Amá, Your Story Is Mine: Walking Out of the Shadows of Abuse

Hombres

~ 123 ~ the water was unpleasantly warm. Also, sulfur had been added to keep mosquitoes from breeding in it. It tasted awful and left us with sickened stomachs. I did not know then why it was so disgusting, but now I know that the rust in the cans contaminated it.When we reached the water cans we quickly drank our fill, against Amá’s warning. If she had been there, she would have made us wait until the water settled and the dead flies and bits of rust had drifted down from the surface. After carrying water back, we returned to our work in the rows. We were always glad to see the end of a row because it meant that the day’s work was almost over. We would look proudly at the many stacks of crates lined up perfectly and wait for the boss to come and punch our cards.The cards kept the record of what we had earned that week. While he did this, we studied Amá with concern and asked if we had done well. “Yes, we did well,” she told us. We never were told how much money we had made, because that was not children’s business. All we cared about was that we were through for the day. Gone were all thoughts of aches and pains, blisters and scorching heat.The minute we were finished, we felt the sweet taste of freedom. Climbing back on shabby buses, we would finally make our jostling, lumbering way home. Hombres ~ In camp, all men had the same behavior. They all resembled drunken, self-indulgent Roman soldiers at a feast, demanding ~ 124 ~ to be served.The servant was his wife. If he was a man, he had her doing three things at once. She had not finished bending her knees to start the kerosene stove when another order would be issued: “Hurry with the food. Bring me my beer!” The men felt that they deserved to enjoy the pleasures of life as they sat around the bonfire. Their self-importance was so cranked up that a rooster crowing at dawn had more subtlety . Their hair was elaborately placed, their shirts unbuttoned to expose coarse chest hair, and a gold medal of our Lady of Guadalupe dangled on a chain around their necks, less to show reverence for the Mother of God than to serve all the other purposes gold serves.Their tight pants strained over their round stomachs, and the toes of their worn-down boots pointed to the sky, as though praying to the heavens. They strutted about as if they were gifts to womankind, offensively ripe with the odor of heavy cologne.They were sure they left a desirable impression as they strolled by. What would they have done had they known the true reactions of the women? I immediately took an intense dislike to men who dressed this way. When I was a child I blamed it on their style and manner—of clothes, of speech and gesture. As I grew older, I realized that it was their egos I didn’t like. These men reminded me of my apá. They were nothing better than lost souls, poor misbegottens who lived on the only thing they owned, false pride.They played well their ego roles—Mexican hombres—and failed in the more important roles of being a good husband and a good father. They were so consumed with pretending to be what they were not that they destroyed the great natural charisma they had been gifted with. These men had many natural talents. Some could play the guitar and sing passionate songs with lyrics of great beauty. Others had the inspiration of true poets. Some were great clowns. They all must have missed their fathers and mothers, because that was all I heard them sing about. Some of their songs were very sad. They sang about what they had left be- ~ 125 ~ hind. But they couldn’t appreciate what they had, because they wanted what they couldn’t have. When on occasion we saw a gringo pass by with his children , one hand holding a child’s hand, and the other carrying groceries, we understood that he was helping his wife. Sometimes we saw these men cooking dinner or playing with their children. I envied these children with nice fathers. But our men criticized and belittled the gringos for those very...