Victorio interrupted us with his noisy entrance into the kitchen. He laid his machete against the wall, put his hat on a hook, and plunked himself down on a chair. I got up to mix a little ball of masa in water as I’ve done a thousand times before. Victorio looked exhausted as he took the matz from me, but he seemed interested in taking his mind off his tiredness. So, he asked Verónica, “Daughter, tell me, how’s your mother doing remembering our comadre’s story?”
“Good!” she said. Verónica glanced at me. She was surprised, I think, that her father would ask her that.
“Has she gotten to the part where Lucia was drinking all the time?”
“How did you know?” Verónica asked. “That’s exactly what we’re talking about now.”
“I can tell you something about that too,” Victorio continued.
‘Tell me, Father,” Verónica said. She turned off the tape recorder and leaned closer to Victorio, waiting to hear what he had to add to my story. He took a couple drinks of matz and began.
“Before I married your mother, I was a drinker, like Lucia. You already know this. But maybe you don’t know that there were rumors about my drinking too, about the fights I got into when I was drunk. I spent many nights in jail from my drinking. Then I had the dream I’ve told you about many times, when St. Peter asked me to help make balls of incense for the apostles. I took the dream to mean that he was giving me a cargo to serve him and all the saints.
“At first I didn’t do anything about the dream, but I couldn’t stop thinking about it. One Sunday in the market a catechist came up to me where I was drinking my uncle’s chicha and asked me to come to church with him. I’ve always wondered how he knew I was ready to change, because to him I was just another drunk in the market.
“Inside the church I listened to the catechist read from the word of God, but his words didn’t penetrate my heart because it was still flooded with chicha. The next Sunday when I was planning to drink again, the catechist found me before I started and asked me to go to church with him instead of joining my uncle at his chicha barrel. Maybe St. Peter was there with us this time, because I said yes and followed the catechist into the church. Listening to the word of God and talking with the catechist my heart filled with sadness over how far I had fallen from the young man who always helped his parents and was respectful to elders. That was the beginning of my climb back up from the low place I’d fallen. For Lucia, it was necessary to go to an even lower place before she stopped drinking.”
IT’S NOT MY FAULT, IT’S NOT MY CRIME
AFTER THAT SUNDAY when I told Verónica about Lucia’s drinking, she had a hard time believing that the person I described was the Lucia she remembered.
“Mother, I can’t believe that Lucia was ever the way you described. Lucia was always sober when I saw her, and she was always doing nice things for us and other people.”
“Well, I’m not making it up, daughter. I would like to tell you a prettier story, but I’m telling the truth about Lucia. I know it must be hard to hear. You need to prepare yourself for hearing things that will make you feel sad.”
I had to speak strongly with Verónica so she could prepare herself for the truth about Lucia. Verónica sighed and I continued.
After Lucia confessed to me about her drinking, I began to worry about her more and more. For one thing, she didn’t want to go to the courses anymore in Yabteclum. When I asked her to go with me, she said they were a waste of her time and that she had learned all she needed to from the madres. It was sad to be at the courses without Lucia, but I kept going to them anyway since my mother always went.
Each time, Madre Ester asked me about Lucia. I didn’t tell her the truth. I just said that Lucia was busy healing people and didn’t have time to come to the courses. Madre Ester would always send me home with a greeting for Lucia.
I kept going to visit my comadre with food and greetings from Madre Ester but most times when I arrived she’d be at a sick person’s house or in bed sleeping off a hangover. Little by little I stopped visiting her, but I never stopped thinking about her. Then one day my mother came by to tell me that Carmela had come to talk with her and my father about Lucia.
“My comadre says that Lucia is drinking all the time now. She doesn’t work with her in neighbors’ fields anymore. All she does when she’s not healing is drink and sleep. Carmela wants you to go visit Lucia. She wants you to talk with her about what her drinking is doing to her.”
I told my mother that I would go see Lucia the next day. She looked relieved and said she’d let Carmela know. I went in the morning the following day after I finished making tortillas, and my mother arrived to take Abolino home with her. Sebastian was still sleeping when I tucked him in my shawl and tied him to my back.
The rain that had come down hard the night before had left its mark—an arroyo on the way to Lucia’s house had swollen to twice its usual size. I had to find a narrow spot to cross. A few years earlier a woman with her baby crossed that arroyo and was swept away and drowned.
The water where I crossed was shallow and, thanks to God, I didn’t slip. Only my skirt got drenched, and Sebastian wouldn’t stop wailing.
As I approached Lucia’s house I could hear someone making tortillas in the kitchen.
“Are you there?” I asked.
“I’m here. Come in.”
I stepped over the door frame. Carmela got up from her seat by the fire and put a wood block near the fire for me. I sat down and spread my skirt out over the fire to dry and gave Sebastian my breast. I’d been trying to soothe him ever since we crossed the arroyo. Even though he took my breast, he whimpered, and his little chest heaved up and down as he nursed.
I asked Carmela how she was feeling. She didn’t look well. She told me she was fine, but Lucia wasn’t.
