by Oscar Lewis
The gangs were the bosses not only of the prisoners, but even of the guards and the guard captain. Why, one of them controlled the head warden. That’s going pretty far, isn’t it? A prisoner actually did, and his name was the Frog. He’s a fellow who killed 132 or 134 people. He was a soldier in the infantry, as I remember, and once when he was on duty there was some kind of a student riot. People still don’t know exactly how it happened but he started firing his machine gun on the crowd of students. He killed students like you strike down flies, sweeping the students with his machine gun. He was responsible for over a hundred deaths, in addition to which he killed a crook and a guard in prison.
It wasn’t just a rumor, about the Frog controlling the head warden, understand? He walked about freely throughout the prison and if the head warden came by, the Frog was the one who walked in front. And if the Frog didn’t like something—well, suppose he figured something should be done for the prisoners, he’d say, “This has to be fixed.” He’d say it as if he were thinking out loud, so the head warden could hear him, and carry out the orders.
I had various dealings with the Frog. I used to steal for him when I worked in the bakery. I stole lard, brushes and, well, I didn’t steal the warden’s mother because she never came, right? Of course, I delivered the stuff to him, and he always paid me something. I don’t say I’m proud of it, but the way things were I had to do it, if I didn’t they’d treat me like I was the biggest “prima” there, understand? “Primo” means shit-heel in swear language.
So I turned it over to the Frog, because he had a shop right inside the prison. He sold cigarettes and other things. Even if a prisoner didn’t have drag with the head warden, if he had money he could set up his own little shop, understand? Although you have to pay through the nose to do it, you can get permission. There’s two brothers with plenty of money who run the Juana restaurant right inside the prison. They say it’s the best restaurant in Mexico.
As for the sex life, I tell you it’s the lowest kind of promiscuity, even though the homosexuals are separated from the men. The homosexuals have their section in the back part of the prison, see? These men, I don’t know what else to call them, have their section made up of wooden shacks, understand? And there’d be a fellow putting on lipstick in broad daylight, some would be washing, others sewing, others cooking, others making tortillas, others flirting.
Unfortunately, many fellows in prison are so corrupted, they’ve fallen so low, that when the desire comes over them and there’s no woman to relieve them, they bribe the guards with fifty centavos or a peso, to let them go to the “jota,” the homosexuals’ section. When he gets inside, well, you can imagine what happens. He picks the “girl” he likes best. They all go dressed like women, though whenever there’s an inspection, they dress like men. Those are the rules, see?
This homosexual business made a big impression on me. One day, the news released over the prison microphone was that one of the prisoners had been sent to Tres Marías for raping another prisoner, a boy of eighteen. There used to be women in the Penitentiary, in a section apart. No one could go there. Well, I shouldn’t say no one because a bribe goes a long way in prison. If you want to bribe a guard or two, you can get through. But this is at least more acceptable because you were going to have relations with a woman, right?
I never got to visit any woman in jail because I always ran into difficulties. Besides, it was a big risk; if they caught you bribing a guard and leaving your section they put you in solitary confinement in Tres Marías. Tres Marías is a round prison, with just one floor, so that the cells are in the form of a triangle. Only half the cell is covered by a roof. When it rains, well, you can imagine how terribly wet and cold it gets there, especially at night. During the day you can be in the sun, or in the shade, but you don’t have the right to smoke, or to have a blanket or anything.
When I had been in for a few months, I saw Ramón Galindo there in jail. I knew Ramón and his brothers since I was a kid, although he was older than I. They used to sell charcoal over on the Street of the Gardeners and were as poor as the rest of us. Then Ramón got hold of a bicycle and started a renting agency. I don’t know by what art he did it, though I can well imagine, but he built up his agency to quite a big thing. He was able to build a decent house and become a money lender. He loaned money at 20 percent interest a month, bought a car and was well set up.
