by Laura Resau
The mestizos treat them with more respect than the poor ones, which is not to say they’re friendly. I’ve noticed that when a middle-class indígena buys something from a mestizo’s shop, he’s treated with only superficial politeness. If there are both an indígena and a mestizo waiting for assistance, nearly always the mestizo will be attended to first. There’s so much broiling beneath the surface. The mestizos can barely disguise their prejudice; the indígenas can barely suppress their resentment. So the two groups exist in separate realms—the mestizos in theirs and the middle-class indígenas in theirs—and rarely do they mix.
It’s obvious that the poor indígenas—the longos, as the Doctorita would call them—get the worst of it. They’re scorned by mestizos and middle-class indígenas alike. The shopkeepers openly disdain them, not even bothering to use the polite usted form. This is how people treat my parents. When my mother and I are together at the market in Otavalo—me dressed in my regular clothes, and her in poor indigenous clothes—people assume I’m a mestiza girl with her maid.
Where do I fit in? I study these groups carefully, looking for clues, watching how they interact. Soon I realize that my in-between position could offer me freedom to move among them as I wish. I start wondering how the middle-class indígenas got that way. They—or their parents or grandparents—must have started out poor at some point. They must have been clever and determined and somehow found a way to make money from nothing.
Again, I think back to when I was a little girl, practicing at being a rich indígena in the pasture. The worn scraps of fabric felt deliciously soft in my hands as I folded them in neat squares, transformed by my imagination into fine clothes for sale. I plucked leaves to use as money, which I stashed in my shirt, just like the indígena ladies at the market. Kneeling in the grass with my fabric-scrap clothes spread before me, I imitated the rhythmic tones I’d heard at the market.
“Look, señora, buy this, it’s cheap. Buy this, buy this, señora. How much will you give me?”
“Two sucres,” my cousin Zoyla said, holding forth two leaves, grudgingly playing along.
“Five,” I countered, my voice even and confident.
“Three,” she said.
I shook my head, holding my ground. “Five. Look at the fine cloth. Here, feel it. Not a sucre less than five.”
She reluctantly picked a few more leaves from the tree and counted five into my outstretched palms. I tucked them into my shirt, then gathered my fabric scraps in a sack, slung it over my shoulder, and scampered up the tree. I shouted to Josefa the cow and the scattered sheep, my voice echoing off the canyon walls. “I am a rich lady with my own business and I am traveling far away from here!” The tree transformed into my truck, full of merchandise—piles of blouses and skirts and shoes, and I bounced on the limb, beeping and roaring my engine to far-off places like Quito and Colombia. I closed my eyes and felt the wind in my hair and the thrill of traveling into a dazzling, bright future, certain that one day I would be old enough to do this for real.
And now that I’m old enough and resourceful enough, what’s stopping me?
One sunny, windy morning, on a day off from school, I’m on the way to Alfonso’s field with Mamita. We pass through our own field first, where, just beyond the outhouse, big green pumpkins are growing like weeds. Mamita uses these sambos to make dessert on special occasions, but this year has been a particularly good year for sambos, and there are more than we could possibly use.
“Mamita,” I say, swinging my machete as I walk, “what are you going to do with all those sambos?” I speak slowly in Spanish, gesturing and using simple words, the only way we can communicate.
“Who knows,” she says in Quichua, which I’m understanding more of, little by little. “Probably feed them to the pigs.”
“Can I have them?”
She gives me a strange look and shrugs. “Take them.” Most of the time, she doesn’t know what to make of me, so she lets me have my way. She still has no idea what kinds of places I go to in my head, and I don’t try to explain. It’s like I’m an extraterrestrial who landed in Yana Urku from another planet. The advantage to this, I realize, is it lets me see things from a fresh, entrepreneurial perspective.
