The Children of Gregoria: Dogme Ethnography of a Mexican Family 9781789206548

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THE CHILDREN OF GREGORIA

Ethnography, Theory, Experiment Series Editors:

Martin Holbraad, Department of Anthropology, University College London Morten Axel Pedersen, Department of Anthropology, University of Copenhagen Rane Willerslev, National Museum of Denmark In recent years, ethnography has been increasingly recognized as a core method for generating qualitative data within the social sciences and humanities. This series explores a more radical, methodological potential of ethnography: its role as an arena of theoretical experimentation. It includes volumes that call for a rethinking of the relationship between ethnography and theory in order to question, and experimentally transform, existing understandings of the contemporary world. Volume 8 THE CHILDREN OF GREGORIA DOGME ETHNOGRAPHY OF A MEXICAN FAMILY By Regnar Kristensen and Claudia Adeath Villamil Volume 7 GOING TO PENTECOST AN EXPERIMENTAL APPROACH TO STUDIES IN PENTECOSTALISM By Annelin Eriksen, Ruy Llera Blanes, and Michelle MacCarthy Volume 6 CUTTING COSMOS MASCULINITY AND SPECTACULAR EVENTS AMONG THE BUGKALOT By Henrik Hvenegaard Mikkelsen Volume 5 VITAL DIPLOMACY THE RITUAL EVERYDAY ON A DAMMED RIVER IN AMAZONIA By Chloe Nahum-Claudel Volume 4 VIOLENT BECOMINGS STATE FORMATION, SOCIALITY, AND POWER IN MOZAMBIQUE By Bjørn Enge Bertelsen Volume 3 WATERWORLDS ANTHROPOLOGY IN FLUID ENVIRONMENTS Edited by Kirsten Hastrup and Frida Hastrup Volume 2 FIGURATIONS OF THE FUTURE FORMS AND TEMPORALITIES OF LEFT RADICAL POLITICS IN NORTHERN EUROPE By Stine Krøijer Volume 1 AN ANTHROPOLOGICAL TROMPE L’OEIL FOR A COMMON WORLD AN ESSAY ON THE ECONOMY OF KNOWLEDGE By Alberto Corsín Jiménez

THE CHILDREN OF GREGORIA Dogme Ethnography of a Mexican Family Regnar Kristensen and Claudia Adeath Villamil

berghahn NEW YORK • OXFORD www.berghahnbooks.com

First published in 2020 by Berghahn Books www.berghahnbooks.com © 2020 Regnar Kristensen and Claudia Adeath Villamil Translation of chapters 1–11 by Kimi Traube

All rights reserved. Except for the quotation of short passages for the purposes of criticism and review, no part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system now known or to be invented, without written permission of the publisher.

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Names: Kristensen, Regnar, 1968– author. | Adeath Villamil, Claudia, 1969– author. Title: The Children of Gregoria: Dogme Ethnography of a Mexican Family / By Regnar Kristensen and Claudia Adeath Villamil. Description: First edition. | New York: Berghahn, 2020. | Series: Ethnography, Theory, Experiment; vol 8 | Includes bibliographical references and index. Identifiers: LCCN 2019050985 (print) | LCCN 2019050986 (ebook) | ISBN 9781789206531 (hardback) | ISBN 9781789206548 (ebook) Subjects: LCSH: Families—Mexico. | Rosales family. | Violence—Social aspects—Mexico. | Mexico—Social conditions—21st century. Classification: LCC HQ562 .K75 2020 (print) | LCC HQ562 (ebook) | DDC 306.850972—dc23 LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2019050985 LC ebook record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2019050986

British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

ISBN 978-1-78920-653-1 hardback ISBN 978-1-78920-654-8 ebook

CONTENTS

Preface

vii

Acknowledgments

ix

Cast of Characters

xi

Chapter 1.

The House in Ruins

1

Chapter 2.

The Doña and the Dons

6

Chapter 3.

Walking the Razor’s Edge

30

Chapter 4.

Infidelity

65

Chapter 5.

Earning Respect by Fucking Shit Up

95

Chapter 6.

Jail

120

Chapter 7.

Calling Down the Saints

138

Chapter 8.

Extortion

166

Chapter 9.

Cancer

177

Chapter 10. Flight

189

Chapter 11. The Future

206

vi

Contents

Afterword

226

Appendix I. For Anthropologists: Editing Dogme Ethnography

243

Appendix II. Manifesto for a Dogme Ethnography

256

Glossary

258

References

262

Index

264

PREFACE

I am up to here with goddamn problems. —Gregoria Rosales

In 1963, the teenage Gregoria Rosales moved from the historical center of Mexico City to a poor vecindad, or multifamily tenement, in the quarter she wanted us to call Esperanza, meaning “Hope.” Along with her aunts, mother, brothers, and her newborn baby, Gregoria began to build a home in this vecindad populated by abandoned women. Over the next two decades, she gave birth to six more children. Her youngest was just a baby when the 1985 earthquake devastated their small apartment and left Gregoria and her children with nothing but the clothes on their backs. Since then, they have received a few important helping hands but have also borne the brunt of iron fists, beatings from gangs, police, neighbors, teachers, or at home. And they return the beatings. Men and women. Thoughtfully and ruthlessly. This is Gregoria’s story, and her children’s, and her grandchildren’s. In their own voices, they tell of the world that has led them to walk the razor’s edge, selling drugs, robbing trucks, and running security rackets. In these pages, they give voice to their hopes and dreams, heartbreaks and devastation. Their stories are not sob stories. They are not looking for mercy, nor do they want us to feel pity for them. Instead, the members of this family raise their voices with courage to speak out with brutal frankness about what parts of Mexico looks like from this place they asked us to call Hope, but which they also call Hell. The members of the violent communities that the Rosales belong to have been discussed, condemned, analyzed, joked about, and cheered, but rarely have they been seriously listened to. We have therefore chosen to highlight their voices and let

viii

Preface

them tell their own stories in an accessible, literary manner. We recorded hundreds of conversations with them from 2005 to 2013 and followed an ethnographic dogme manifesto in the editing process to enforce the immediacy between you, the reader, and them, the storytellers (see appendix I and II). You might get the impression of reading a polyphonic novel or their intertwined storytelling may make you feel as if you are sitting in the cinema watching a film. Melodramatic their stories may be, and yet the Rosales are of flesh and blood, which gives these stories a second force. All words except those in the Preface, Afterword, and appendices are theirs. Gregoria’s only comment after reading the book was: “I don’t like it, but it is the fucking truth, for real!” Thank you Gregoria, Mariana, Patricia, Mario, Lidia, Eduardo, Israel, and Luz for inviting us so generously inside your lives.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

