Next Madre Ester asked us, “How do you say in tsotsil that a woman loves a man she wants to marry?”
Again, Lucia and I didn’t have an answer ready. We thought for a while and then Lucia answered. She said, “You know that we aren’t supposed to love someone who wants to marry us. We aren’t even supposed to talk to them before the joyol! But when we’re young and a girl’s heart hurts for a boy or a boy’s heart hurts for a girl, we say “scan smalal,” she wants her husband. But that doesn’t mean that their hearts hurt for the right reason. Sometimes they just want to have the person, like you would want a beautiful house. This kind of wanting love needs time to grow while two people live together and help each other, respect each other. In time, when one of them has a problem, the other one’s heart hurts for them, and they would even die for them.”
Madre Ester replied, “I think that’s a beautiful understanding of love, even though I think that boys and girls need more freedom to talk to each other before they marry. Don’t you?”
I spoke up again and said, “It isn’t fair that I’m not supposed to talk to boys before one of them comes to ask to marry me. There’s a boy I know from grammar school who I used to think about a lot. Last week on the trail, I saw him coming toward me. Since there was no one around, we stepped off the trail and went a little ways into the woods and talked for a while. After that, I decided that I don’t like him that much, but talking to him made me sure that before I marry I need to hear how my future husband talks to me, if his words show respect for me, if they come from a big or a small heart. Then I’ll know if I should marry.”
When I finished, Lucia asked Madre Ester, “Before you became a nun, did you ever want to marry?’
Madre Ester took some time to answer, just as we had. These were hard questions. Lucia and I had never talked with anyone about the meaning of love between men and women. I don’t think that Madre Ester had talked much about it either. After all, she was supposed to think only of Christian love. Finally, she told us the story of a boy she loved before she became a nun. As she spoke, her eyes were on the mountains.
“I loved a boy once. We were going to marry when he finished university. Our plan was for me to finish university after we married, and he would support me working as a doctor. I was studying to be a linguist, a person who studies different languages. Guillermo was a very kind person and he loved me deeply. But something terrible happened his last semester of school. The bus he was taking to come home to Mexico City for Holy Week went off the road and crashed down the side of a cliff. Everyone was killed, except the driver who we later learned was drunk.
“I wanted the driver to suffer, even die, for what he had done to me and Guillermo. I blamed him for shattering our dreams. After the funeral I dropped out of university and spent most of my time in church praying or in my room crying. For a long time, I wouldn’t see any of my friends because they reminded me of Guillermo. My heart was broken into many pieces, and I couldn’t let go of Guillermo or my hatred for the driver. It was as if I had fallen into the chasm with my beloved, and I was just lying there beside his dead body suspended somewhere between life and death. This was my noche oscura del alma.
“I stayed in that condition for what seemed like an eternity. My parents were very worried about me, but they believed in me and knew that I would find my way back to myself. Then one day when I was in church praying, a nun came over and sat down next to me in the pew. Madre Carmen always greeted me when she was there, but she never did more than that.
“I heard the rustle of Madre Carmen’s habit as she sat next to me, but I just kept praying. When I finished I sat silently beside her. Both our faces were uplifted toward the altar. Finally, Madre Carmen broke the silence and asked me, still looking at the altar, ‘How are you, my child?’
“That simple question punctured a hole in the wall I had built around myself! Madre Carmen’s words began to seep into me and spread throughout my body. I was still filled with loss, and I knew I wasn’t well, but a feeling began to come over me that I could bear and carry my pain and loss, that I could go out into the world again and be a part of it. I couldn’t answer Madre Carmen, but I think she saw something change in my face, and she took my hand in hers and said, ‘Whatever is the source of your pain, you have the wisdom inside you to accept it and come out stronger when it passes. Embrace it, my child, but not in despair. Embrace it with joy, as your right to live fully all your days, no matter what losses you suffer along the way.’
“I don’t know how Madre Carmen knew that these words were what I needed. I couldn’t respond to her because I was weeping, but not tears of despair. They were tears of hope. I felt as if a light had gone on in my head where it had been dark before and now I could see how to live again, but not the life I had planned. I would have to live a life equal to the beautiful world that both Guillermo and I were born into, even though I would have to do it without him, and I didn’t know what it would hold for me.
“I still felt pangs of loss in the months and years to come, but in those moments sitting in the pew with Madre Carmen I began to change.
“Not long after that day in the church, Madre Carmen invited me to volunteer in an afterschool program serving poor children who had migrated with their parents from indigenous pueblos to Mexico City. During those months of singing and playing with children and learning their languages, I began to live again and feel as if I had a place in the world and work to do. I can’t tell you exactly when I knew that I wanted to join Madre Carmen’s order, but I felt that God was calling me to serve Him. Eventually I believed with my whole heart that as a nun my unique self could finally be in the world in a way that made sense to me.”
When Madre Ester finished, she turned to look at Lucia and me. Her eyes were moist with tears, but the expression on her face was full of peace, like those on the statues of the female saints in the church in Chenalhó. We didn’t say anything for a while as Madre Ester’s story entered our hearts. Finally Lucia asked Madre Ester, “What happened to your anger for the bus driver?”