My plan is to make sambo jelly, which I’ve made before, with the Doctorita. I spend all evening cutting up the pumpkins, and boiling them for hours with sugar to make a sweet paste, and then I use my last sucres to buy loaves of bread from the bakery. I spread the paste onto thick slices of bread and cut the sandwiches in half on a diagonal and put a stack of them in a plastic bag. Monday at recess, I sell them to the students and teachers for two sucres apiece. Within fifteen minutes, I’m sold out, and I go home that afternoon with a heavy pocketful of change. That evening, dancing and singing to myself in the kitchen, I make twice as many sambo jelly sandwiches.
The next day at recess, as I’m taking coins from the kids who are lined up, two old mestizo men walk past, ever so slowly. I catch one of them say, “This guaguita here, now, she shows us all how to work hard if you want to get ahead. This guaguita will go far in life.”
These words nourish me, these words I wish my parents would tell me. I decide the old man is right. And Principal Marcelo is right. I will choose to listen to their encouragement rather than my parents’ doubt. I will go far.
With my profits I buy lollipops and bananas from Otavalo and spend weekends at soccer and basketball games in nearby communities selling my sandwiches and candy and bananas. They’re a hit. Every weekend I come home with more money than I could make after a month of working in the fields for Mariana and Alfonso.
My little cousins and siblings love my new business, since it means free sweets for them. Sometimes, when I give Manuelito a spoonful of sambo jelly, he smacks his lips with delight just like Jaimito did when I’d sneak him a spoonful of honey. These treats bring me a little closer to the children, but they still keep their distance. I miss the warmth of my relationship with Andrecito and Jaimito, but I try not to wallow in memories. Instead, I focus on now, on expanding my business, selling snacks at dances and festivals.
My best customers are teenage boys. They buy a sandwich and say, “Delicious!” and then, “What’s your name?” and then, “You’re really pretty,” and then, “Would you like to go for a walk?” or “Would you like to go out sometime?” I just smile and let my eyes dance and say, “If you like my sandwiches so much, why don’t you buy some more for your family and friends?” They eagerly hand over more money and I smile and thank them and come home rich.
Sometimes a boy reminds me of Antonio, the way he used to gaze at me, like I was a miracle, like I was giving him a gift just by talking with him. After a moment of wistfulness, I try to let go of these memories, let go of my friends from Kunu Yaku, my beautiful cow, all the other sweet parts of my old life. And I move on, letting myself become swept along in the momentum of my new life.
I end up earning enough to pay for school supplies and contribute money to my family for food. Papito doesn’t exactly congratulate me on my success, but at least he no longer complains that I’m leeching off them. Best of all, I can even buy a few luxuries for myself. The biggest luxury is books, and my first book is the most magical one of all. This book is the key that will open the lock to the door to a new life.
The shop is small and dark and musty and filled with books from floor to ceiling. All these books together in one place—the jumble of colors and letters and pictures—make my heart thud. At first I just stand and soak up their papery presence.
“Feel free to browse,” the shopkeeper says, pushing up her glasses, then looking back at her own book.
“Thank you!” I just ducked into this store impulsively, while running errands for Mamita in downtown Otavalo, and now I feel as though I’ve stumbled onto a gold mine.
I run my hands over the spines, reading the titles wistfully. I miss the Doctorita’s shelves of books. It only took me a couple of weeks to read my sixth-grade textbooks cover to cov
er, and now I’m hungry for more.
One title catches my eye. Secrets to a Happy Life. On the cover is a garden bursting with flowers, and a silver key and keyhole. I wipe my hands on my skirt to make sure they’re clean and then flip through the book, careful not to hurt any pages. It’s all about how to reach your dreams. And the key idea is Querer es poder. To want is to be able to. To want is power. If you want something enough, you’ll find a way to get it. You have to be creative, think outside the box. You have to repeat your dream to yourself, with complete faith that you will get it. You have to envision your dreams as if they’re already real.
It’s as if the book is breathing and pulsing in my hand, buzzing with its own vibrant energy. It’s the feeling I got when I learned to read, like discovering a doorway to another world. It’s as if deep inside I’ve known these things already, these secrets to a happy life, but here they are, written out so that I won’t ever forget or doubt.
I buy the book and carry it with me everywhere. Within weeks it’s worn and soft. I start repeating to myself, Querer es poder, as I walk, in rhythm with my footsteps. The words become an undercurrent in my life, like music that sticks in your head, a constant background to every thought.