First and foremost, we are in deep debt to the Rosales family for telling us their stories so vividly and allowing us to record and publish their voices anonymously. N eedless to say, without them this book would never have materialized, would never have been thought possible. We would also like to thank Kimi Traube for her excellent AmericanEnglish translation of the Rosales’ Mexican-Spanish slang (caló) and our Cuban collaborator Youdyne Torres Sánchez for her equally outstanding feel for the Mexican caló, her smooth editing, and her precise transcriptions. Yudy, your arduous work and good spirit have without a doubt had a huge influence on the quality of the book. You are the closest the book comes to having a third author. Likewise, thanks to Elaine Bolton for her sharp proofreading of the preface, afterword, and appendices, and also to N edalina (Dina) Dineva for her excellent work with the index. We are very grateful to all of those who have taken the time to read and comment on some, if not all, of the chapters. Claudio Lomnitz, Pablo Piccato, Benjamin Smith, Wil Pansters, Misael Medina Pineda, Hugo José Suárez, Edith Tamayo, Claudia Montero, Alfredo Moreleon, Annika Hvithamar, Michael Harbsmeier, Mary Smith, Lourdes Villagomez, Laura Adriana Hernández Martínez, Finn Stepputat, Hans Lucht, Inger Sjørslev, Esther Fihl, Lars Højer, Andreas Bandak, Christina Jerne, Martha Montero, and Jordan Adeath Lastra; you all have helped us to improve the book and encouraged us to keep going. Some of you have also shared your contacts with us, particularly Claudio Lomnitz, Benjamin Smith, and Pablo Piccato. Your kindhearted help and encouragement for more than a decade have been of vital importance to us. Moreover, thanks to those of you who, while the book may not have fit

x

Acknowledgments

your list, nonetheless, generously gave us feedback and helped us with other contacts: Sarah Swong, Ilan Stavans, James McCoy, and Beth Itkin Kressel, among others. And thanks also to those who kindly helped us with contacts and recommendations: Philippe Bourgois, Michael Jackson, Paul Gillingham, Ioan Grillo, and Joshua Phillips, to mention a few. Thanks to Regnar’s students at the department for Cross-Cultural and Regional Studies in Copenhagen, whom he forced to read and comment on the very first draft of the book in English. Your engagement was very important at that stage. And at an even earlier stage thanks to those who discussed the power of Oscar Lewis’s ethnography at the University Iberoamericano in Mexico City in May 2013. Your comments on the power and the problems of The Children of Sánchez inspired Regnar to explore an alternative narrative structure to the cutting and pasting of the voices, in what was to become The Children of Gregoria. A very special thank you to Monique N uijten, who, probably unintentionally, pushed Regnar to reconsider his academic approach and ethnographic writing in a crucial moment of his life. Appreciation also to The Danish Council for Independent Research: Culture and Communication for funding the research of this family. We are grateful for this research grant, which gave us ample room to follow our more explorative paths. And, last but not least, thanks to all the saints for protecting us. We know that the Rosales have implored you to do so.

CAST OF CHARACTERS The Family Rosales

All names and places have been changed to safeguard the family’s identity. The principal narrators are those emphasized with bold. GREGORIA (DOÑA GOYA), the main character. Mother to Mariana, Alfredo, Mario, Lidia, Eduardo, Israel, and Luz. The seven children have four different fathers. Grandmother to thirty-three, and great-grandmother to more than twenty. Lives with her partner Don Robert. DON JORGE, Gregoria’s brother. Single and with no children. Lives next to Gregoria with his and Gregoria’s mother Alicia. MARIANA (MAR), Gregoria’s oldest daughter. Mother to Inés, Yolis, Ernesto, and Alicia. Grandmother to ten children. Separated from her children’s father Ernesto. Lives with El Troll and two of her adopted grandchildren (Boris and Jorgito). PATRICIA, Gregoria’s daughter-in-law. Mother to Pelos and Desiré. Grandmother to four. Sister to Montze. Lives with Alfredo (Alfi), Gregoria’s oldest son, and father to her children. MARIO, Gregoria’s son. Father to Gustavo, Victor, Jocelyn, and Jesica (with Cristina), Alfonso and Ximena (with Alba), and five more children with four different mothers. Grandfather to a number of children. Lives with Alba.

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Cast of Characters

LIDIA, Gregoria’s daughter. Mother to Roxana, Diana, Lidia “chica,” and Carlitos, with two different fathers (Israel and Carlos). Grandmother to six. Lives on and off with her boyfriend Adán. EDUARDO (LALO), Gregoria’s son. Father to Aaron and Johan with two different mothers (Esther and Lula). Adopted for some years Kaira, Aaron’s sister, who has a child. Lives with Lula. ISRAEL (SIX PACK), Gregoria’s youngest son. Father to Samanta and Brian (with Elizabeth), and five more children with five different mothers. Lives with Azucena and her child. LUZ, Gregoria’s youngest daughter. Mother to Karla and Quique. Lives with them and their father Enrique. CHECO, Gregoria’s adopted son. Lives with Lupe and their two children.

