I clung to little things to feel a degree of normalcy. Not long after I arrived, I was tasked with copying from the Teachings of the Prophet Joseph Smith (the TPJS, for short) as part of my education. I’m sure Antonia came up with it to keep me occupied. At first, I hated being stuck at the table while the younger children played. The subject matter was boring and the content way above my comprehension, and no one explained anything to me. What I actually learned about the religion I was born into came through observation and by regularly overhearing adult conversations, which was inescapable in the crowded quarters.
But as time went on, I found solace in copying word for word what the self-proclaimed Mormon prophet had written. Over time, I filled three spiral notebooks with the prophet’s words. The monotonous activity not only helped pass the time, but it also enabled me to tune out some of the chaos going on around me. It quieted my fears and aching heart as well. I particularly liked it when others praised me for my dutiful attention to this religious task, so I kept at it long after I had completed my assigned schoolwork.
I remember the day my Bic pen ran out of ink and needed to be replaced. At first, I feared asking Antonia for money to buy a new pen. She didn’t easily part with the meager money brought into the house. But I was pleasantly surprised by her response. Some fanfare went into the fact that Antonia handed me pesos specifically intended to replace the pen when I did that day’s shopping. I didn’t often experience such a sense of pride and accomplishment, so I reveled in this unusual feeling.
Rafael and Antonia required us to earn our keep. In addition to the chores I did around the apartment, they arranged for me to work for the woman who lived in the apartment below ours. She and her husband had artwork and photos on the walls and decorative items on the tables, all luxuries to me. My family had never owned anything more than the basic necessities.
Each morning I knocked on the woman’s door to begin a day’s work. I did her laundry regularly —hand scrubbing on an old-fashioned washboard until my skinny arms ached. Then I took the heavy basket of wet clothes up two flights of stairs to the rooftop, hanging them on the communal clotheslines to dry. I swept and mopped her entire house every day and helped peel and chop vegetables and make tortillas. Sometimes she would let me taste the delicious food we prepared, though not often.
Our neighbor paid my meager wages directly to Antonia, and I never saw a single peso. Though I didn’t particularly relish working for the woman, my part-time job did get me out of the house, an opportunity my younger siblings didn’t have.
Though I seldom had time off from my grueling workdays —and when I did, I rarely had time to myself —I do remember standing at a bedroom window one day and looking out at a mountain range in the distance. If only I could just get over that mountain somehow, I’d find Mom, and we would be together again, I thought. Sadly, that mountain was farther away than my legs could take me, so the impossibility of the task weighed heavy on my heart. The mountains taunted me with their majesty and mystery —and their distance. I fantasized about leaving the apartment and walking toward the mountains, but my fear was stronger and I stayed put.
Because I didn’t want to be given harder work or be separated from my siblings, I didn’t dare cry openly about missing my mom, even though the ache I felt was overwhelming. Each night, I struggled to fall asleep as images of my mom flashed into my brain. I wondered where she was and what she was doing. Did she miss me? Did she know what Rafael and Antonia made us kids do? Would she ever come back to get us? But my thoughts stayed just that —thoughts. I was helpless to change my circumstances.
Thankfully, the woman downstairs tired of me after about a month. I worked hard for her and did my best, but my best efforts must not have suited her high standards. After she dismissed me, Rafael capitalized on my unique looks. With my long blonde hair and fair skin —an anomaly among the dark-haired, dark-skinned Mexicans —he reasoned that I would be a great marketing tool, so he sent me to the streets to sell items door to door.
At first I sold handmade paperweights —rocks we found and painted designs on. I especially liked painting a picture of the sun on mine —a design that worked even on oddly shaped rocks. Rafael rehearsed a script in Spanish with me until I memorized what to say. He instructed me to stop at each house and deliver my sales pitch. Most of the town’s residents couldn’t afford frivolous purchases any more than we could.
I went out alone, and at first I stayed close to the apartment. As I familiarized myself with the streets, I ventured farther out each day. Thankfully I was good with directions and could retrace my steps back home based on the landmarks I passed along the way. I did get lost a few times, but I somehow managed to figure things out and find my way back.
I did everything possible to sell as many items as I could in a day. I paid no heed to the looks of pity I received from my buyers because —bottom line —pity translated into more pesos. Each day, I wore one of the two outfits I had. Each night, I washed and line-dried that day’s clothes. Even though my clothes were worn from scrubbing, they were clean when I started out each day. But the dirt I kicked up from the dusty roads stuck to my sweaty face and body, leaving me a sight to behold, I’m sure.
On other days, Antonia and I baked cakes, which I sold by the slice. I carried a whole cake on a plate, along with a knife to cut slices. Each buyer had to bring his or her own plate to the door for the cake slice. Because we made the frosting the same way every day, if we had leftover cake, we used food coloring to give it a different color than the day before and sold it as fresh. Anything to put food on the table. We weren’t allowed to eat the cakes we made, but occasionally we’d get to lick the bowls if Antonia was in a good mood. On my route, I would sneak a taste of the icing on the edge of the plate between houses, hoping nobody noticed the swipe mark left by my finger.
Because I provided a source of income that was necessary both to pay the rent and to feed the constant stream of people who came and went, I felt pressure to sell every day. Each day, both Rafael and Antonia reminded me how important it was that I do my best to sell every slice of cake or every painted rock. Still, I was the little gringa or güera (the fair-skinned, blonde-haired foreigner) whose heart raced and stomach churned every time she approached a different house.
Every afternoon as I walked the streets, fear consumed me because I was terrified to go home with unsold items, afraid of Antonia and Rafael’s disappointment. Sometimes I was late getting home because I’d gotten turned around and lost my way in the dusty Mexican streets, but the adults responsible for me didn’t care about my well-being at all. I had heard about American children occasionally being kidnapped in Mexico, and I knew I was at risk being out by myself.
When I wasn’t selling our homemade goods, I ran errands. Almost daily, I shopped the outdoor markets and the tortilleria, where the aroma of hot, fresh tortillas made my mouth water as I neared the shop. Shopping got me out of the house without the pressure of selling. I wanted to feel useful and helpful, and enjoyed the rare praise I received.