* * *
After elementary school graduation, when I tell my classmates I plan to attend the prestigious República de Ecuador in Otavalo, some of them laugh. “Only la gente que puede can go to that colegio. Not you.” La gente que puede. The people who can, people of means, wealthy people, high-class people. Instead of responding, I whisper to myself, Querer es poder.
Years ago, when I told the Doctorita I would one day graduate from the República de Ecuador, the same colegio as her beloved nephew, she said with scorn, “That school is for the gente de clase.” Gente de clase. The people of a certain class. Meaning mestizos with money, not poor indigenous kids.
Querer es poder, I repeat silently.
Over the summer, I take the entrance exam to the República de Ecuador and pass it with a score high enough that the head of admissions wants to interview me.
The next step is to a find an adult representative to sign the paperwork. Papito, of course, thinks the whole idea is ridiculous, especially after he finds out how much it costs. “That’s more money than I make in a month,” he snorts.
I remind him how much I’ve made from my little business, but he flicks that aside. “And how will you keep your business while you’re studying? While you’re on the bus two hours a day to and from school? And what about uniforms? And books?”
“I’ll find a way,” I say, gritting my teeth.
Mamita simply shakes her head at my request. When I push, I realize she’s intimidated by the thought of just walking through the school’s imposing gate, past its security guard, through its neatly manicured gardens. She won’t inflict such humiliation on herself. She won’t expose herself to the shame of not being able to speak to the administrators in Spanish, or read the paperwork, or even write her name on the form.
In frustration, I run out of our cramped, dark shack, down to the pasture, where I flop on my back and stare at the enormous blue sky. I repeat to myself yo puedo, yo puedo. I can do it, I can do it. The next morning, I start asking other adults in my village to be my representative, and by the afternoon, I’ve found a kind young woman who will do me the favor.
During my interview, I let my eyes dance. I talk about how much I love science, how it opened my eyes to the world around me. I talk about how reading is a doorway to another world, about how hungry I am to learn as much as they can teach me. I talk about the notebooks of poetry I keep, the stories about Soledad I’ve written.
The interviewer is a middle-aged woman with gentle eyes who asks me questions and listens carefully to my responses, taking notes on a pad of paper. At the end of the interview, she shakes my hand. “Señorita, even though you’re a few years older than the other entering students, we’d love you to attend our school.” She raises an eyebrow. “On one condition.”
I swallow hard and smooth the skirt of my dress. What if she asks me for some kind of proof that I’m gente de clase, gente que puede? What if there’s a secret certificate that those people have that I can never get no matter how hard I try? “What’s the condition, maestra?” I ask with dread.
“No chasing boys.”
I breathe out and smile. “No problem.”
“And no makeup.”
I am smiling so big I’m practically laughing. “I promise.” And then, “Thank you. Thank you, maestra.”
* * *
The first day of school I get up at four a.m. Mamita gets up early too, and heats up my soup and watches me eat, which is maybe her way of saying good luck. I put on my uniform last thing before I leave the house so it doesn’t get dirty as I eat breakfast by the fire pit. I ride the bus downtown—an hour’s trip—and quickly walk the rest of the way in the cool morning air.
I arrive a full hour early, just as the guard is opening the iron gates. I half expect him to turn me away, to tell me that only gente de clase can enter, not people like me. He only smiles and says, “Buenos días, señorita,” as I breeze past. A few other students are gathered inside the grounds, joking and talking nervously. I don’t stand too close, worried they’ll smell the wood smoke and kerosene and farm-animal stench clinging to me, even though I’ve dabbed on perfume to cover it up.
But everyone is friendly. “What’s your name? What year are you? What elementary school did you go to? Where do you live?”
I tell them, with pleasant vagueness, that I live on the outskirts of town, where I recently moved from Ibarra. I don’t mention the name of my community, in case they know it’s indigenous and impoverished. I’m careful to paint a picture of myself as gente de clase, a middle-class mestiza girl from a nice family with a rustic home in the country.