“That’s why I’m here. Mother told me that you’d come to see her about Lucia because she’s not doing well,” I said.
Carmela sighed. Then she resumed making tortillas and told me about how things were with Lucia. “Last night she came home from a healing very late. I was already asleep, but I woke up when I heard her enter the kitchen. I went back to sleep, but woke up again when I heard slurred singing coming from the kitchen. My daughter was singing, ‘I’m a drunk woman, I’m a drunk girl.’ But nobody was there to hear her, not even the arroyo was listening. You’ve never heard this song because not many women get drunk these days, except healers, like Lucia. Women sing it when they don’t feel loved or appreciated. I don’t know how to help Lucia. She seems to feel that there’s no reason to keep living.”
Verónica interrupted me and asked me to sing, “I’m a drunk woman, I’m a drunk girl.” But I blurted back, “You always want me to remember embarrassing things!” She doesn’t know how sad it is to sing this song and to hear a woman sing it. But then I relented. “Alright. I’ll sing a little sample for you. But promise you won’t laugh at me!”
“I won’t, Mother! Lucia’s suffering isn’t funny. But her song will show how women use our traditions to express their feelings.”
I lowered my head and began to rock back and forth in my chair, like I’ve seen my aunt do when she’s drunk. As I rocked, I felt like a woman leaving behind everything around her to go deep inside herself. My voice became small and full of sorrow as I sang.
I’m a drunk woman,
I’m a drunk girl.
Yes, yes,
Yes, I’m a woman.
I don’t have a father,
I’m a drunk woman,
I‘m a drunk girl.
That’s the way it is,
That’s the way it is.
I’m going, girl,
I’m going, mother,
I’m really going, yes.
I’m on my way to worthlessness,
I’m on my way to death.
I’m a woman, yes,
I’m leaving, yes.
I’m a woman alone.
I’m a girl alone,
I’m a woman completely al
one,
I’m a girl completely alone . . .
Lucia, woman I am,
Lucia, girl I am, so it is.
I’m not grieving in my heart,
because I will always be but a woman,
because I will always be but a girl.
Carry me away,
take me to a far away place,
so I may go, yes,
so I may leave, yes,
so I may get out of this, yes.
It’s not my fault,
It’s not my crime,
because I’m a woman alone,
because I’m a girl alone,
I’m going for good,
I’m going with the shit.
My head hurts, my heart hurts.
That’s how I’m sick,
that’s how I’m meeting death.
I’m a woman who has to die,
I’m a girl who has to die.
When I finished singing, I didn’t look up at Verónica. I didn’t know how sad the song would make me feel.
“How are you feeling, Mother?” Verónica asked me.
I didn’t feel well, but I told her I was fine. Then she turned off the tape recorder and said, “Let’s go eat.” When I didn’t respond, she told me she was going to the kitchen. All the sad talk must have made her hungry. I imagined her ladling herself a bowl of sweet squash and corn and sitting down to eat, waiting for me to come.
As time passed and I didn’t move, I hoped that she had put the corn on to boil for tortillas the next morning. Knowing Verónica, she was probably tidying up the kitchen. She liked things neat. She was a good daughter. Finally I heard her latch the kitchen door and go into the sleeping house. I should go to sleep too, I thought. But I still couldn’t move. I don’t know how long I dozed in my chair. Sometime in the night I finally made my way to the sleeping house and fell into a deep sleep.
The next morning when I entered the kitchen, Verónica was grinding the last of the corn to make masa. Before she could ask how I’d slept, I said, “Daughter, get your tape recorder, I want to finish talking about the part we started last night. Then I don’t want to think about Lucia for a while.”
“Thank you, Mother,” she told me gratefully.
Verónica ran to get the tape recorder and sat down beside me while she set the comal on the fire to make tortillas. This morning my voice was normal, not sad and tired like the night before. Unlike a drunk woman, I wanted to be in control of my talk, even though my words were still sad. I started where I’d left off, sitting with Carmela in her kitchen talking about Lucia who was still in bed, hung over.
I told Lucia’s mother that I would try to wake Lucia and talk some sense into her. Sebastian had fallen asleep while he nursed. I left him with Carmela and went to the sleeping house where I found Lucia lying in bed with her back to me. I came closer to the bed and asked her softly, “Comadre, are you awake?”
At first she didn’t respond, but then she moaned and slowly turned her body towards me. I hadn’t seen her for a few weeks. The change in her face startled me. It was bloated like a person who has been drinking steadily for many days. Her eyes were little slits on each side of her nose.
I moved my chair closer and felt as if I was drowning in a sea of pox. It was as if pox had replaced blood in Lucia’s veins! How could this be my Lucia? I waited for her to open her eyes wider and say something to me. When she didn’t I asked, “Comadre, are you thirsty? Do you want some water?”
Lucia nodded her head so I went outside to get some water. She needed help to drink, so I held the gourd to her parched lips while she drank small sips.
“Thank you,” she said as she took her hands off the gourd and lay back down on the bed. We were quiet for a few minutes and then she turned her head toward me and said, “I’m so pitiful, even God doesn’t love me.”