1 The House in Ruins

LIDIA The crash woke me up. I felt somebody yanking me by my feet, I remember I even yanked the covers up. It was my mama. When she pulled me off the bed, the loft came down with the roof and everything. We just huddled in a little corner. Everything had collapsed. All that was left was one stick poking through. There we were, in a tiny little corner, and everything was dark. You could hear little bits of dirt falling all around, and the voices were getting further and further away. My little sister Luz was bawling. She wouldn’t let go of me, shaking, just a baby. She was scared by all the shouting, by hearing the wood splintering and the rocks falling. I cried a little too, but Mama hushed me, “Shut up now. Don’t cry. Let me open a way out. Let me see.” She was like she always is, looking for a solution to what was happening then and trying to calm us down with a shout or a curse, so we wouldn’t lose it. And so we wouldn’t make her lose it too, I imagine. We were there for a good while. They say the neighbors were already all running outside, some of them hurt, with their heads split open, everybody covered with dust. That’s when one of my uncles showed up, the one who works around the corner from here, and they say that he started shouting, “My sister-in-law, my nieces, my sister-in-law!” He started looking for us, “Gregoria’s missing, Goya’s missing!” and everyone went back to where we were. My brother Alfredo was there too, and he was screaming, real awful, “Mama, Mama!” He was losing it because

2

The Children of Gregoria

there was no house left. Finally he heard us. “We’re ok,” Mama said to him. And they started to pull off the rocks. In the vecindad there was a man named Alejandro, everyone called him El Perro. He started to scrape, to dig. First, he got my sister Luz out, and then me, but when they went to get my mama out, she wouldn’t fit. Well, El Perro goes and grabs her and pulls her out by her clothes. That’s how they got her out. When Mama came out, the part of the roof that was covering us collapsed, everything caved in. It was like bombs had gone off. One roof fell in, and then they all did. There were people with their heads cracked open, but nobody was dead. When we got out into the street, the vecindad was flooded, because all the pipes had broken. Awful, awful. It was bad, although it didn’t seem so bad at the time because you were so scared. When Mama got out and saw the accesoría, without a single plate left, she started to cry, “What are we going to do?” And then she kept crying because we found out that my brother Lalo had been taken to the Cincuenta Clinic over in Santa Cruz. We ran all the way there, barefoot, her and me. On the way, we saw lots of things: kids impaled on sticks, all bloody. Women and men lying in the street, others helping. When we got to the hospital, it was worse. There were people covered with blood, dirt and blood dripping off them, babies, pregnant women, old ladies, dead people already covered up in sheets, people who came in with their skulls cracked open, people with no arms. Horrible, horrible.

ISRAEL I was six years old when the earthquake fucked everything up. Mario and I lived with my Grandma Alicia and my uncle Jorge, right at the front of the vecindad. There was a loft in my grandma’s house, with two beds. That’s where we were sleeping. Back then, we would get up early. My uncle Jorge would go to work, and he always left us money for some empanadas from Don Poncho’s, around the corner from here. That day, we woke up and my uncle was in the loft. I don’t remember if he was putting on his shirt or his sweater or what when my brother Mario said to me, “Güey, ask him to leave us something for the empanadas.” So I asked him, “Uncle, how about it? You gonna leave us something for an empanada?” “Yeah, gimme a second.” But suddenly there was shaking and boom! the shitshow started. My uncle threw himself over us and pow! the roof falls in, and the steel rods from the loft and everything fall onto his back. Look at his back now, it’s all full of holes and scars. After that, I remember some relative from around here pulled us out. We were

The House in Ruins

out! And when you turned around to look, you realized it was an utter disaster. I was stunned. The whole damn city fell in, like in those movies of Germany when everything’s destroyed by the bombs. It was just rubble, buildings fallen down, people crying, people running. They moved us to Cinco de Mayo colonia with Patricia’s folks. My Ma stayed in the house to wait and see what would happen to our place. A few days later, we came back to live in camps, houses made from cardboard and wood. We had nothing. We didn’t have any clothes, we didn’t even have anything to eat. Real bad shit. Me and my brothers were little. Back then, only my oldest sister Mariana had moved out to live with her husband and my oldest brother Alfredo with his wife Patricia. My mama was the only one working to support the rest of us. She always knew when the aid trucks were coming with sugar, beans. She was always running with buckets and bags so that they would give us drinking water.

GREGORIA We all lived right in the street, and that’s the damn truth. When I made it out, I was naked. Well, I was wearing what I was wearing, but with no shoes on. Everything got left inside. What were you going to get out? My children went to Patricia’s house. She’s Alfredo’s wife. They were there with her parents at the Cinco de Mayo colonia, but then we heard that they were going to fix everything for us and I had to bring them back with me real quick so they could be seen, otherwise they wouldn’t have given me anything. They put us in an empty lot that must have been about thirty years old. It was full of garbage, animals, rats. That’s where the drunks were living, though nobody realized it until an ambulance came and took them away. Later, they even said the rats crawled up into their rectums. Well, they brought some machines in to clean out the trash. They made us little rooms with some beams and some rubber they brought, and we moved in there. There were five hundred rats at the very least. And scorpions, too. None of them stung any of the children because we bought bags of powdered lime and threw it everywhere. They brought us coffee, rice, a few barrels of water, clothes, kotex pads, diapers, money, spoons, plates, canned food. They supported us, because nobody had anything. We lived in the empty lot for a year. The owner of the vecindad was around forty, fifty years old. All the vecindades on Ferrocarril Avenue belonged to him. When they collapsed, the government expropriated all of them but this one. We went to see the old man, and it turned out he wanted to sell us the empty lot for

