She Had No Choice

by Debra Burroughs

  Gracias, Emilio

  * * * *

  In 1922, when the Ramirez family had been in Arizona for almost four years, Juanita became ill and passed away. No one knew exactly what disease caused Mama’s death, only that it made a difficult life only more so. The family was heartbroken, but there was little time for mourning their loss. A small ceremony was performed at the grave site, but soon after, the family had to go back to work. The crops would not wait.

  Emilio stood over his wife’s grave and remembered back to the night he brought her to America – the mad dash through the desert, diving under the border fence, fearing for their lives. The experience had been terrifying, but once across the border and out of danger, they were suddenly overwhelmed with a welcomed sense of freedom.

  Their hearts pounded in their chests and adrenalin rushed through their bodies. They felt the joy of being set free from their gripping fear – both of being caught crossing the border and of dying from the influenza. Emilio recalled how they had all hugged each other and their children and danced around with excitement before being reminded by some of their fellow immigrants to keep their voices down and get moving up the road. The main road had inclined slightly then splintered off into a narrow road. Two cargo trucks waited there to take them to their new lives.

  Emilio recalled the relief he felt riding in the back of one of the trucks with his family. They were now safely across the border, ready to begin their lives anew.

  Most of the immigrants who just crossed the border would live their new lives as migrant farm workers. El Jefe had arranged, as part of his fee, for the Ramirez family to work the early summer season on a farm when they first arrived. After that, it was up to them to find their own work at whatever farms or ranches they could.

  At the first farm, they harvested lettuce. As the summer wore on and the Arizona sun blazed as hot as a coal furnace, they moved on to picking onions. There were long days of back-breaking work, not just for the parents, but for the children, as well. Climbing into bed at night, their bodies ached from hours of bending over. They hoped the rest would help their sore backs and leg muscles.

  Living in make-shift camps, they knew they’d be moving on after the picking season ended. There were tents to sleep in, a lean-to shelter for cooking, and communal outhouses. Life was hard, but no matter what, they tried to remember that they were alive and they were together – at least what was left of their family.

  Emilio remembered how Juanita tried to encourage the children with the hope that things would get better for them. She talked with them about her dreams for the future, of having their own home again, working their own land. But now, with Juanita gone, Emilio was not so sure.

  A few weeks after Emilio buried his loving wife, he decided it would be best to send young Sofía to live with her aunt, Tía Consuela, in Ruby, just outside of Phoenix. He took Sofía aside one evening after work and sat with her on an old tree stump, trying his best to explain his heart-wrenching decision to send her away.

  “Mi’ja, I need to talk to you about something.”

  “Okay, Papa. You sound so serious. What is it?” she asked.

  “Mama is gone now, and we all miss her so much,” he began. He wanted to explain to her how he couldn’t care for all of his children – especially a young girl – by himself. But the words caught in his throat. He took a slow, deep breath and tried to continue. “With Mama gone, we’ll have less money to live on, less hands to work the fields. She was such a good picker, almost as good as me.”

  “I can work hard, too, Papa. I’ll help you.”

  “Sofía, sweet Sofía…” Emilio looked at his daughter’s face and felt awash with sadness. She was a good daughter. Papa knew that she would work hard in the fields if he asked her to. But he wanted more for her than that. “I have decided to send you to live with your Tía Consuela.”

  “What?” Sofía could hardly believe her ears. “No, Papa, no! Please don’t send me away,” Sofía was panicked, she could feel her heart quicken its beat.

  “She lives in a big house with lots of nice things. She can take care of you and give you a better life than I can,” he reasoned.

  “I can work. I can bring in money. I’m a good worker, Papa.” Sofía pleaded, wiping her tears with her hands. “Please don’t send me away!” She had just lost her mother, and now she was losing her father, too.

  “She can help you with your education, mi’ja. You can have a better life, not this life,” he said, motioning with a sweep of his outstretched arm toward the camp and their current living conditions. “Not working in the fields every day. It’s for the best, Sofía.”

