patches of it would peel off, taking hair with them. None of our salves worked, so her mother took a razor to her head, to “let the sun at it.” I thought Negra would die of shame.
Negra wanted one thing in the world—a doll. “A big one,” she said, “like a real baby.”
Her mother told me, “She’s never had one.”
I had no money at the time. None. When not in Tijuana, I worked as a part-time tutor in a community college for roughly four hundred dollars a month. One of the students at the college overheard me talking about this poor girl with no Christmas, and surprised me a few days later with a thirty-dollar doll with real hair and blinking eyes. When Negra opened the package, she cried.
They made a little shrine for the doll in their house. Negra kept it up on a shelf, where she could look at it. She never took it out of the box. She didn’t want the dust and ash of the dump to wreck her baby, so when she played with it, she’d have it in the box, still wrapped in plastic.
Negra had another problem: to go to school, she needed shoes.
All students in Mexican schools must wear uniforms. The idea behind this is noble: if everyone dresses exactly alike, then the middle-class kids will be no “better” than the poor kids. Everyone will be equal and have an equal chance.
In theory it works beautifully. Of course, the richer kids can wear new uniforms, new shirts and shoes. They can wear a new uniform every day of the week if they please. The poor kids must wear one uniform every day until it falls off; often they go home and wash their pants and shirts every night. And if they’re really poor, they can’t afford shoes. In Mexico, the bare foot is not a symbol of comfort—it is often a symbol of shame.
Negra had missed the opening of school, and she wanted to learn how to read and write. Her mother came to me arid told me about it. She was surreptitious, because Negra was proud.
I invited Negra to come with me to downtown Tijuana. She piled into the van eagerly. We drove into town and shopped inthe shoe stores along Avenida Revolución. It was an incongruous sight—little ash-gray Negra, barefoot in the shiny glass-and-chrome shoe store, watched over by yuppie Mexican women in Jordache jeans and duty-free Parisian perfumes. The saleswoman was gracious in the extreme, taking the measure of Negra’s feet and brushing the ashes off gently when she brought out the shoes. We bought Negra black shoes, and with some money to buy a uniform, she was able to attend school.
One day, on her way back home from classes, a gang of
barrio
kids caught her, beat her up, and stole the shoes.
She had to wait two weeks until she saw me again. I immediately bought her a new pair, but when she got back to school, they told her she had failed and been expelled. She had missed too many classes.
It was a warm day in spring: we had pulled in with a huge load of clothing and food. My mother and I had collected 150 half-gallon plastic jugs, and we’d been up at dawn in her backyard, filling them with the garden hose. I hadn’t seen Negra for two weeks. I wanted to get a box of food to her family before the crush started. I took cans of corn, string beans, fruit; a sack of pinto beans; a kilo of rice; several jugs of water; bags of doughnuts, bread, bananas, oranges, onions, avocados, and plums.
There were men gathered around Negra’s shack, grinning at me, then looking at their feet. I glanced in the door; an undulating shadow revealed itself to be a couple having sex in the dirt. Negra’s shack had become a whorehouse. Negra was gone.
CHAPTER THREE
Los Cementeros
H is name was Andrés. He awakened with the sun. He lay in bed as long as he felt like it, picking the crust of glue off his upper lip. It was white and vague as milk, but hard; it pulled out his whiskers, which were few and thin, black against his dark brown skin. Bed was a mat of folded cardboard on the broken roof of what used to be a small house on a
Negra wanted one thing in the world—a doll. “A big one,” she said, “like a real baby.”
Her mother told me, “She’s never had one.”
I had no money at the time. None. When not in Tijuana, I worked as a part-time tutor in a community college for roughly four hundred dollars a month. One of the students at the college overheard me talking about this poor girl with no Christmas, and surprised me a few days later with a thirty-dollar doll with real hair and blinking eyes. When Negra opened the package, she cried.
They made a little shrine for the doll in their house. Negra kept it up on a shelf, where she could look at it. She never took it out of the box. She didn’t want the dust and ash of the dump to wreck her baby, so when she played with it, she’d have it in the box, still wrapped in plastic.
Negra had another problem: to go to school, she needed shoes.
All students in Mexican schools must wear uniforms. The idea behind this is noble: if everyone dresses exactly alike, then the middle-class kids will be no “better” than the poor kids. Everyone will be equal and have an equal chance.
In theory it works beautifully. Of course, the richer kids can wear new uniforms, new shirts and shoes. They can wear a new uniform every day of the week if they please. The poor kids must wear one uniform every day until it falls off; often they go home and wash their pants and shirts every night. And if they’re really poor, they can’t afford shoes. In Mexico, the bare foot is not a symbol of comfort—it is often a symbol of shame.
Negra had missed the opening of school, and she wanted to learn how to read and write. Her mother came to me arid told me about it. She was surreptitious, because Negra was proud.
I invited Negra to come with me to downtown Tijuana. She piled into the van eagerly. We drove into town and shopped inthe shoe stores along Avenida Revolución. It was an incongruous sight—little ash-gray Negra, barefoot in the shiny glass-and-chrome shoe store, watched over by yuppie Mexican women in Jordache jeans and duty-free Parisian perfumes. The saleswoman was gracious in the extreme, taking the measure of Negra’s feet and brushing the ashes off gently when she brought out the shoes. We bought Negra black shoes, and with some money to buy a uniform, she was able to attend school.
One day, on her way back home from classes, a gang of
barrio
kids caught her, beat her up, and stole the shoes.
She had to wait two weeks until she saw me again. I immediately bought her a new pair, but when she got back to school, they told her she had failed and been expelled. She had missed too many classes.
It was a warm day in spring: we had pulled in with a huge load of clothing and food. My mother and I had collected 150 half-gallon plastic jugs, and we’d been up at dawn in her backyard, filling them with the garden hose. I hadn’t seen Negra for two weeks. I wanted to get a box of food to her family before the crush started. I took cans of corn, string beans, fruit; a sack of pinto beans; a kilo of rice; several jugs of water; bags of doughnuts, bread, bananas, oranges, onions, avocados, and plums.
There were men gathered around Negra’s shack, grinning at me, then looking at their feet. I glanced in the door; an undulating shadow revealed itself to be a couple having sex in the dirt. Negra’s shack had become a whorehouse. Negra was gone.
CHAPTER THREE
Los Cementeros
H is name was Andrés. He awakened with the sun. He lay in bed as long as he felt like it, picking the crust of glue off his upper lip. It was white and vague as milk, but hard; it pulled out his whiskers, which were few and thin, black against his dark brown skin. Bed was a mat of folded cardboard on the broken roof of what used to be a small house on a
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