3

4

The Children of Gregoria

fifteen thousand pesos. But we didn’t have the money, so he said we should move out so he could make it a parking lot. One night, the people from the Baptist Church came and they asked us, “How many people live here?” “There are fifteen families,” I said. “Keep quiet,” they said, “because the government closed off all the highways to keep us from helping you.” Solomon came over, a short little guy with a beard and dark skin. He was the number one pastor for the Baptists, the heavy hitter, the chingón de los chingones. He says hello to me and he tells us they’re going to help us and everything, and I tell him, “Ay! If you don’t really help us, I’ll cut your balls off.” They went and they bought the lot, and they built the vecindad that we have today. No, forget about it, the Baptist Church’s real chingón. I was the one running around up and down. I went around with all the engineers. We were all women, ’cause few of us had husbands. All us whores were alone; we were all widows, dumped and abandoned. Señora Yola was alone, Señora María Eugenia was alone, Berta, my mama, Doña Fía were alone. I was always alone. I had my stand and I sold my tacos and beer all night. The only one who had a husband was Rocío. He was a construction worker who worked at the Tolteca cement plant. Before the earthquake, they had a house and an accesoría in the vecindad. I remember one day there was a meeting. We sat on upside-down buckets. It was with the Licenciada Marisela, a Japanese-type woman. She was from the Baptist Church, but she also worked at the Oriente prison. She talked nice, she was good people, but at the same time, she was a real hard-ass. So she started to say, “Rocío, you get a house.” And then she looks at me and she says, “Gregoria, tell me: what do you want, a house or an accesoría?” And I say, “Ay, give me my accesoría.” “How many children do you have?” “Well, I have seven of them.” “And where are they going to sleep?” “Don’t you worry, I’ll find a place for them to sleep. But this is what I live off. You know, Licenciada, that I sell tacos.” I’d never had a house, before I lived in a little room. I had my loft, I had my kitchen, and I had my bathroom. My mind couldn’t even think about a house, I just wanted the accesoría. And she turns around and says, “You know what, Gregoria Rosales? A house and an accesoría.” You should have seen Rocío, “No fucking way, Licenciada, how is that possible? My husband works at such and such a place. And look at his salary, we can pay for it, but her, she’s alone and she has lots of kids and she can’t pay for it.” Right there in front of everybody. And Marisela goes, “Well guess what, Señora, if I say that Señora Gregoria gets a house and an accesoría, then she does, because I said so.” “The thing is, I had both,” answers Rocio. “The thing is, I told her that she gets both, and I have my reasons,” says the Licenciada. Rocío was pissed. “That’s fucking bull-

The House in Ruins

shit!” “You wanna talk like that? I can talk like that too. I’m from Santa Julia, and I’m a bad bitch too. How do you like that?” And she throws the papers at her, “If you don’t like it, if you don’t want a house, sign and say you renounce it. Sign it!” “No miss, I . . .” “There you go, then. Like I said, I’m only giving you one.” She gave her only one, and me, she gave me my two houses. After a while they put up the houses. We had to pay for them because the goddamn government wouldn’t give us the green light for them to be donated. It wasn’t much, but the point was you had to pay something so they would stop their bullshit. The day they gave us the keys, they brought in some mariachis and we had a barbacoa. The Baptists paid for all of it. When they gave us the keys, Solomon said to me, “See, I gave you your house, so now you don’t have to cut anything off me!” He laughed real hard; he hadn’t forgotten what I said to him. Things changed when they gave us the houses. Everyone got a stick up their ass, “Ay, my apartment.” And they didn’t want the kids to play in the courtyard anymore because they made too much noise. The damn bricks have changed but you’re still the same. The Baptists had also bought the lot next to here to make a kindergarten, so that we Esperanza mamas could put our kids in there. They asked a lady to have her son watch the place for them in the meantime they were building the vecindad. Well, those bastards agreed to watch it and all of a sudden they put in the papers; they started paying the land taxes and for the water. They put everything in their name, and they ended up with everything. Also, there wasn’t enough money. Apparently the engineers were stealing it, and the architects, and everyone who was part of building the houses, because later the cops came looking for them to put them in jail. That’s why the people from the Baptist Church left. They got bored because they realized that everyone was stealing from them. I never saw them again.

5

2 The Doña and the Dons

PATRICIA My mother-in-law Gregoria is a wonderful person. Her children, however, are a mess. She sets a good example by working, but none of her kids follow it. There’s something really wrong with them. They have four different fathers. Mariana has one father, Alfredo another, and Mario, Lidia, Lalo, and Israel have a third father. Luz has another, different father. Don Mario, the father of the four in the middle, raised Mariana and Alfredo. That’s why they call him Dad. Don Mario was a tinsmith. He used to fix dents in cars and paint them over. When they started to build the Esperanza market, he had a lot of stands. Truth is, Don Mario was a better man than his sons. He was a great guy, except that he died. When he died, there were just two stands left and they went to my mother-in-law, but nobody was using them. “Go sell,” she told me. We sold knickknacks, paintings, things like that. When his son Mario grew up, he asked for the stands and sold them real cheap. The stands belonged to all of his brothers and sisters, but they didn’t see a dime. Don Mario was better than Don Robert, too—my mother-in-law’s current husband. That old man always thinks we’re going to steal from him. Watch out whenever you come in: he stares at your hands and gives you the stink-eye. But what am I going to steal? A candle? I don’t need to do that. That’s why I work. His children are the ones stealing from him. Not to gossip, but you see how his son, the fat one, has a taxi? Well, Don Robert bought it for him. My mother-

