Sacrifices

Summary

Sacrifices. If someone ever asked me to define motherhood, my response would be this one word. Not that I have ever been one, but everyone who has had a mother figure at some time in their lifetime has hopefully had the opportunity to witness mothers in action.

Mine was an immigrant woman, a country girl who came to the United States as a teen  to escape the limitations of education. Trapped behind bars of ignorance that were built by poverty, my mother didn't know then that it would take her thirty years to achieve her dream, or that she would be married with three children. If someone would have told her back then that she would one day successfully homeschool her three children with only a sixth grade education, she would have thought it a joke. But this is true, and the only way she achieved all this is through one word. Sacrifices.

Chapter One

Tell me a Story...

"Put your legs down mija[1]" my mother frustratingly tried to get me to act lady-like. I sighed, it felt like I was never allowed to do anything fun, like sticking my head or feet out of the window or putting my legs up on the wall. Each time I did that, my mother would reprimand me that it wasn't for señoritas[2].

"Mo-mmy," I complained and turned over on her large bed. I watched her back from where she sat in a corner of her small bedroom, sewing. Every week, she was pressed with orders to complete gown sets for sweet sixteen birthday parties, bridal gowns and even outfits for the cat of a lonely military wife once. 

Each week, my young mother sat there on her machine for hours, surrounded by those white walls and the presence of my four year old self.

"Will you tell me a story?" My question would bring back my mother from her own distant thoughts back into that little room where I still lay waiting for an answer.

"A story?" she looked upwards with her eyes closed momentarily, her hands holding the cloth still in her lap. From where I laid, looking expectantly at her, I wondered what she saw behind those closed lids, looking as if she were willing her old memories back. Not all had been pleasant as I would later on learn about as I grew older. "which one?"

"Tell me again when you were born!"

February 22, 1962

Rancho los Pinos, Monte Escobedo Municipal, Zacatecas, Mexico

On a windy winter near central Mexico, I was born. The air was dry and cold enough to crack the skin on one's hands. The surrounding nature left no sign of life. During this time, the ranch looked like a dusty deserted land. Only the ancient trees that withstood the test of time and the cactus added color the fields. My parents called me Maria del Rosario Mora Huerta. I am the eighth of nine children. My first memories are of my mother as she covered her breast while feeding my youngest sister, Concepcion. Life on the ranch meant living by the sweat of one's brow, waking up at dawn and working the fields or tending to the never ending household chores.

♥

I was very plump in my childhood, a virtue I was very proud of at the time. During those times on the ranch when droughts and plants devoured by parasites were common, most children were skinny and undernourished.

Plump looking children were a rarity. Therefore, neighbors saw me as the picture of health. The idea always makes me laugh today at the irony of it.

I looked similar to my older sisters Rebeca and Esperanza. Except Esperanza was always thin and a little pale. The three of us had brown hair, but I remember my mother brushing mine and remarking, "Look how nice Chayo has her hair, like gold." I always felt pleased to hear how she admired it. Out of all my sisters it was Mara-one of the eldest siblings and I who had had the nicest and longest hair in our youth.

On other days, I couldn't wait to escape my mother's brush. She braided my hair so tight I remember her hands shaking from all the force, hoping the braids would last longer. my tears escaped with my cries from how much pain I felt. I don't think she was hurting me intentionally, but I did have a rather sensitive scalp.

♥

The person I was most fond of was my grandmother, Rebeca del Real. I became so attached to my grandmother. She used to call me Rosita del Castillo en Rama. This was due to my healthy pink cheeks. She lived with us and I became known as 'her little shadow'.

When I was around three I would dare to still sit on her lap only to slide off quickly when I heard my father's footsteps. At the moment I only knew it was not something I was allowed to do. Now when I look back, I believe it was because I was too accustomed to being carried. It was a bad habit my father wanted my mother to break because on the ranch, there is no time to hold a crying child all day.

Grandmother Rebeca was greatly respected by my father who made sure that everyone in the home treated her with the same respect they gave him. I remember she had sky blue eyes, and long fingered hands that she'd inherited from her Spanish mother. I was her constant companion, accompanying the elderly woman everywhere.