  “No, Papa! No!” She continued to cry, sobbing hysterically. Papa’s heart was breaking, but he felt it was the best thing for his daughter. He put his arms around her and let her cry. He cried, too.

  Tía Consuela was one of Emilio’s sisters. She owned a hotel and restaurant in Phoenix. Although Consuela had lost her husband a few years before, she started the business on her own and had made a success of it. Surely she would have the resources to care for Sofía, her father assumed. He wrote to Consuela and asked for her help.

  Emilio sent the letter, then took Sofía to the train station a few days later. He did not wait for a reply from Consuela. He didn’t want to give her the chance to decline. He felt sure she could do for his daughter what he could not.

  The Ramirez’s other surviving daughter, Maria, was seventeen years old, and her father decided against sending her away. He needed her to stay to prepare the meals, do the laundry and keep their living quarters clean while he and the three boys worked in the fields. Maria was a dutiful daughter who had learned to cook well from her mother, but she thought Sofía was getting the better life and was jealous. Sofía would have gladly traded places and stayed with her family, but Papa had made up his mind.

  The day Sofía left, her father, brothers, and sister reluctantly walked with her to an old green pickup truck Papa had borrowed, and each brother and sister hugged her good-bye. The separation was painful, but they accepted it because Papa had told them it was only temporary.

  Sofía had filled her old handmade leather bag with her meager belongings – a pair of pants, a couple of shirts, some underwear, her mama’s Bible and a hair brush. Papa lifted the satchel into the bed of the truck and helped her into the front seat.

  He paused for a brief moment as he closed her door, looking down at the door handle he was holding, wondering if he was doing the right thing. Emilio knew the move was best for Sofía, but it hurt him deeply to send her away. So he decided he had better get in the truck quickly, before he changed his mind.

  Papa’s boots made a steady clip-clop as he shuffled through the dust coming back around to the driver’s side. He climbed in the cab, forced the key into the ignition and started the engine. Sending his beloved daughter away was heartrending, he tried hard not to let his feelings show. Sofía’s brothers and sister sadly waved good-bye as the truck pulled away.

  Gray clouds began to form the morning Sofía left her family, and before long, a soft rain started to fall. It was as though the heavens understood the dark heaviness in her chest and the tears that wanted to flow. She looked back at her brothers and sister, feeling like a black cloud was filling her, swollen with moisture and ready to spill out. She could not hold back her sadness anymore and quietly wept for the family she was losing, the end of the only family she had ever known.

  The noisy little pickup headed away from their camp, sputtering and chugging down the dirt road toward a patch of bright blue sky. Maybe this was a sign, Sofía thought to herself, a sign that she was heading to a better life.

  Sofía and her father shared little conversation. Neither wanted to say what they were thinking.

  He likely thought about how, if the influenza had not come to his village, he would still have his loving wife, all his sons and daughters, his farm and his friends back in his little town in Mexico. But the deadly disease did come, and he lost hal
f his children, his farm and all of his friends. He made the difficult choice to bring what was left of his family to an unknown place and work another man’s land for next to nothing. And then to lose his beloved Juanita.

  If he had not lost her, he could have kept what was left of his family together. Now, to add to his misery, he had to send sweet Sofía away. But he felt he had to do it for her sake, because he loved her.

  Sofía was lost in thought, as well, remembering Mama and their life in Mexico. She thought of each of her brothers and sisters, living and dead, not wanting to forget their faces. She tried to burn their images in her mind and keep them with her forever. But it had been more than three years since she came to the United States, and the faces of the dead ones were already fading.

  Deep sorrow filled the cab of the truck like heavy gray smoke. Both of their hearts were aching from it. Sofía didn’t want to go, and Papa didn’t want to send her away. He wanted her to know how much he loved her. He wanted to leave her with some positive words to recall when she was feeling lonely. So, as the truck bumped along the rough, winding road, he broke the silence with a few words of affection.