“Oh, that took some time to pass. I think it began to leave when I started to care for the children. With them I was able to bring out the part inside of me that was full of love, not just for Guillermo, but for all my fellow humans. Finally, I realized that my anger toward the bus driver wasn’t doing him or me any good. I began to pray for him, to ask God to forgive him and to help him stop drinking so that he’d never bring such terrible pain into the world again.”
When Madre Ester finished her story, she rested her hands in her lap and looked first at Lucia and then at me. I wonder what she saw in my face. I had never heard a story from a distant place about people so different from myself, and I think it showed. Even so, I was surprised how much I could feel what Madre Ester had felt and how I understood the decisions that she had made. Maybe I could understand her because she spoke to us in tsotsil. I loved her for that, for communicating with us in our language.
Later, I asked Lucia what she thought about Madre Ester’s story. She only said that she was sorry for her and glad that she had come to live in Chiapas.
Lucia and I had more talks with Madre Ester that week. A couple days before the course ended, Lucia began to question things that we had learned that week, such as what it says in the Old Testament about worshiping other gods in Exodus 23:13: “Pay attention to all that I have said to you, and make no mention of the names of other gods, nor let it be heard on your lips.”
When one of the madres read this verse, Lucia leaned over and whispered to me, “What would my grandfather say about that?”
I shrugged my shoulders. Maybe this is something we don’t have to worry about that much, is what I was thinking.
But of course we had to worry about it! It was one of the most important things in the Bible! I thought about my parents who believed in the Bible and still prayed to Earth and the ancestors. My father led prayer sessions in the chapel so it must be possible to believe in more than one God,
or he wouldn’t be permitted to lead the Christian prayers.
Later when we sat with Madre Ester during the break, we asked her about Exodus 23:13. Lucia opened up the topic with a speech to Madre Ester that I think she had been preparing since the course started. She spoke more loudly than usual. I could tell that she was nervous.
“My grandfather Hilario taught me that God is the same as Father Sun and that He, Mother Earth, and Mother Moon have equal power. We pray to Earth to bring us good crops, we ask her forgiveness when we sin. We also pray to all the saints and they help us too.
“The Virgin Mary is the same as the Moon. She came to me three times in my dreams and gave me my cargo to heal. I pray to all our dieties and to Jesus and to Father God too. I can’t believe in God if he wants me to give up praying to Mother Earth! We have to respect her, show our gratitude to her. She is our mother who gave birth to us and everything that exists. She gives us water to drink and to grow our corn and beans. She feeds us from her breast, and we pray to her and the angels that live in her that she will continue to give us enough to eat and that we won’t suffer from sickness and sadness.”
Madre Ester didn’t look surprised by what Lucia said probably because she already knew a lot about our beliefs from living in Venustiano Carranza. But I think she was a little startled by the strength of Lucia’s words.
We waited for Madre Ester to say something. Lucia fiddled with the ends of the fringe on her belt and pressed her lips together, moving them back and forth. Finally Madre Ester said, “I know that the ancestors are important to you, Lucia, that they teach you, that they come back to visit you on Day of the Dead and in dreams, that your dreams call you to do important things, like when Our Holy Mother came to you. You use the knowledge your grandfather and the ancestors gave you to heal people. You spread kanum bail to everyone you touch. I don’t want you to forsake what gives your life meaning, to believe anything that your heart doesn’t want to accept.”
“Yes,” said Lucia. “My religion is written in my heart, not in a book. I don’t need the Bible to know what I believe. I’m sorry to tell you this because I know you want me to follow the word of God. You say things like God loves me, is with me, doesn’t want me to be afraid. That’s good. But we have powerful things in my culture that protect us too. Like moy. My grandfather taught me about wild tobacco, how you can blow it on the path when you’re afraid and a flame or a light appears to protect us. I have seen this.”
“I’m glad that your beliefs make you feel safe, Lucia. I just want you to know that God is also there on the path with the wild tobacco. He’s whererever you are. He’s like Mother Earth. He’s calling all the people of the world to praise him in their languages, with their music, their prayers, with everything in their culture that is good. God’s son is in the center of all the world’s cultures, and from there he accompanies us. He doesn’t tell us what to do or punish us. He only came to show us how to love one another. Can you believe that?”
“I’ll try,” Lucia said. She looked tired. It had been a long week, away from everything we were used to and with people we didn’t know well. Madre Ester continued, “I have an idea I want you to consider. I’d like you to pray in the traditional way before we all leave to go back to our communities. And when we begin each course in Yabteclum, I want you to pray and also when we end. I know that it’s an important tradition in your culture to pray before and after gatherings. I’ve been feeling bad that we’ve only prayed in the Christian way. We’re fortunate to have a healer with us to pray for us so that nothing will come to harm us when we’re together.”