When we would spend time outside looking at nature, Grandmother Rebeca would tell me "Rosita. You see those clouds in the sky Chita?" she would ask me endearingly. "Look Chita, behind those clouds is your Father God. Beyond those clouds." To this day, I can still see that sunny day around May and the sky-such a deep blue with many beautiful clouds.

♥

It was common for the older children to help raise the younger ones on the ranch. In my early childhood, with so many children, it was my eldest sister Lupe whom I remember bathing and tucking me in at night.

Lupe was married at twenty-five when I was no older than 4 years old. She was going to marry a widower ranch hand called Joel. He already had two children from his first marriage. Because Lupe had been like a second mother to the younger children, I resented her leaving us. It didn't help that on the day that Joel and his family came to take her, Lupe's new step-daughter would sing mockingly at me, "Isn't it true daddy, that we are going to take Lupe with us?" all the while looking at me." I could do nothing but glare at her and sorrowfully watch my sister leave us behind.

I felt a rabid hatred towards her stepdaughter with a childlike passion, my cheeks inflamed. Since then, I couldn't look at her with good eyes for a very long time. I cried aloud a lot that night, because I was accustomed to sharing my bed with her. I only remember hearing my mother saying "Oh, she misses Lupe", after which someone else came to take me to bed.

♥

When I was around six, I remember a neighbor from a few miles away had taken notice of my fifteen year old sister Rebeca. Pedro Montoya was around twenty'two and popular with the girls. As a matter of fact, he had had a child out of wedlock already with a young lady, but nobody knew about his secret at yet.

My father was not opposed to his marriage to my sister, but he'd made them have a six month engagement. During this period, the truth about his illegitimate child came out and my father forced Rebeca to break the engagement.

Pedro, however, was not put out by this and was determined to have her by

force, if necessary. You see, bride stealing was still going strong in the ranch with my own generation.

One day he came determined to take her, bringing an extra horse and the support of one of his friends. He had chosen a day when my father was out of town. Only the women and younger children were at home including Reuben, Esperanza, Concepcion, our mother and grandmother, my sister-in-law Valentina who was pregnant and my godmother Lidia.

I recall seeing him and thinking he was only coming to visit. But when Rebeca saw him, she ran away. My mother saw how he jumped the fence, entering the house one way and exiting from the other end in a flash! He was able to catch Rebeca, but my mother was also able to get a hold of my sister too. It became a tug-of war, one man against one woman and her two oldest children present, pulling at the other end.

Valentina was in a horrible emotional condition and had found a gun from who knows where crying and yelling at my mother, "Maria, I have a gun! Do I kill him? Should I kill him?"
Valentina came from a family who was used to feuding and taking lives.

My mother was under so much stress, she yelled for Reuben to take away the gun and hide it. She didn't want anyone to get hurt.

Somewhere on the grounds was a ranch hand, too coward to get involved against Pedro. On the road he ran into Rodrigo-Valentina's husband. "Quick!" he yelled, "They're stealing your sister!"

My brother raced on his horse at these words to the house. Pedro was strong, but my brother was at the epitome of his manhood. With his lasso, Rodrigo twirled it expertly above him and lanced it at Pedro as is done with cattle, dragging him away without ever having dismounted.

This is an example of one of the many dangers that could happen on the ranch

♥

My childhood was a short one like everyone who is raised on the ranch...but it was wonderful!

My sisters and I made so many floral crowns, braiding the long stalks into chains of different lengths. It was during this time that butterflies of exotic colors would come out of their cocoons and bless the residents with their lovely presence. Every summer, the sky put on a show of a rainbow of flying colors on a true blue canvas, slowly disappearing as the day ended, while the butterflies were replaced with white puffs of cotton balls.

My childhood consisted of making mud pies with my baby sister Concepcion and one of my nephews who was younger than me.
Sometimes my sisters and I would be very enthused playing with dolls or house. We would get our few little dishes that Esperanza had bought in Guadalajara when staying with our older sister Mara. She was always very careful with her things, very neat too. She was already an expert at making clothes for her dolls by the age of ten. Unfortunately, her childhood was cut very short by my father.