  “Your mama was so proud of you, niña,” he told her. “You are such a good daughter and so helpful. She loved you very much. You remind me so much of her, you have her sweet spirit.”

  “I do?” His words were like warm honey pouring over a slice of her mama’s freshly baked sweet bread. Soaking up the sweetness, it was like a salve to her fragile emotions.

  “Yes, mi’ja. Just like her.” He fought back the tears and his voice started to quiver. He could not go on speaking for fear he would break down and cry.

  “Gracias, Papa, for telling me that.” She reached out and touched his arm. She would remember his warm, sweet words and always hold them in her heart. A hush once more fell between them.

  After traveling half of the day in the uncomfortable, bouncy little pickup, Sofía and her father arrived at the small train station, overheated and exhausted. Their clothes were stuck to their sweaty backs. Papa pulled the truck into the graveled parking area and turned off the engine. They sat for a few moments in silence, watching five or six other people walking toward the train, knowing she would soon have to leave.

  The train station was not large. It was an unpainted wooden building, not more than a ticket office and a waiting area with benches along the side. The wood plank platform ran about two hundred feet for loading and unloading passengers and cargo from each train car. When Emilio and Sofía arrived and parked, there were a handful of people hugging and saying good-bye, preparing to board. They knew their time for good-byes had come, as well, but neither wanted to move.

  “It’s time,” Papa finally said. They both slowly got out of the truck. Sofía felt a bit panicked at the thought of leaving her father, Papa just felt sorrow.

  He grabbed her bag from the back of the truck, and came around to the passenger side. Sofía was reluctant to climb out, she didn’t want to go. But, the train would be leaving soon, and she needed to board. Papa opened the door for her and gently helped his daughter out of the vehicle.

  He looked at the bag sadly for a brief moment, then handed it to her. She hugged her father tightly, and he returned the embrace. Neither wanted to let go. But the decision had been made, and the train whistle was about to blow. Sofía gave her papa one last hug, and they said their good-byes.

  “Adiós, Papa. I love you.”

  “Adiós, mi’ja. You’ll be all right.”

  “Papa, I don’t want to go. I miss you already,” Sofía said, blinking back the tears.

  “You need to get on the train.”

  “Papa, please…”

  “Sofía, it’s time to go.”

  “Okay,” she said in a weak, shaky voice as she started to walk toward the train. Her long dark hair was braided down her back and her brown cotton dress was wrinkled from the long drive. Papa thought she looked so young, still his little girl. Turning back as she walked away, she called out to him, “I’ll write to you, Papa. Write me back. Please, Papa. Please.” Her tears fell from her cheeks, making dark spots on her dress.

  “I promise I’ll keep in touch, mi’ja,” her father answered her. “I’ll come and see you when I can.” She continued walking toward the train, constantly looking back. Fighting to put on a strong front, a single tear escaped as Papa waved at his young daughter as she boarded the train and disappeared out of sight.

  He turned and slowly walked back to the truck, his head hung down and his shoulders hunched. Pulling the door open, he slid in behind the steering wheel. Once he closed the door and was totally alone, every emotion he had bottled up came rushing to the surface. He rested his arms on the top of the steering wheel, laid his head against them, and let his tears come pouring out.

  After a few minutes, Emilio heard the train whistle, long and loud, and wanted to moan in reply. He wiped his eyes with his dry, calloused hands and watched the train until it was gone. He knew it was time to return home.

  The porter helped Sofía find her seat and store her bag. He was a tall, older white gentleman with graying hair who spoke some Spanish, having worked the train routes in the southwest for several years. He watched carefully to ensure no one bothered her and to see she got off at the right station. Papa would be happy to know she had someone watching over her, even if he couldn’t.

  Traveling on a train was a brand new experience for Sofía. She was only twelve years old and all alone. Coming from the small village, then living in the farm camps, nothing had prepared her for this event.

