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A visit from Ricky Martin and Selena | page 1, 2, 3
He also told me that if it is night, and if there is a wind, and you hear voices -- it is the children from this area who have died before they could be baptized. Their tiny souls toss about forever in the winds, never coming to rest, whispering feverishly in your ear.
This is the fourth in a series of dispatches from our correspondent in coastal Mexico. Read the previous article in the series, "Henry Miller, hot pants and ants."
Several years ago, after two devastating hurricanes hit the Puerto Perdido area, word was that a child was born in a nearby community. The babe had blue eyes, a full beard, teeth -- could even speak. He proclaimed that earthquakes, a deluge and three more hurricanes were on their way. Witches are everywhere, and can be dangerous. Friend Jorge, a sensible type, explained to me that his stepfather died because some of the neighbors were jealous of his land holdings. They hired a witch to put a curse on him and the old man died soon after the curse was laid. I suggested to Jorge that perhaps the fact that his stepfather was 75, and smoked Faro cigarettes (two packs a day, black, no filter) might have had something to do with it. No -- it was the curse pure and simple. But the profoundest truth of the difference in culture -- mine, theirs -- came to me with María Gonzalez. María's cousin had worked for me for several years, and I had gotten to know the family well -- spent time with them, ate with them on occasion. They were relatively prosperous, owned a hectare or two, several goats and cows. They're good solid people. Like many Mexicans, it's a matriarchal family. The father and two of María's brothers have moved to the United States. They send money back from time to time -- but since they have no documents, it's hard for them to come visit. If they did, they might not be able to get back north across the border to their gardening jobs in Modesto, Calif. So it's mostly by means of money orders and occasional telephone calls that they keep in touch. María's mother, Sra. Gonzales, is plump, has a mouthful of bad teeth, talks a blue streak -- most of which I can't understand -- and is as kind as they come. She's also a dynamite mother. All 10 of the kids, both in the house and out in the world, as far as I can see, are well-mannered, polite, hard-working. María was born with a cleft palate, and by the time I got to know them, she was 16. She was painfully shy, and in her own way -- with her long, black hair that fell naturally halfway down her back, with her startling deer eyes -- she's as lovely as one could wish. I made an inquiry and found that the Shriners have a hospital in Mexico City where poor people can come for medical help. Volunteer doctors from the United States staff it. They also have an outreach program. For María, that meant that she could go to a clinic in Oaxaca to have the relatively simple procedure done so that she could speak normally. I knew that given the chance, her natural beauty would bloom, and instead of being shunned by her peers, staying home most of the time, helping her mother, baby-sitting the three younger brothers and sisters, she'd begin to go to the local fiestas, those noisy weekend block parties where the town courtship routines come to pass. Soon enough she would have a novio, would get married, start her own family. I made the necessary contact with the Shriners' organization, and then went to Sra. Gonzalez. I told her what I knew about the operation, that she -- the mother -- would be expected to accompany María to Oaxaca, and to stay for the few days of convalescence. I told her that I could make an appointment immediately. She said she would let me know when, but the days turned into weeks, the weeks into months and still she dithered. Finally, I told her that I was going to be leaving soon and I wanted the operation to happen before I left. "No queremos hacerlo." We don't want to do it, she said. "Discúlpame. No entiendo." Excuse me. I don't understand. We can't to do it, she said. Why not? We've heard that after the operation, María won't be able to talk anymore. No, I tell her. That's not true. I swear to you. Ask anyone. It's not true. No, she replied. We've asked. They tell me that María won't be able to speak after the operation. And no matter how I tried to change her mind (I even offered to bring in a doctor to convince her) there was no budging her. She had heard it, it was true and there was nothing to be done about it. Now, two years later, lovely María is still at home, doesn't go out at all, is still painfully shy, still speaks with that characteristic blur of the cleft palate. Sra. Gonzalez had watched María's brothers and sisters grow up and -- one by one -- leave the nest for marriage and work. When the youngest children grow up, they, too, will leave. But there'll always be one to stay home -- sweet Maria.
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