I remember the last day that she was allowed to be a child. My two sisters and I were playing outside

in our little house. We were lost in our own make-believe world, carrying our dolls and pretending our large-leafy plants were our sophisticated umbrellas.

My father's voice suddenly rang out, "Esperanza! Where are you?" At first I simply thought, Maybe he wants some water. "Hmm...playing?" This was the first time I heard a tone of disapproval in his voice for our innocent pastime. It took me quite by surprise how his voice was so firm leaving it clear to Esperanza, as he pointed and shook his finger at her, "You should be in the kitchen helping your mother make the food." That day he told her she was not to be playing anymore, she needed to be at my mother's side in the kitchen from then on. Afterwards, I remember seeing her always wearing a starched white apron, looking like a señorita at the age of 10 only! I had been seven then and remember thinking, Oh, I should not play with her anymore. 

From then on I played with Concepcion or my nephew only and learned to be on my own.

We used to pretend that we made our own guacamole by crushing tadpoles. I had such a dislike of worms that I'd go on a killing spree, only to later regret it as an adult, when I'd found out they would have been Monarchs.

I never tired of wandering into tall fields of grass that as a young child, were towering over me. Running around barefoot and feeling the earth beneath my toes and climbing tall trees were my daily activities when I could get away from the watchful eyes of my mother. Finding bird nests was a novelty to me; I used to hold the eggs and gently place them back after having studied them. I loved the rainy season when the lovely fragrance of wet dirt filled my nostrils and the fields of pink mirasoles[3] that would bloom as the golden sun went down.Rambling around Monte Escobedo and exploring empty ranch houses, I created my own adventures.

♥

 My own home was built by my father's hands. We had tall ceilings and spacious rooms. They were mostly empty because of our lack of possessions. Our kitchen was dark and smoky because we had no windows there. The food was cooked on an iron used as a homemade stove in the corner of a long stone counter, we always kept in three massive pots. The middle was the biggest and of a shiny green color. All the other clay pots or cookware were blackened by the fire used when cooking.

Our table was round and always sported a starch white tablecloth with decorative embroidery when we had guests. My father and brothers were fed first, then the children and women. The best food was always given to my father, but even so he would sometimes share it with us.

And outside conveniently nearby was our own well.

There was no indoor plumbing, or an outhouse...

Antonio Mora-my father had fields of beans, maize, pumpkins and other crops, and although our family had cattle, hogs, and chickens, meat was hardly part of our diet. Being orphaned at a very young age, nakedness and hunger were not foreign to my father. Therefore, he saw his family as greatly blessed with our everyday diet of beans, corn, tortilla, milk, cheese, eggs and wild seeds. When we did eat meat, it was usually for a special occasion beginning with chicken once a month, then pork and beef sometime in the year in that exact order.

There was a great craving for sweets; the sweetness of berries was delicious to children in the ranch. We'd go seeking out cactus fruits, pods, and mesquite.

However, growing up in this manner, I didn't think it unusual. As for my own mother, Maria Huerta, it was a harsh contrast with the way she'd grown up. She on the other hand, was raised on a ranch, but her family could afford hired help, and meat on a regular basis. When she was fifteen the death of her father greatly affected her.

♥

When my mother left her pueblo at fifteen to be married, she would later relate to me how she cried all the way. She would later confide to me, "Marriage is like death, you cannot escape".

As a young girl, one risked being stolen, especially if one was beautiful or simply pretty-it could be a curse to be without any male protection. Once that simple action took place, a lady's reputation was tarnished and there was no going back because....what was there to go back to? A lady's reputation was everything back in those days, even in their society.

Such was the case with her own mother, my Grandmother Rebeca. Growing up in her own ranch, she was tall, slim with chestnut colored hair. She was from a family of means.

She only remembered having seen the man who took her once. Nicolas Huerta made his living on her family ranch, as the caporal[4]. By the second time he saw her, Grandmother Rebeca only remembered being lifted up onto his horse.

As a young woman, fatherless, unmarried and without male protection, staying single could only prove to be hazardous for my own mother. Therefore, by marrying my father Antonio, my mother would have her own home, provision, and protection. It was bargaining with life in order to survive in this harsh environment.