The Doña and the Dons

in-law wears out her shoes walking, and there goes his son with a car and a half. We all have our good stories in this family, some of them more screwed up than others. The children that’ve given my mother-in-law the least amount of trouble are Mariana, Alfredo, and Luz. Mario was in jail, and so was Israel and he’s in a bad way now. Lalo was neck-deep in drugs, and Lidia has always been good-for-nothing. She’d go out partying and never take care of her kids. Sometimes you teach your children one way to live, but they live a different way when they’re grown. It’s not like they’re taking a different road to be president, right? More like they’re such jackasses that they’re on the road to no fucking good. It must be horrible to have your sons in jail, honestly, because you didn’t give birth to them for them to grow up to be such ungrateful jackasses. Life is real funny, if you think about it. Her adopted son, Checo, was a low-down thief. He’d spent years in jail. He was stealing from people on the metro, he and his wife Lupe. Then they met my mother-in-law and she started to push them and push them until they stopped stealing. He’d never thought about learning to perform rosaries, but little by little, thanks to my mother-in-law, he started to do rosaries at different altars, and Lupe started to make robes for statues of La Santa Muerte. That went well for them. Later, they got into the Santería stuff and El Palo Monte, and it went even better. My mother-in-law was able to rehabilitate those two who aren’t even her children, and with her real children, she can’t do a damn thing.

GREGORIA I’m a human being, just like anybody else: no more, no less. The only thing different about my life is I have a lot of faith in God and in La Santa Muerte, my beautiful Bony Lady. I love her a lot, and I know she’s always watching out for me. But other than that, we’re all the same. We’re made from the same material. Some of us are bigger fools than others, but that’s how we human beings are: good and bad. I believe I’m a noble woman, I feel for people who suffer, and I’d like to have everything so I could help people who have nothing, but it’s not really possible. There are times I get so angry, really angry, I can’t stand it. And then I go back to being just as much of a fool as I was before. You can’t always be angry, even if the situation is screwed up. The only thing we can do in this life is to keep trying as hard as we can. I don’t know where I was born. I never knew that. I don’t know if it was in a hospital or in the apartment downtown where I lived with

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The Children of Gregoria

my mama, my two brothers, and my aunts. I know I came to Esperanza when I was just sixteen. Mariana had already been born. I was about fifteen when I gave birth to her and I was getting up near forty when I had Luz. I don’t even remember exactly, that’s how many I’ve had. My children have been headache after goddamn headache, to tell the truth. Why so many kids? Honestly, it’s good for nothing. You must walk so much and fight so much with so many kids. The rule to life is to keep battling on. God gives you your children, he teaches you to love them, and there you are with them. You have one kid, two, three, four, five, six, seven, and when you wake up, you say, “Ahhh, what am I going to do now, all by myself?” And fuck it! The earthquake comes and you don’t even have a house anymore, no, no, no. Why are you going to remember that? It’s better to live in the moment. Life goes on. If you’re sitting around remembering what was good and what was bad, then we’re all fucked. I don’t like to think about the past. For me, memory’s in another world. Really, it’s not something that interests me. What happened, happened. The only one I have in my memory is my Don Juanito, that’s it. I tell him to take care of me, to watch over me, not to leave me. Him, I remember. He was a wonderful person. He’s always on my mind. God be with him! I have his voter’s ID. I got a hold of it when he died, and I’ve never let it go. Wherever I go, I take his ID with his photo. I say, “Ay, Don Juanito, you’ll always be with me until I die.” “Let’s go, my Juanito.” And he goes with me, to San Juan de los Lagos, to Oaxaca, to Acapulco. Lots of places. I spent my whole life with him. He was one hundred years old when he died. My grandma washed and ironed his clothes, and ever since I was little, I’d go with her to drop them off. When I was eight, nine years old, he would take me and my cousin Marcela to Xochimilco every Sunday to ride horses. He bought us our spurs, boots, lassos, chaps, everything. Then he’d take us over to Ajusco or Tres Marías for strawberries and cream. After my grandma, my mama ended up doing his laundry, and then I went to take care of him. I cleaned the house for him and everything. In the beginning, it was my cousins and me doing the laundry, but I was the only one that stayed with him until the end. He was always a very independent man. But when he got old, he didn’t feel safe, and I started to go around with him. That was when Luz was born. I don’t know what he studied, but he spoke a lot of languages the old fart. He would import merchandise from different countries. In January, he’d order from Japan, China, England, and the shipments would come six, seven months later, because they had to come by boat. Then he’d deliver the merchandise to the stores downtown, and that was the end of his contract. I remember we would go to the Niko Hotel, or the Ma-

The Doña and the Dons

jestic, and make reservations for the people coming from China, or from Japan. He would go make the reservations, and he’d talk to the Chinese and the Japanese in their languages. Then the señores would come, and he’d pick them up. They were very important people from factories, representatives of foreign houses. We would go with them to the stationary stores, to the tlalpalerías where they sell all the tools and things, to where they sell fabric, for suits and all of that. I would go with him to the Chinese Embassy, the Japanese Embassy, the British Embassy, and then he would say to the representatives, “This lady is my companion, but she doesn’t have anything to do with the business.” In other words, I was always with him seeing about his business, but I never got wrapped up in anything. We’d also go to expositions from all around the world. They’d give him a pass from some Embassy or another, and when we got there, he would use his pass to get me in and then ask for another for himself. We’d also go to the doctor together, because he had to see a cardiologist his whole life. He never missed a single appointment. I don’t think there’s any man as refined as him. I never saw him unshaven. When I arrived, he would come down all clean, nice and showered. He never stopped using a handkerchief. Once, when he was starting to get kind of bad, I brought him food, and I was waiting for him to unlock the door. He came down, opened the door, and said, “Ay no, forgive me Goya, please.” “Forgive you for what, Juanito?” thinking that the bastard was already off his rocker. And he told me, “Because it’s disrespectful to come down and open the door for a lady without a tie on. It’s just not done.” He had come down in his blue pants and his white shirt without a tie on. He was such a man that up to that day he had come down dressed in his suit and tie. I say to him, “Damn, Juanito,” and he answers, “Ay Goya, why do you swear so much? You should write a book of swear words, you’d make a lot of money.” I’m telling you, that señor was something else. He was full of manners, of lots of life values. He was always very respectful. He wouldn’t let me talk to anybody. He’d say, “Goya, you don’t know what kind of people you’re surrounded by. There are bad people. We can’t talk to anybody.” And he’d talk even less in taxis. He’d just say, “Take me to Niko Hotel. Go down Insurgentes Avenue, turn onto Reforma, take 23rd St., then 32nd, then 35th,” and that was it. If I said something to the driver, he’d turn around and tell me silently that I couldn’t chat. He was afraid of everything. Don Juanito was very particular about eating. He always ordered fish or chicken breast, not breaded or anything, just grilled. He ate a lot of vegetables. Grapes, melon, coffee with cream. One time I asked him, “Hey Juanito, why don’t you order milanesa fried chicken?” And he told

