Not nescafe

I have now met several of the men of the pueblo and a couple of the boys and only one of the womyn. The womyn are scarce to be seen, although I glimpse them in doorways and here their laughter floating over fences.

The scarey underworld figure turns out to be a 14 year old caught up in teen angst I’m sure, because he lives in the u.s. for the school year.

He is tall for his age (about as tall as most of the grown men here) and hides behind really dark sunglasses and I can’t really say he has no affect when he speaks, he speaks in a monotone, with no expression, imitating some bad old movie star whose name I can’t remember.

The one womon I meet and hang out a little with is Celia. She is the youngest of 9 children. Since growing up, all of her sisters and brothers, and then her parents, have migrated to the u.s. She is the only one left behind.

I don’t know if she stays here because she wants to but she has never traveled outside the pueblo, except to go to Villanueva. Her face looks terribly sad, and even when I try to make her laugh, her smile doesn’t seem to reach her eyes.

I try to figure out what her eyes are trying to communicate to me: her hard life, her contented life, her happy life, her lonely life?

She has three children, 14, 8 and 3 years old. Celia helps me enunciate my Spanish. She tells me her girls study english in school but she doesn’t speak english although she understands several words I tell her and translates them into Spanish for me.

I try to find out if Celia misses her family. She tells me she cannot get a visa or a green card so she has not gone to the u.s.

She tells me she doesn’t want to go anyway. She loves it here and she has three children to care for – as well as the park. She helps her brother-in-law, Jose, maintain the grounds.

Celia joins me for coffee after she finishes her work but it is too strong for her. She expected nescafe instant coffee, the corporation that has a stronghold in México.