I learned later that he had dealings with a lot of people from the underworld, whom he met in the local saloons. He used to be quite a drinker; they would often find him stretched out dead drunk in the street, until one day he swore never to touch another drop. He kept his word and things went well with him from then on. He began to buy “hot” articles very discreetly from his safer friends and overnight he became one of the richest men in the neighborhood.
He was in jail for having killed a taxi driver in a street fight. When I met him he had already become a prison instructor in personal defense. I don’t know how he managed it, but later he became the head of all the prisoner personnel and ended up closely tied to the head of the Secret Service. In fact, when he got out he became a Secret Service agent and his sons are now policemen. It was pretty neat, because he continued to be a buyer of stolen goods. I know this very well, for I became his right arm.
Well, that’s the way things went in prison for the seven months I was there. I learned something concerning friends during that time. Those on the outside who claimed to be my friends when I had money and who followed me wherever I went, didn’t take the trouble to visit me, understand? When I had hard luck, I don’t remember a single one who even sent regards with my family. I found out there are very few real friends in this world.
When I least expected it, they released me. They had taken me to court in the Julia many times, and finally confronted me with the two park guards. The day I was set free, I was in court, still barefoot, wearing a suit which was a real insult, a suit with stripes so you look like a zebra. My father and Marta were there. The lawyer told me that I was going to be set free because they had grabbed the guilty fellow. “So please excuse us,” said the judge.
I told him, “Sir, do you think that by saying ‘excuse me’ you are going to wipe out the seven months of suffering I’ve gone through here? And the moral suffering of my family, and the fact that I’m branded for the rest of my life?”
He said, “Now, don’t take it that way, because if you do, then you’ll stay.” So there was nothing for me to do but keep quiet. If I had gone on, I would have had a lot to tell the authorities. So I was free, with only an “excuse me” to send me on my way. “Excuse us, we’ve caught the guilty one.”
It cost my poor father 1,200 pesos to get me free. He was robbed because my case was an easy one and the lawyer didn’t earn his fee. There was no material evidence against me and two of the “witnesses” contradicted the other three. I agree that when one commits a misdemeanor he should be punished, but I was falsely accused. Before they committed this injustice to me, I believed in the law, but after that I didn’t if this is justice, then what is injustice!
Seven months they stole from my life! It is not that I’m bitter, but I hate everything that represents the law. The police and the Secret Service are just thieves with a license. For any little thing, they beat you. I’m always ready to face up to them, to tell them off. That’s why, when there is a strike or a riot, I join in, without asking what the demonstration is about, just to get a chance to beat the police. And when a policeman is killed, I’m not exactly happy but I feel he deserved what he got.
There is no law here, just fists and money, which is what counts most. It is the law of the jungle, the law of the strongest. The one who is economically strong can just laugh. He commits the worst crimes and is an innocent dove before the judges and the police because he has money to give out. But how differently it goes with a poor man who commits a minor offense! What happened to me isn’t a thousandth of what has happened and is still happening to others. I rea
lly don’t know what justice is because I’ve never seen it.
If there is a Hell, it is right there in the Penitentiary. I don’t wish my worst enemy to be in a place like that. Six boys from the Casa Grande spent time in jail, but only one of them was a real criminal. The others, like me, got into trouble through fighting and bad luck. I don’t mean to say that I didn’t deserve to be taught a lesson, because if I didn’t do what they accused me of, I have done other bad things. I’ve been a bad son, a bad brother, a bad drinker … I’m convinced I needed punishment, but I never stop complaining that they locked me up unjustly.
Mexico is my country, right? And I have a special, profound love for it, especially for the capital. We have a freedom of expression and above all, a freedom to do whatever we please, that I haven’t found elsewhere. I have always been able to earn my living better here … you can support yourself even by selling squash seeds. But regarding the Mexicans, well, I don’t have a good impression of them. I don’t know whether it is because I myself have behaved badly, but it seems to me that there is a lack of good will among them.