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me, “No, because that’s not for eating. You eat it because you want to eat it, but it’s harmful.” “Ay, it doesn’t do me any harm,” and he says, “But it does.” And I ask him, “Alright then, how many times have you eaten red meat?” “Only once, and that’s because they served it to me in an Embassy.” Can you believe it? He ate red meat only once in his life. Every day we would go to the Danubio for his two eggs sunny-side-up with potatoes à la . . . fuck if I know! After the potatoes, came his toast with butter and jam, and then his coffee. When he left, he’d eaten a pound of grapes, the big ones, and two of those little cups of plain yogurt. That kind of bullshit. He was real methodical, real specific about everything. We went systematically to the Danubio, to the Crown Plaza Hotel that changed its name, on the corner of Atenas and Reforma, and to La Casa de los Azulejos, to Sanborns. I would get to his place around ten and we would go to Sanborns. He’d eat breakfast there and then we’d go to the office he had on Lopez St. He’d leave the office at two p.m. and we’d go downtown for lunch. He’d go back to the office, and real quick he’d tell his secretary what they were going to do, and then we’d go back to his house around four, five, six, seven; really, there was no set time. I just dropped him off downstairs. He’d go in, and I’d leave. He always paid me a lot more than what you usually get. He paid me three hundred pesos a day, from nine in the morning till two in the afternoon. If I stayed until three, four, five, six, he’d pay me by the hour. It was him, too, who bought and paid for the accesoría and the apartment that I have. He was always giving me money. He never knew I had children. Because he wouldn’t let you bring a kid around. When I was a kid, he wouldn’t even let me in. My grandma would do his shirts and I would bring them to him. He’d open the door and I’d give him a slip of paper my grandma had given me that said, “Three shirts, three briefs.” He’d grab the clothes real quick and close the door. And I’d stand there waiting until he opened again to give me the money. It wasn’t really that he didn’t like children, just that he was afraid, because he’d say something could happen to them, something could fall on them or whatever, and he’d get blamed since they were in his house. That’s why I never brought a kid there. Plus, I never got too big. The way I look right now is how I looked when I was pregnant. My kids were born itty-bitty, weighing four pounds, five pounds, but they were all healthy. I delivered them all at nine months exactly. Luz was the biggest one. Now there’s all this medicine they give you when you’re pregnant, but back then there wasn’t any of that. Not even an ultrasound to see if it’s a boy or a girl. Nothing. I got pregnant, and I just went and fixed up my bed and delivered them right there in the house.

The Doña and the Dons

Don Juanito didn’t say anything to me, but I know he suspected I had kids after he ran into me and Alfredo downtown at the Independence Day celebrations one September 16th. Back then, Alfredo was still little. He asked me, “Whose boy is that?” And I said, “He’s my brother’s son.” “Ah.” And that was the last of it. But as the years went on, my cousin had to go and act the fool and tell him I had children and grandchildren. He almost died when he heard it. “Listen Goya, I want to tell you something, but don’t get mad at your cousin.” “No, Johan, what is it?” He says, “Once I ran into you on Independence Day.” “Oh right, with Alfredo.” “That was your son, wasn’t it?” “Yes, Don Johan.” And he says, “I always wondered, because the boy looked like you.” “Yes, I have a lot of kids, but since you don’t like children, what did you want me to tell you for?” And he never brought it up again. He didn’t believe in anything, because I never saw even one little saint statue in his house. Truth is, his house was pretty austere. All he had was a little television to watch the Channel 11 news. He had a phone in his office, but he never had a cell phone. He was always there at his desk, writing. He didn’t have any family to bother him, or any girlfriends as far as I know. He never knew what Christmas Eve was like, or a N ew Year’s like we celebrate them here. I went by Juanito’s place on those days, and we’d go to his office, or if we didn’t, I’d go and order the food he told me to and bring it up to him. He’d come down to let me in, and he’d take his food up and say, “I’ll see you tomorrow, Goya.” “Alright, Juanito,” and I’d go back home. But I never wished him a Merry Christmas or anything, because he wasn’t used to those sorts of things. The next day I’d ask him, “Juanito, what time did you go to sleep?” “Around nine, Goya, but there were a lot of fireworks.” “That’s good, Don Johan.” “And you?” he asked me. “Well, I went to bed early too.” Early, my ass! I always went to Christmas dinner and to the dances. But he never celebrated anything. I didn’t even know when his birthday was until I ended up with his ID. He told me, “I’m from the place where beer is made.” He came here when that war was going on where they fried everybody. He lost all contact with his siblings, his father, his mother. They all ran, and he was the only one who made it. He told me, “When that happened, it was the end of the family.” I think he was really young when it happened. The last days I was with him were very sad. I stayed with him all of November and December until he died. I’d just run home, shower, and go back to see him, because he couldn’t get out of bed anymore. I’d set up in an armchair next to him and he’d yell at me until I started bawling, because he had gone back to his childhood. He was a child again, and this child was afraid. All the fears he must have kept sealed up in his heart came