No one questions my story or acts like I don’t belong. The teachers seem to like me too, especially the social studies and science ones. I know the answer to every question already, since I’ve studied the seventh- and eighth-grade curricula in Kunu Yaku. By the end of the morning, I’ve made three friends—Esperanza and Carmen and Sonia—who are already inviting me to hang out and study together after school. They’ve been best friends for years, and for some reason, they invite me to sit with them at lunch. Within minutes, I’m laughing and joking with them as though I’ve been a part of their group for ages.
Esperanza is big, a little fat but in a muscular, athletic way. I get the feeling her family is wealthy from some things she’s mentioned, like her country club and her trips to Disneyland in California. She’s always cracking jokes, making everyone laugh. During recess, when she catches me examining a flower I’d never seen before up close, and I explain I’m counting the stamens, she starts calling me Virginia the Esteemed Scientist. Carmen and Sonia laugh and throw their arms over my shoulders. It makes me feel part of things.
Sonia is quiet and fair-skinned with light brown hair. Freckles spot her nose. She has a gentle, graceful way of floating around, from years of ballet lessons. Boys are always staring at her, trying to talk to her, but she’s too shy and instead retreats into our little group of girls. She’s sincere and thoughtful and observant and asks unexpected questions, like “What do dogs dream about?” or “Would you rather be able to fly or read minds?” or “Have you noticed that the snack vendor on the corner always wears purple pants?”
And then there’s Carmen, who’s always smiling and arranging her barrettes or refolding her socks or retucking her shirt. She’s extremely neat, with a perfect, smooth bobbed haircut—not a strand out of place. She organizes her colored pencils in their tin case according to the colors of the light spectrum and has an eraser and six writing utensils on her desk at all times—a black pen, a freshly sharpened pencil, a highlighter, and backups of each. When, in her earnest voice, Sonia asks Carmen why she does this, she laughs, “In case of emergency!” She gets along with everyone; she’s from a big family. They’re well-off, but
since she has seven brothers and sisters, she has to wear their hand-me-downs and guard her possessions so no siblings will snatch them.
Even after just a few days, I adore my new friends and teachers, and they adore me. But these precious relationships seem tender, vulnerable, at the risk of disappearing with one wrong word from my mouth. I resolve to do everything I can to protect them. Not a single student or teacher at this school will ever discover that I come from a poor, indigenous family. Never.
For weeks, I follow the same pattern: wake up before dawn, catch the bus to Otavalo, walk to school, attend classes, study and hang out with my friends after school, and ride the bus back home at night. Thankfully, my friends don’t think it’s odd I live outside of town. They assume my family owns a big hacienda with plenty of land, that we simply prefer the country to the bustle of the city. Thankfully, too, they show no interest in seeing my home, content with having me visit their houses, just a convenient couple of kilometers from school.
And really, my family and home are the only things I have to hide in order to keep my heritage a secret. It’s true my skin is dark, but plenty of mestizos have skin just as dark as mine. I don’t speak Quichua. I don’t dress as an indígena. And even though Farinango sounds more indigenous than Spanish, I have heard of mestizos with the same last name.
On Fridays, I stay up late making sambo sandwiches to sell at parties and games over the weekend. Here and there, I find snatches of time to read Secrets to a Happy Life, flipping it open to random sections.
Close your eyes and visualize how you want your life to be. How does it feel? Who is there? What is your job? Where do you live?
I love these visualizations. In a way, I’ve been doing them all my life, assuming they were only fantasies, when actually, they were much more.
I let my tired eyelids fall shut and see myself as a star student, receiving awards. And an actress, who makes people cry and smile. And an elegant, beautiful young businesswoman, who people regard with respect. I imagine the Doctorita and Niño Carlitos asking my forgiveness. I imagine Andrecito and Jaimito giving me big hugs. I imagine eating rice and meat and fruit and cakes and pies. I imagine living in a purple house like a mansion from The Slave Isaura, with high ceilings and lots of windows, and gardens outside, and tiled floors and a stove instead of a wood fire, and shiny bathrooms, everything sparkling clean.