short to carry her out of range. They shot her in the spine, knocking her facedown in the dirt. They must have taken their time reloading, because she managed to crawl a short distance, bleeding heavily. The shooter walked up to her, put the shotgun to the back of her head, and fired.
———
The next day, a note was stuck to the door of the house. It said: IF YOU ARE NOT GONE BY TOMORROW WE WILL COME AND KILL EACH ONE OF YOU.
The children scattered. They were gone when I got there, and they left no word about where they could be found.
Through the grapevine, I was told that if I was really interested in the shooting, one of the men would sell me the shotgun. It was going for forty dollars.
CHAPTER TWO
Negra
N egra was a tiny barefoot girl who had curly black hair and large, startling white teeth. She was so skinny that she was firm as wood; when you picked her up, you could feel her angular pelvis and the chicken-wing bones in her back. She was very dark, hence the name “Negra.” In Spanish, it means “black girl.” Her real name was Ana María.
I am not sure when I first met her. She just seemed to be there one day, moved into a shack with her mother and sister. Her father was gone; it was never completely clear where, though the obvious destination was clearly visible, about three miles to the north, being patrolled by helicopters. Like most people in the dump, she was from elsewhere—freshly arrived from Michoacán—part of an immigrant drive north that died out at the border, either from exhaustion, fear, or a sudden draining of vision and will.
It happens a hundred times a day—if you think the “illegal alien” problem is bad in San Diego, you should see what it’s doing to Tijuana. The streets and
barrios
are swelled with nervous strangers from Sinaloa, Oaxaca, Chiapas, Yucatán, Quintana Roo. Then there are the actual illegals—Salvadorans fleeing death squads, Guatemalans fleeing the soaring poverty and crime of their homeland, Hondurans and Nicaraguans fleeing God knows what. Tijuana is like a dam, and it’s beginning to groan before a tidal wave of human flesh.
Whenever we’d pull in, I’d look for her. Sometimes I’d hear my name being called very faintly, and I’d look up, and this kid would be hurtling through the trash, bare feet throwing up clouds of ash. Always the same dull dress, a kind of brown-gray. She’d leap into the air and fly into my arms like a bird. She usually smelled of smoke. She would be with me for the restof the day, helping me give out food to the women, whispering secrets in my ear: her sister had a boyfriend, her mother had been in a fight, a boy from down the hill had walked her home.…
Negra was the one who taught me to pick trash. We’d take our poles and wade into the mounds. She wanted tin cans to sell for scrap, and any unbroken bottles were small treasures. Mari, Negra’s older sister, was pregnant after a mysterious tryst with a dump-boy, and the occasional load of defective or water-damaged Pampers was a dangerously valuable find. We’d hide them under other trash on Negra’s cart and hustle back to her shed. Of all the things one could take to the dump-dwellers, Pampers made the situation the most volatile. Imagine raising an infant with no diapers, no water, no baby powder, no baby wipes, no ointment for diaper rash, no formula, no money. We learned the hard way that the best way to start massive fistfights was to show up with a few boxes of Pampers: there is nothing so desperate as a mother fighting—literally—for her baby’s ass.
They lived in a one-room shack, and in those days, there was no light. The two girls shared a bed, and their mother slept in another bed. Negra’s brother lived with them, too, though he was never there. He attended school every day.
One day, near Christmas, I found Negra sulking with a cap on her head. Her mother had shaved her head. Her scalp had been invaded by a strange white flakiness, and great
———
The next day, a note was stuck to the door of the house. It said: IF YOU ARE NOT GONE BY TOMORROW WE WILL COME AND KILL EACH ONE OF YOU.
The children scattered. They were gone when I got there, and they left no word about where they could be found.
Through the grapevine, I was told that if I was really interested in the shooting, one of the men would sell me the shotgun. It was going for forty dollars.
CHAPTER TWO
Negra
N egra was a tiny barefoot girl who had curly black hair and large, startling white teeth. She was so skinny that she was firm as wood; when you picked her up, you could feel her angular pelvis and the chicken-wing bones in her back. She was very dark, hence the name “Negra.” In Spanish, it means “black girl.” Her real name was Ana María.
I am not sure when I first met her. She just seemed to be there one day, moved into a shack with her mother and sister. Her father was gone; it was never completely clear where, though the obvious destination was clearly visible, about three miles to the north, being patrolled by helicopters. Like most people in the dump, she was from elsewhere—freshly arrived from Michoacán—part of an immigrant drive north that died out at the border, either from exhaustion, fear, or a sudden draining of vision and will.
It happens a hundred times a day—if you think the “illegal alien” problem is bad in San Diego, you should see what it’s doing to Tijuana. The streets and
barrios
are swelled with nervous strangers from Sinaloa, Oaxaca, Chiapas, Yucatán, Quintana Roo. Then there are the actual illegals—Salvadorans fleeing death squads, Guatemalans fleeing the soaring poverty and crime of their homeland, Hondurans and Nicaraguans fleeing God knows what. Tijuana is like a dam, and it’s beginning to groan before a tidal wave of human flesh.
Whenever we’d pull in, I’d look for her. Sometimes I’d hear my name being called very faintly, and I’d look up, and this kid would be hurtling through the trash, bare feet throwing up clouds of ash. Always the same dull dress, a kind of brown-gray. She’d leap into the air and fly into my arms like a bird. She usually smelled of smoke. She would be with me for the restof the day, helping me give out food to the women, whispering secrets in my ear: her sister had a boyfriend, her mother had been in a fight, a boy from down the hill had walked her home.…
Negra was the one who taught me to pick trash. We’d take our poles and wade into the mounds. She wanted tin cans to sell for scrap, and any unbroken bottles were small treasures. Mari, Negra’s older sister, was pregnant after a mysterious tryst with a dump-boy, and the occasional load of defective or water-damaged Pampers was a dangerously valuable find. We’d hide them under other trash on Negra’s cart and hustle back to her shed. Of all the things one could take to the dump-dwellers, Pampers made the situation the most volatile. Imagine raising an infant with no diapers, no water, no baby powder, no baby wipes, no ointment for diaper rash, no formula, no money. We learned the hard way that the best way to start massive fistfights was to show up with a few boxes of Pampers: there is nothing so desperate as a mother fighting—literally—for her baby’s ass.
They lived in a one-room shack, and in those days, there was no light. The two girls shared a bed, and their mother slept in another bed. Negra’s brother lived with them, too, though he was never there. He attended school every day.
One day, near Christmas, I found Negra sulking with a cap on her head. Her mother had shaved her head. Her scalp had been invaded by a strange white flakiness, and great
Similar Books