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out. “Goya, don’t let them take me away! The train is coming, Goya! Hide! The train is coming!” I’d get scared and I’d ask him, “Juanito, what’s wrong? Nothing’s going to happen to you. Don’t be afraid.” I’d run to his bed and hug him and tell him, “The train can go fuck itself! It’s not going to take you away.” His shouting scared me. All that business about the train that was going to take him away, honestly, I never understood it until I saw a movie about the Germans a few days before he died. I started to watch it. It was horrifying. It scared me. What he was saying to me about the train, about “Don’t let them get me, they’re going to take me away, they’re going to kill me,” it was all in that film. Poor thing, to have all that anguish in him his whole life. Think about it, he wouldn’t let me chat with people. Me, who likes to talk to any asshole who crosses my path. I had to respect his wishes because he was paying me. I’d think to myself, goddamn stuck-up old man. But when I was watching the film, I started to get an idea of his history. Poor thing! He was afraid that someone would want to kill him: a German, a Frenchman, an Italian. What happened was real fucked up. When he died, the German Embassy called right away. They wanted to come see Señor Johann Rubinstein’s apartment, because he was German and they were looking for weapons, computers, some papers. The landlady let them in. Who knows what I was doing there? I heard them ask the landlady, “And where did he keep the weapons? Where are the computers?” I told them, “N o, he never used a computer. He always kept everything in his apartment.” “Ah,” said one of them, “Let me see,” and he started to look through the whole place. They asked me, “Can we take this trunk?” “Alright, take it.” But when they went to lift the trunk, they saw the wood was all rotten. They left it behind and went away. The landlady and I kept looking at the trunk. It was very big, and it was locked. We opened it and we started to look through what was inside. There were little cards and letters in who knows what language. Photos from newspapers from during the war in Germany. Photos of trains, blueprints. Looking at all of that, I didn’t want the Germans to come back for the trunk. Between the two of us, the landlady and I carried it to an empty patio he had in the apartment. When we got it there, we burned all the books, the photos, the newspapers, who knows what else. We burned it all in a couple of iron buckets the landlady had, lit it all on fire and watched it. Just her and me. A few days later, I got a phone call asking me to go to the Embassy because they wanted to talk to me. I was real scared. I told my bedmate, “Tell them I moved far away, I don’t live here anymore.” And so they stopped bothering me. A good while before Don Juanito got sick, he took me to the bank and told me, “Sign these papers.” I signed them. And he said, “This will

The Doña and the Dons

be your inheritance when I die.” Then when he was dying, he gave me all the papers. No family members showed up. Nobody. He died alone, and what little he had he gave to me. Even so, I’ve never taken five cents out of it, because I don’t need it. It’s better to have a little tucked away for when I get old.

MARIANA I never knew who my father was, my mama never told me. I only know that he was rich. When I was little, I would ask her, “Hey, Mama, is that señor my dad?” and I’d point at someone. Now I don’t even want to ask her about it. I never even met Alfredo’s dad. The only person I know who lived with my mama was Mario, the father of my siblings Mario, Lidia, Lalo, and Israel. My mama lived with him for years, until she ran him out of the house. Then she had my little sister Luz with a man I never met. And after that, she never had anyone in her house, until she met Don Robert. The truth is, my father-in-law was like a dad to me. A sweetheart of a man. He would talk to me, “How are you, hija?” I was just fifteen when I got together with Ernesto, the father of my children, and I started to act like part of his family. I was totally one of them. I mean, somebody would tell me, “Go see your mama,” and instead of going to my mama, I would go over to his parents at Casa 21, which was where they lived. We were very close, like I wasn’t the daughter-in-law but a daughter to them, because they didn’t have any daughters. My in-laws had twelve boys. Ernesto was very close to my father-in-law. Plus, he really liked children, which my mama never did. That’s why my kids were always going on about Grandpa this and Grandpa that. He had a real soft spot for them. There was never any scolding, like in my mama’s house. It was always, “give them whatever they want,” “let them listen to music,” and “let them do whatever they want.” Visiting them was like taking the kids out for a walk. Sometimes we would take Mario, Israel, Alfredo, and Lidia with us to Chapultepec or to Oaxtepec to go swimming. My father-in-law liked to rent cabins, and he’d say to me, “I’m going to Oaxtepec, which of your siblings are you gonna bring? How many do you wanna bring? Tell your mama that whoever she lets go we’ll take out to have a good time.” We ate like pigs at my in-laws’ house. There was no “Ay, prices are high.” We drank a lot, too. My mother-in-law was always saying, “Let’s have an aperitif.” Well, it was supposed to open the appetite, but it sure hit you hard. She did drink a lot; well, we all drank until we left. It was always, “What would you like, which bottle should I bring over?”

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My father-in-law defended me a lot. “Tell me, did that asshole husband do something to you?” “Yes, he did,” I’d answer, and he’d give Ernesto a good blow or two, he’d knock him upside the head. The point is he defended me against his son. He looked out for me; he was like my dad. There were times when I did tell him, “Manuel, it’s like this or it’s like that,” but only when I was really at the end of my rope, because I’d tell myself that it would hurt him to know about it. It always struck me that my in-laws had been together for fifty years, and they got along. Once I asked my mother-in-law, “Why is it that you always call Manuel vida, life, or amor, love, but you never call him ‘my life,’ or ‘my love?’” She turns around and stares at me, “You should never say that, because when you wake up tomorrow and they’re gone, you won’t have your life, or you won’t have your love. You should always say just vida, or just amor.” I was surprised. That’s why I never call my children, “my life,” or “my love.” About three months after my father-in-law died, I said adios to Ernesto, I couldn’t take it anymore.