The law of the strongest operates here. No one helps the ones who fall; on the contrary, if they can injure them more, they will. If one is drowning, they push him under. And if one is winning out, they will pull him down. I’m not an intelligent person but at my work I always came out on top … I earned more than my fellow workers. When they noticed it, they got me into trouble with the boss and pushed me out. And there is always someone who tells who robbed, who killed, who said what, or who was going bad.
Could it be for the lack of education? There are so many people who cannot even sign their names! They talk about constitutionalism … it is a pretty, resounding word, but I don’t even know what it means. For me, we live by violence … homicide, theft, assault. We live quickly and must be constantly on guard.
They let me out of prison at about two-thirty in the afternoon. I went straight to the Villa to thank the Virgin. I told my family of my vow to go to Chalma. It was not the time of the year for the Lord’s celebration and no one wanted to go. My aunt Guadalupe told me to keep my vow, so I went absolutely alone. This time I walked barefoot all the way from Santiago to Chalma, about thirty or thirty-five kilometers. I walked without stopping. The going was tough. The road was so muddy it felt like chewing gum and my feet sank and were scraped by the stones.
I paid no attention to the pain. I kept my mind on fulfilling my vow and not backtracking. The rougher the road, the better for me, because the more I suffered physical pain, the more satisfied I was. For me, that was the purpose of the pilgrimage, to suffer and make a sacrifice. I felt beaten down and in despair going there, but on the way back I felt only a great sense of relief.
A short time later, I was picked up by the police and put into jail for not signing in for my first offense during the seven months I was in jail. When you don’t sign in three consecutive times, the bonding company informs the Secret Service and the police start to look for you. I think that is unconstitutional, because the bonding companies should have their own private police, not the ones from the judiciary. Anyway, I got out right away. I hung around for a while and then took off for Veracruz.
Consuelo
THE NIGHT MARTA WAS MISSING, I WORRIED MORE ABOUT WHAT MY father would say than about Marta. Roberto looked for her everywhere, while Paula and I waited at home. Finally, we heard my father’s key in the door. I made believe I was sewing; Paula and the baby were asleep. My father immediately asked, “Where is Marta?” His voice sounded dry and punishing. I didn’t dare answer. Roberto jumped up as he always did when my father came in, and said, “She hasn’t come home.” We waited for a deluge of strong words and curses, but my father knew how to surprise us. He said, “Ay, ay, let’s go look for her.” They both went out.
A little later I heard Manuel whistle and I opened the door for him. He never asked questions about the family and this time was no exception. I didn’t tell him anything and watched him spread his “bed” on the floor. He was lying down when my father walked in. “What happened? Did she come back?” Manuel jumped up without understanding.
My father turned on him. “Go look for your sister, cabrón, bastard! Here you He while she is out there! Let’s go.” Generally, Manuel was slow to carry out an order, but this time he became light as a feather.
The three returned very late. My father’s face was hard and bitter, Roberto hung his head, Manuel was sleepy-eyed. My father ordered us to go to sleep and turned out the light. I could see his short form, unmoving, standing in the kitchen, as though rooted to the cement floor. He was smoking, and the red tip of the cigarette burned in the dark. I did not comprehend the significance of my sister’s act. I knew only that my father was sad and worried. I fell asleep, waiting, waiting.
My father awakened the boys very early and made them go out to look for Marta. He left me the telephone number of the café and went to work. At about three o’clock in the afternoon, Marta walked in. She looked so young with her braids and socks! But she seemed to expect a fight and I gave it to her. I took my role of older sister seriously. “Where were you last night?” She turned and gave me a look of scorn which made me furious. She began to insult me and I grabbed a belt which was hanging behind the door. I managed to hit her a few times, but she defended herself, screaming and scratching. The fight ended when Roberto came home.
I went to the water tank in the courtyard to wash the blood from my arms and it was there that I learned from Irela that Marta had spent the night with Crispín, the one who later became her husband. I understood then and began to cry inconsolably. Crispín’s parents came to talk with my father, but I didn’t hear them because I was sent out of the house.