I was surprised to hear Madre Ester invite Lucia to pray, but Lucia seemed relieved that now she had a way to practice our traditions among the Believers. In a respectful and almost tender voice, she said, “I accept your invitation, and I want to thank you. We’ve never met a madre like you. Even if I can’t take the word of God fully into my heart, I’ll come to the courses and read the words from the Bible. I feel that I’m where I belong with you and Magdalena.”
So, at the end of the last day, we gathered in the patio and formed a circle and held hands, all the madres and women and girls from different townships. Then Madre Ester said, “I’ve learned a lot this week from you. I hope you’ve learned a lot from each other and from the word of God.
“The other madres and I also learned more about your traditions. For example, in your communities it’s important to ask an j’ilol to pray at the beginning and end of gatherings like this. We didn’t think about that at the beginning of this retreat, but we can at least have a prayer to end our time together. I’ve asked Lucia who is an j’ilol in Lokan, Chenalhó to pray. Afterwards she’ll give the words in Spanish for those of you who speak tseltal and tojolobal.”
Lucia moved from the circle into the middle of the room. I followed her to set up the candles and light the incense. Then I slipped back into the circle while Lucia knelt and bowed her head before the incense and rows of candles. She looked like a dark lily on a long stem bending toward the earth. Everyone bowed their heads in silence while she prayed.
I thought we were done talking about Lucia for the day, but Verónica asked me if I would speak the actual words of Lucia’s prayer into the tape recorder. “I’d really like to hear them,” she said.
“I can’t remember them.” I said. “Lucia prayed for at least ten minutes, and she used many words that only healers know. Anyway, I’ve talked enough for today.”
I could tell that Verónica was disappointed that I didn’t remember the prayer, but what could I do? I was tired of bringing back the past. So we stopped for the day. As often happened when we finished talking about Lucia, I got up abruptly and almost ran down the path to our store. I could hear my feet slapping on the stones. I guess I didn’t want to lose any more customers. Or maybe I was relieved to be free of Verónica and her tape recorder.
I think I was feeling a little sad too.
WAITING FOR A BOY, ASKING FOR A GIRL
THE NEXT TIME I agreed to talk about Lucia it was a rainy day—a Friday, I think. Victorio was at a meeting, all the chores were done, and I had time to talk. Verónica pulled two wood blocks close to the fire and set up her things on a little table nearby. By that time she was feeling comfortable using her tape recorder and didn’t seem to worry about hitting a button by accident and erasing all my words.
At first, the possibility of her machine betraying us was always in the back of our minds. But when she replayed my words, there they were, just as clear as if I was speaking at that moment. I learned to enjoy hearing my words.
So before we began again, Verónica replayed a little bit of what I had said the last time we talked. We had finally come to the part in Lucia’s story when she and I were at the age girls should marry. Over the years I had told Verónica how Victorio and I met and even a little about how he came to ask my parents to marry me. I’m glad that today some young men still do what Victorio did because it shows respect for the girl and her parents.
But Verónica doesn’t think it’s a good tradition because it gives all the right to the boy to pick a girl. Although the girl can reject him, it’s embarrassing for everyone if she does. I went through that with the first boy who came to ask to marry me. Verónica had never heard the details about that bride petition, and she was eager for the chance to hear about it. I adjusted a few logs in the fire, sat back in my chair, and pulled my shawl across my chest as I always did when I started to talk. I think I was trying to protect what was inside my heart before I opened it to Verónica.
I was seventeen years old when I met your father. It was in 1981 because we married in 1982 when I was eighteen. Victorio was hard working, and he was a prayer leader, like your grandfather. He was very respectful, never talked to me when we met on the trails. It helped that he was often bent over with a load of wood on his back and couldn’t easily look me in the eye!
Victorio and I talked sometimes at the courses that the madres organized, but there were othe
rs around us so no one minded. I liked the way your father looked, even with the long scar on the side of his face. I liked that your father smiled a lot and how his eyes came alive when he read the scriptures. I said to myself, “This is a man I could be content with.”
One day when we were waiting by the side of the road for a ride home from one of the courses, I asked your father how he got his scar. I wasn’t usually so bold, but I wanted to know everything about him. When he heard my question, he quickly touched his scar as if he had forgotten about it. Then he told me how it happened, in a low voice so that others wouldn’t hear.
“It was late at night, and I was walking home from a plantation where I’d been working. I was only a few miles from Lokan when all of a sudden a man came out of the bushes waving his machete. I never saw the man, only the machete which struck me across my face. The man must have been drunk and fled as soon as he saw what he’d done. When I got up from the ground, blood was streaming down my face and neck. I tore off part of my shirt to stop the blood. It was the middle of the night when I finally got home. My mother jumped out of bed when she saw my face and ran to find some pox. She quickly poured it on the wound and gave me a cup to drink. Then she took a needle and thread and sewed up my face. That’s why the scar never healed too well.”
Soon a truck came and we all climbed into the back. On the way home we didn’t talk but I was thinking about Victorio the whole time and wondering when I would see him again.
It was only about a month later that your father came to my house with his parents to ask to marry me. A couple weeks before he came, my mother asked me, “What do you think about this boy Victorio? Do you want to marry him?”
When a Woman Rises Page 9