I had never heard Lucia say anything like this before. I could tell that she had forgotten what we had learned in the word of God, that of all his sheep God loves most those who have lost their way. I had to remind her of this and so I said, “God loves you more than most. Every day you pray for others and cure them. It says in the holy book that when you do this for others, it’s the same as doing it for Him. How could He not love you for that?”
Lucia looked at me with eyes filled with sorrow. She wasn’t drunk anymore, just terribly sad. Then she told me what was making her feel this way.
“I didn’t tell you the real reason why I stopped going to the courses: I love Madre Ester. I think my spirit companion has been captured and is being tortured somewhere, and that’s why I have these feelings that I’m not supposed to have.
“When Madre Ester used to embrace us at the end of the workshops, I wanted to rest my head on her shoulder and not take it away. When I was near her I felt so happy, as if nothing could hurt me. I don’t know the words to explain how I felt, how I still feel. I want to be with her always, like you must feel about Victorio.
“But women aren’t supposed to love other women! When I became a healer, people understood why I had to be different from other women. But they could never understand this other way I’m different. I can’t understand it myself.”
I didn’t know what to say to Lucia. What Lucia described feeling was the opposite of everything I had learned about women and men, so I needed time to think. But I wasn’t surprised, like you might think.
I could see from her face that Verónica was shocked. It was harder for her to accept this new information about Lucia because she didn’t grow up with her like I did. Verónica has heard about men who love men and women who love women, but it isn’t something we see in our community, and the ancestors wouldn’t have liked it.
Finally, Verónica asked me, “How did you feel about Lucia when she told you her feelings for Madre Ester?”
“I don’t remember well. I think I didn’t feel that Lucia’s love for Madre Ester was wrong, even though others would think so if they knew about it. Perhaps I felt this way because I too had a lot of affection for Madre Ester. But I wasn’t in love with her.”
Verónica didn’t say anything. I broke the silence and told her I wanted to continue, so I could finish with talking about this sad day.
I had to say something to my comadre to comfort her. We had been together since we were little girls. I knew her better than anyone. So I told her what was in my heart and hoped it would help her stop drinking and believe in herself again.
“Comadre, I don’t judge you because I know your heart is big. It’s very sad that you can’t love Madre Ester the way you want to. But everything prevents it, her vows, our traditions. I’m sure that Madre Ester loves you as a sister, but she might not love you the way you love her. You’ve probably thought about this and that’s why you’re so sad that you’re drinking all the time.
“But, Comadre, please don’t despair. God doesn’t give us all we desire, but He loves us and feels our suffering. You may not have a partner, but you have your mother and me and important work to do, and we need you to do it. Comadre, let’s ask God, the Virgin Mary, and the mother-father-ancestor protectors to give you strength to stop drinking.”
Lucia was sitting up in bed by that time. She nodded, smoothed her hair back, and got on her knees and prayed with me. After we finished praying, she took my hand and led me outside to the patio where the banana trees, wet from the rain, glistened in the sun. We stood in a patch of light.
Still holding my hand, Lucia said, “I don’t want to feel sorry for myself anymore. I want to accept that I’ll never have a companion like you have. I’m going to start using sodas in my prayers like I used to do. I’ll try to stop drinking, but my heart needs time to change, and I don’t know how much time it will take. In the meantime, I’ll go back to church. I want to listen to the word of God with an open heart, but I can’t go back to the courses again because it would hurt too much to see Madre Ester. When you see her, please tell her that I thank her for everything she did for me.”
I told Lucia
that I’d give her message to Madre Ester. I could hear Sebastian fussing in the kitchen, so I had to leave, but I told Lucia I’d be back soon. As I walked home, the trees and bushes on the trail were shining like they had just been freshly painted. I broke a little branch off a bush and gave it to Sebastian to keep him quiet. With my son laughing over my shoulder and the warm rays of the sun on my face, I thought to myself that God was telling me that Lucia would be all right.
THE SADDEST DAY
ALTHOUGH I FELT THAT GOD would make things better for Lucia, it didn’t come true. Things only got worse. About a week after we prayed together, she must have decided that pox wasn’t killing her fast enough, so she looked for something to kill herself more quickly.
We had just begun to talk about Lucia that morning. I was rarely sarcastic, and Verónica was surprised to hear me talk this way, especially about Lucia. She began to ask me why I was angry, but right then we heard Carmela coming down the path. I pulled a chair up to the fire for Carmela, and Verónica offered her a cup of rice atole.
Carmela sat down and watched as Verónica put her cup on the table beside the tape recorder. I had already told Carmela about “our experiment,” so she wasn’t surprised when she saw the machine. Then she asked how far we had come in telling Lucia’s story. I looked down and paused before I answered. “Aunt, we’ve come to the saddest day in Lucia’s life and yours.”
Verónica didn’t know that there was a saddest day in Carmela’s life! Carmela must have seen the surprise on my daughter’s face because she turned to her and said, “Before I lost Lucia ten years ago, I almost lost her another time.”
When a Woman Rises Page 13