When Marta went to live with Crispín I was very angry. I had dreamed of her studying and going to school, neatly dressed and with eyeglasses. I had imagined her at her fifteenth birthday party and her wedding, with my father leading her to the altar! In place of my dream I began to see a nightmare, my little sister living in free union, carrying her child, going to the plaza in a torn apron, uncombed hair, and flapping shoes. Thus was another of my illusions destroyed.
When I first visited the room Crispín set up for Marta, I was impressed because it had everything they needed, a bed, a table and chairs, a little kerosene stove and enough dishes and pots. But later they quarreled a lot and when Marta told me that Crispín had hit her, how angry I became. I saw him as a brutal, jealous husband, who didn’t fulfill his obligations. I mixed into their arguments, always defending my sister. But later, when I heard Crispín’s side of the story, I realized that it was Marta’s fault. She insisted on going out with my brother Roberto and with her gang of friends, exactly as she had before her marriage. When Crispín objected, she threatened to get Roberto after him. Roberto backed up Marta in everything and, as a result, Crispín didn’t want any of us to visit them. When I criticized Marta for not keeping her house clean, or for not obeying her husband, she would turn on me and accuse me of liking Crispín. After that, I kept out of their affairs, but I still believe that if Marta had behaved better, she and Crispín might have had a good life together.
At home, Paula was expecting her second child. My father had a wire strung across the room to curtain off her bed and behind it Alanes was born. Over a year later, Domingo came into the world. My nieces and nephews were well received when they arrived, but the first one, Mariquita, was always the favorite. She brightened up the house and I fell in love with her.
I also learned to love Paula, who seemed like a saint. She lived for her children, although she punished them in a way that infuriated me. My Mariquita was only eleven months old when she tasted the back of her mother’s hand. For some reason, Paula held that little girl responsible for everything her brothers did. If they wet the bed, or fell, or knocked something over, it was Mariquita who had her hair pulled or her bottom spanked. I never dared interfere but usually left the house, slamming the door behind me.
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sp; Paula loved Manuel no matter how wretchedly he behaved to her. She covered up his faults and never complained to us or to my father. She spent all day sewing and mending, and caring for the children. She rarely saw a movie or went out or had an extra dress. Manuel was always out of the house, coming home after midnight or at dawn. Paula was ready to serve him at any hour, turning on the light, waking up everyone in order to give him his meal. Or sometimes at three or four o’clock in the morning he would turn on the light to read. This made me very angry because I had to get up early to go to work, but Paula never said a word about it.
I don’t remember ever seeing my brother treat his wife with affection. He spoke brusquely to her or not at all, burying himself in a magazine or newspaper story. I don’t believe he really loved her. He even preferred to sleep on the floor rather than crowd into bed with her and the children, but, in any case, their marital life was handicapped because they had no privacy. Once in a while they would tell us they were going to a movie but I think they went to a hotel instead.
As I grew older, I became more aware of the restrictions one had to put up with when a whole family lived in a single room. In my case, because I lived in fantasy and liked to daydream, I was especially annoyed by having my dreams interrupted. My brothers would bring me back to reality with, “Hey, what’s the matter with you! You look dopey.” Or I’d hear my father’s voice, “Wake up, you. Always in the clouds! Get moving, fast!”
Coming back to earth, I had to forget the pretty home I was imagining and I looked at our room with more critical eyes. The crude dark wardrobe, so narrow it reminded me of a coffin, was crowded with the clothing of five, seven or nine people, depending upon how many were living there at the time. The chiffonier, too, had to serve the entire family. Dressing and undressing without being seen was a problem. At night, we had to wait until the light was out or undress under the blanket or go to sleep in our clothing. Antonia cared least about being seen in her slip, but Paula, Marta and I were very modest. Roberto, too, would get up in the morning wrapped in his blanket and go into the kitchen to dress. We women wouldn’t dress until the men and children went out so we could close the door. But there was always someone wanting to get in, impatiently banging and telling us to hurry. We could never dawdle.