  What would her future hold? She had plenty of time to let her thoughts wander. This would be an adventure, she told herself, a chance for a new and better life.

  Papa had told her she would not have to work in the fields anymore, that she would have a fine house to live in and nice clothes to wear. She recalled how he told her she would also have a soft, warm bed to sleep in and good food to eat. He said she would likely go to an excellent school and learn to speak English. It sounded too good to be true; she thought Papa must be exaggerating.

  She didn’t know for certain what lay ahead of her, but what choice did she have? There was no going back. She trusted her father, trusted that he was doing what was best for her, sending her to live with her aunt. Sweet Papa. She had only been on the train for about an hour, but she missed him already.

  As the train rattled down the track, she comforted herself with his words about her mother and with the thought that she would see him and her siblings again soon. These were the things that helped her get through this wrenching separation.

  But as time would tell, seeing them again wasn’t to be. With her father and brothers moving from place to place as migrant farm workers, Sofía would eventually lose contact with them.

  She never saw her sister, Maria, again either. She learned much later that once Maria turned eighteen, she ran off to find her own life. She was envious of Sofía for getting to go to the city and have what Maria imagined would be a new and better life. She resented the fact that she was made to stay in the farm worker camps to cook and clean and take care of Papa and the boys.

  But, rather than a wonderful life of privilege with their well-to-do aunt, however, Sofía would soon find herself caught in a life much different from that of Maria’s imagination.

  Chapter 4: A Cinderella Story

  1922, Phoenix, Arizona

  After a long, noisy train ride, Sofía finally reached her destination of Phoenix, Arizona. The train slowly pulled into the station, brakes squealing and steam spewing out. When the train came to a complete stop, she gathered up her few belongings and made her way to the door with the rest of the passengers. The porter took her arm and helped her step out onto the platform.

  “Gracias, señor,” Sofía said to the porter politely.

  “De nada, señorita,” he responded. She turned and waved at him as she walked away, and he smiled back at her warmly. She headed toward the ticket office to wait fo
r someone to meet her.

  Sofía had never been to a large city. All she had known was a rural life. She had spent the first eight years of her life in their little village until they crossed into the United States. After the crossing, her family went directly to the farms of Arizona.

  Everything in this city seemed so strange to her – the sights of large buildings and motor cars, the smells of the locomotive engines and the restaurants, the fancy clothes, the sounds of people speaking English. She stopped for a moment on the platform, drawing in a long, deep calming breath to steady herself.

  “Sofía! Sofía!” a female voice shouted.

  Her cousin, Olivia, stood up from the bench where she had been waiting for Sofía to arrive and quickly walked over to her. Olivia was sixteen years old, lovely and well dressed. The deep blue silk fabric of her dress, along with the beautiful tailoring and expensive lace that fringed her sleeves and neckline, was a stark contrast to Sofía’s drab brown cotton dress with a few buttons in the front and a soft belt that tied at her waist. Sofía felt a little embarrassed at her simple clothing, even though Olivia didn’t seem to notice.

  Olivia had come with a driver, Ernesto, to meet her cousin at the train station and bring her back to her mother’s home to live with them. She smiled broadly at Sofía and her voice was warm and welcoming.

  “I am Olivia,” she said, as she gave Sofía a quick hug. “I’m so happy you’re here.”

  “Gracias,” she replied, shyly. Looking around, she was still trying to take it all in.

  “This way, mi prima,” said Olivia, pointing to where the carriage was. “I know many people are starting to drive motor cars these days, but my mother won’t hear of it. So, we still travel by horse and buggy.”

  Sofía didn’t know what to expect coming to her aunt’s home. Her father didn’t speak much about his sister, Consuela. From the way Olivia was dressed and the fact they had a driver, Sofía thought Tía Consuela must be very wealthy. She had enough manners, though, not to ask.