakes
and houses. Each new day becomes an intent to bury up a past of
embarrassment and defeat. Mexico, a country where embarrassing
historical events are deliberately omitted from history books, hungry
children silenced, corruption camouflaged and buried in a pit. A silence
that lurks out when the tectonic plates can no longer conceal all the
rubbish. They crash, creating an earthquake big enough to demolish
those new cities, uncovering the old ones.

This need for concealment is rooted in the disquieted weaknesses

of our ego. We are unable to confront our reality. We are fearful of
uncovering one mistake, because we know it will disclose our entire
series of errors. That it will uncover our frail beings. Frightened that the
mask we have been wearing for so long has already transfigured our
faces. And we are not ready of becoming better, because we know that
our improvements will bring about even more responsibility. Once we
recognize our faults we wont be able to turn the other cheek.

32
We don't realize that our fractures only duplicate with time. That
we must accept our flaws, because we those too-- The stumbling blocks,
the challenges, the brokenness, our freckles gifts from a burning sun. We
are because the fractures have grown so big that have created a huge
gap within ourselves. We don't know anymore who we are.

My dad had to brake down the door, because he knows that

fractures have to be treated immediately. Or else, I could have been lost
forever. At the hospital, the doctors said some damage was irreversible,
but not all. That if I would have been attended more rapidly, maybe non
of the damage would have taken place. And maybe I wouldn't be so
crazy all the time. And maybe I wouldn't get these migraines, these hot
flashes or these deliriums that create an abyss between the real world
and me.

When we returned from the hospital Paty was already packing her
stuff to go home. "You don't have to leave Paty, the kid is alright, you
were scared, but she did leave. Because She was afraid of being
reminded of her fractures. Because she was afraid of becoming better. In
this corrupt world, we are the only ones that can provide our own light.

33

The Maid that Dies

Josepha Montes de Oca

It is sad to see a soul depart even before it is extinguished. I do not

define the line of life and death where others do. I think there are
ghostlike people walking around this world; they are dead, because they
never took agency for their own existence.

This is the story about how the soul of Josepha Montes de Oca
departed from this world even before she departed. Of how she sat down
on the train of death too early in the morning before anyone could
recognize her beautiful face. Of how her dreams were never dreamt,
because she never saw herself in her dreams.

Josepha Montes de Oca, the frailest being I have ever seen. Her
laps were scraped during the Easter, when all the sick peregrinated on
their knees to the Basilica of Guadalupe, the largest catholic worship

34
center in the world, an ugly postmodern building illuminated by melting
candles and extinguished passions. In this place mourning is stamped on
each forehead so that the "right" type of worship takes place. Not the
worship that elevates the soul, but the one that humbles it into the
depths of the sinning human condition.

Josepha worked in our house when our own Easter holidays took
place. A time of the year when we celebrate our liberation from
servitude. We used to be slaves in Egypt. In this Holiday Where we sing,
dance, drink and eat on the Acapulco bay. But we are never to be driven
to the excess, because the reception of life always takes place in the
middle, not in the extremes. I am glad Josepha spent those ten blissful
days with us.

Josepha had a heart condition which placed her in a different

category of existence than the rest of us. The sinner. In many Mexicans
regions and especially in those lightly stained by Christianity, the Gods
are still many, but tainted with the insuperable fashion of Christianity.
These Gods, good and bad are hereafter to revive the torturous condition
of humanity- Tlaloc, Huizilopotzli, Quetzalcoatl and Mayahuel. To remind
them of the punishment that life is. No fair game saves you. In Ulama,
the native Mexican sport, the outcome is always death. The losers get

35
sacrificed, because they lost. And the winners get sacrificed, because
only the best is exclusively for the Gods.

Motes de Oca went to meet with her wizard on Tuesdays, her sister
informed us. He was said to save the soul in order to save the heart. He
would boil herbs and embalm them over her emaciated body. Smash her
bones with a hammer. Then wrap her in plastic until she sweated out all
her interiors. Until the day it did happen.

On that day, we were sitting, listening to my father complaining.

Nothing new under the sun. Another Ashkenazi rants about the
hardships of a new business. My mom laughs as she says, "You would
never kill yourself, you love yourself too much." My aunt walks into the
door screaming, "Shut up you fucking asshole. You have everything!"
with anger, Even when you had more money that you could handle, you
were miserable. Face it. You have no real problems. You could live in the
Ritz Carlton for the rest of your life without worrying about a penny. I
really hope that this is the extent of where your pains go. Shame on you.
Shame for your daughters, because you are teaching them to be weak."

On this moment, Josepha's sister screams hysterically as she

reaches the bottom of the stairs. " Josephina is dead! The wizard was not
able to save her soul."

36

Reflection

This project taught me more about myself than anything else.

Mainly, because I learned that I am capable of "structured" writing. I can
never sit still for more than 30 minutes. I am an expert at starting
projects, but never at finishing them. I needed to prove to myself that I
could.

I studied creative writing, because I love my teachers. They have

forced me to have my own voice. To think critical, To filter, to listen to
the voices inside. There is nothing more important than to know your
own voice. In elementary school my teacher obliged me to carry a
journal everywhere and it stayed in me. Now, only writing can touch
upon certain parts of my soul.

37
Although English is my second language, I am happy to express
myself through it, because my favorite writers did. And I want to be in
constant dialogue with them and the culture.

I appreciate this opportunity- to walk out of this building holding

my voice in my hands.

I know and you know that this is only the beginning.