♥

In the summer, when the water was warm enough we would go to the brook where people bathed. There was an innocence about it. I cannot remember any sense of shame as women and children bathed together in their underclothes.

♥

The age difference varied greatly among my siblings. My eldest brother Rodrigo

was married already when I was only a baby. My third eldest sister Lina, fourth brother Reuben and sister Esperanza, and the youngest-Concepcion are the main siblings of which I remember having grown up with. Lina was always nice and good with the younger children while Esperanza was sneaky.

Due to Reuben being the last son and having no one to play with, I was his constant target for sibling torture. Reuben was five years older than me, his constant bullying made me a grumpy child. He would push me around, trip and kick me constantly. I was never able catch up to him, every intent of revenge seemed to fail. My only relief finally came when he received a dog for a pet who replaced and released me of my constant torment.

Unfortunately, I wasn't so innocent myself. I was rather vain and thought I was prettier than Concepcion. I was mean to her because of my jealousy of her being the baby even though there was never any demonstration of preference amongst my parents.

Being the epitome of health on the ranch, I looked down on Concepcion for being too skinny and having very fine short hair that would not grow. I felt a bit sorry for her. She was prietita with many freckles on her nose.

Being the only child of dark complexion in the family, Esperanza and I constantly teased Concepcion of not being our mother's child. We would tell her that the Huicholes[5] had left her there. This was something of which I became very ashamed of and regretted doing.

♥

[1] daughter
[2] ladies

[3] Flower native to Mexico that resembles a sunflower.

[4] overseer

[5]the indigenous tribe of that area

Running Away From Shots

Because my family lived on a ranch, we were far away from the city and any professional medical help. For this reason, every year, doctors were sent to the country districts to bring vaccines to the children living on ranches. Like most children, I was frightened by the idea of shots, except, unlike most children, I was not trapped in a doctor's office. The whole outdoors was my hiding place!

One year though, their visit came unexpectedly. I had no time to hide! Whenever I was stuck inside the house I would hide behind doors or anything that was big enough to hide me from view.

In a rush, I dashed through my large home and slid under one of the family beds as the doctors came through our doors. I heard my mother calling out to me. I was afraid that my beating heart would give me away.

Beside me was a basket of laundry that helped to shield me from sight. I didn't know my mother would come towards the bed though. She lifted the bed skirts and peered inside. I held my breath, hoping she would not see me. She promptly dropped the cloth back down and continued her search.

To this day, I feel it was impossible for her to not have seen me, but I like to think she was being merciful and pretending not to notice.

Life on the Ranch

1970

Los Pinos, Monte Escobedo, Zacatecas Mexico

During the rainy season at the age of seven, I soon began to do field labor, planting with my father and brother Reuben. My mother would begin to dress me in pants, strictly for this occasion, but to my great delight! 

I thoroughly enjoyed the experience because it was less confining to what I was usually accustomed to. The field work required me to wake up earlier before the sun came out though and go to the fields while the air was still cold and damp. 

I consoled myself at the end of a hard day in the company of my Grandmother Rebeca. I remember the cold ground beneath my bare feet in the mornings though, and the relentless midday sun that would beat down on my head and my face. My hands were sometimes so dry that the skin would crack-the result of planting by hand. I would return home, exhausted and with a sore back from my inclined state as I planted seeds. It was a relief to be home where the adobe walls kept us cool inside, a respite from the merciless sun.

It was during this time that I created an imaginary friend. I was aware that she wasn't real, but I did it to pass the time. planting large fields can be such an isolating task and I was a little girl craving company. I called my friend, Macrina. I just imagined that she was a little girl like me. It was such a boring and hard job that it helped to distract my mind row after row, all day long , day after day with the exception of Sunday.
There were no breaks, once we were done planting, we had to fertilize, after that we had to take out the weeds-a back breaking job. You would straiten up and feel as if you would break in two from the waist.

My father didn't plant to simply survive the year. Each time he sowed abundantly and labored to raise the best and biggest harvests he could. He wanted to have enough for us, the livestock and have a little over to sell.

"Put on your hats!" My mother worried when she'd see my face peeling from the sun's damage. 

There were some days that my mother couldn't withstand seeing me in such a state that she'd make excuses, interceding with my father on my behalf to let me stay behind. She felt sorry for me because I was so young.

My father was not a cruel man-to people that is. But he was uneducated, working from a very young age in order to survive, he didn't know any better and considered a hard life as normal. In his opinion, he was doing well in ensuring that our family had food in our belly's, with a roof over our heads, grew up not being unfamiliar to work. We were responsible and well mannered. For him, this was enough. Comparing it to his own childhood, we were very fortunate.

  

 My chores on the ranch included feeding the chickens, pigs and cows, but after one of them sent me flying with their horns, I refused to get near them for a long time. This happened to me twice. Once, a cow horned me from the back and once from my my jaw. I could have died. Nevertheless, I used to go behind my sister with my cup to get my fresh milk to drink. My father mostly raised Brahman cattle, cows with long floppy ears and horns with a large hump on their backs. He would never sell a bull if he knew it was for bull fighting. He was adamant on it, not really because of the animal cruelty, but because he considered it a waste. 

Other chores included sweeping the patio, making the beds and taking food to my father while he was working in the fields. When my older brothers had left, It was up to me and some of my sisters to go out early at dawn to help my father plant.

School 

I was eight years old when they took me to live with my older and married sister Mara, whose ranch had a small local school. There were not enough people to have a school in my own ranch, and those who had children would send them away to other existing schools like my parents. I didn’t know what to expect, and felt anxiety, but excited because I didn’t know what school was. I also felt worried because I knew I was going to leave home and that my grandmother was staying behind. I didn’t know when I was going to see her again. Of course this made me sad because I was very attached to her.   

I didn’t cry, because I knew Mara had a temper and that she wouldn’t put up with a crybaby.  

I helped as much as an 8 year old could by fetching water from the community well, with her children, and sweeping. I did as much as I could. 

Private Catholic School 

Jalisco, Mexico 

Fortunately, my father had enough to send most of his children for a few years of private school for further education, apart from the little schooling received in the near pueblo6. 

Because of a debt my father had to collect from a friend, it was repaid by housing me in his home in Jalisco with his family while I attended a private catholic school run by nuns. At this time I was around nine years old and was terribly behind the rest of the other girls.  

I was very shy at first, and miserable a lot of the time for being away from home and my family at such a young age. The family I stayed with had a daughter who always bullied me. I felt such a nuisance when I was in their home. The family’s daughter always placed the blame on me for all her own mischievous actions. Things even began to go missing, including a pair of gold earrings in the shape of flowers with real ruby stones that my grandmother Rebeca had given me. 

The nuns were strict, but once, I had a man teacher who was very kind, albeit strict and who would not tolerate disobedience. He had excellent aim when throwing a piece of chalk to chattering student’s heads. I was careful to keep my uniform white canvas shoes pristine all year round—a difficult task amongst all the dirt. 

Because I was older than most of the girls in my class, I was teased a lot. In Mexico, people have two surnames. The fathers' surname goes after your name and your mother’s maiden name is last. My mother’s maiden name was Huerta, for which was another cause for my bullying.  The Huertas were well-known in the district as having money. They saw me as the rancherita,7 with no money. But those were my relatives from my mother’s side of the family. I was looked down by many.  

Some would sneakily ask, “So, you are from the Huerta family?” 

I would lie to protect myself, “Oh no, I am from a different Huerta family.” But in truth there was only one Huerta family.  

Because it was a private school, it didn’t mean all the girls were from well off families. Some were like mine, getting by and making an effort to afford some good education for their daughters. One girl, didn’t take lunch to school. Everyone knew that her father had become an alcoholic after her mother´s death. She didn´t have anyone to show her love or any form of attention. We sat next to each other in school, sharing a desk. She used to nibble on the lead of her pencil to numb the gnawing of her stomach. She died not long after.

Note to Readers:

I apologize for not updating this piece for a while. I can promise you I had more, LOTS more!

Here is the sad part. Part of my human error showed a few months back when I accidentally deleted the parts I had not yet posted here.

I know. . . I know...Why didn't I have it backed up in a USB? I don't know and it has taken me a while to 'get back on the horse' as they say because I was so satisfied with the way I had originally written it. I wish you guys could have read it.