MARIO My dad, Mario, passed away when I was thirteen. He was always sick. His heart was bad from a sickness he got when he was a kid. A rheumatic fever that fucked his heart up; what people around here call a “big ole heart.” He’d get real nasty cramps in his legs and he took a shitload of medicine. He even had to take pills to piss. I remember when my mama was pregnant with Israel, we had to leave the house at three in the morning to take him to cardiology. We got on a minibus, and my mama brought blankets to keep me warm. Before my old man passed away, he and my mama had already split up. But we never stopped seeing him. At the end of the day, what I remember is he was a cool old man. He was there with us, one way or another. He’d take us to the steam rooms and pool in Casa 21, and he’d buy us tepache, that’s fermented pineapple juice. He’d buy different chocolate snacks, gansitos and pingüinos, and a liter of milk. We’d come out of the steam rooms and throw down a few tortas. Sometimes he’d take me out for tacos. But his sickness got so bad that he couldn’t even work. He’d walk one block and get sick. The truth is, we didn’t see my dad that much because of that. But I remember one time he took me to Chalma with his friends. I also vaguely remember that he rented a bus and took my mama, my brothers and sisters, my grandma, and one of my aunts to San Juan de los Lagos. My dad was more a devotee of Papá Chuchito [Jesus], not like my Ma, who’s always been more of a Santa Muerte devotee.

The Doña and the Dons

He died in his sleep. He was living in my grandma’s house then. When everybody woke up at dawn, they heard a sort of “gluk!”, like when spit gets caught in your throat. When they tried to shake him, he wouldn’t wake up. He didn’t suffer. I remember clearly, two or three days before, I’d woken up crying, “Mama, I dreamed my dad was dying.” I cried and cried. He was wearing something blue in that dream. I swear to God, I’ll never forget that. My mama took me to see him there in Cactáceas, where he was working at his stand. I talked to him and I remember he hugged me. Two days later, he died, and he was wearing blue sweatpants. When we went to the wake in my grandma’s house, my aunts were already there. Everything was so sad. I remember real well how my dad’s brothers were talking, “What do we do with the kids?” That’s why I never asked them for anything. My grandma was the one who took me in. She and my Aunt Lucía told me to come with them. They lived three streets over from where my mama lives. It was a little house, just one room, a kitchen, and a bathroom. My grandma was there, and my aunt Lucía, Lupe, Salomé, Reno, Diana, Sandy, my uncle Arón. About ten people, I think. There were two beds where a few people slept, and the rest of us were on the floor. They took us all to the funeral. We were real little. I remember we threw a fistful of dirt down to my old man, there in his grey metal box. That all happened in the crematorium, because he was cremated after that. My grandma got the papers for the niche. When she died, my aunts didn’t keep up the payments. I remember that, because when I was bigger and turned cábula I had some cash, and one day I said to my aunt Lucía, “Let me have the papers for Dad’s niche.” So I could have them and take care of it myself. But she told me that she’d lost the papers. They never went to pay the dues. They let it go. Because of them I can’t even visit my dad in the cemetery anymore. And after seven years, they take you out and put you in the common grave. My dad worked in Tulipán. Later, he had a stand in Cactáceas where he sold different kinds of bootleg stuff. He liked to get fucked up, like we all do, but you couldn’t say he was a thug or a skirt chaser or anything. Nothing like that. My friends ask me, “If your dad was so low-key, güey, what’s wrong with you guys? Why are you all such thugs?” Who knows what the fuck is up with us? I think I got the wolf in me from my grandfather, my mama’s dad. He was a real son of a bitch. He got into a lot of scrapes. He had kids all over the place: in Motonlinía, in Casa 21, in Moctezuma. I first met him when I was grown. I’ve seen him maybe ten times. But I don’t know if he was good, bad, caring, rude, a grump, or what. My dad was something else in that regard. I don’t think I have any half brothers or sisters on his side.

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Once my mama told us that my dad wanted to hit her, and I think she grabbed a knife and told him, “Hit me, you fucking asshole! Hit me and see.” He never tried to hit her again. But don’t think my dad didn’t beat me. The old man would go apeshit all of a sudden, and he’d send some fists flying. But that was pretty normal back then. There wasn’t as much education for parents as there is today. For you to hit your kid now, you think about it and you say, “First I’m going to talk to that güey. And then if he doesn’t get it, well then.” It also depends on how old the kids are. If I had had more years with my old man, he would’ve given me all he had, but unfortunately that wasn’t possible. What I needed was a heavy hand, that’s a fact. I know in the end everybody makes his own choices, but I needed somebody to tell me, “Look, güey, this is right, this is wrong. Heads up about this.” With my ma, it was harder. She was always working to put food on the table. She’d go to Don Juanito real early and wouldn’t get back till nighttime. Then she’d rush to cook dinner, clean the house, do the laundry, and set up the stand to sell tacos. She’d start selling and she wouldn’t get in until five, six, seven in the morning. She had to work her fingers to the bone to feed all of us. She even paid for the oxygen tank my dad needed, back when we were all living together. She spent more on him than she did on us. My mama’s good people, but when she gets mad, watch out! She ended up giving me two or three good beatings, too. She’s got a real strong character, and she’s gotten stronger as she’s gotten older. But she never said to me, “I don’t wanna fucking hear it, you’re going back to school!” Back then, it was just a question of saying, “I don’t want to anymore.” And my mama would say, “Well, if you want to be a dumbass, go ahead!” Why didn’t she tell me, “Study or you’re going to fuck up your life,” or something like that? Unfortunately, I didn’t have that kind of support. I’ll tell you one thing, the neighborhood pulls you in, even if people say otherwise. I mean, it’s something you’re drawn to, because you want to be just as much of an asshole as everybody else. You’d go around with your gang out in the streets and you’d be on top of the world, you’d feel better than you did at home. Plus, you knew that if you got home late for dinner, they probably wouldn’t even give a shit. Or maybe they’d fuck you up, but that’s it. Instead of giving advice, like, “Watch out for drugs. It’s rough because this is what can happen to you.” That’s why I say that I needed my old man a lot in that way. I know he wouldn’t have let me go. I love my little sister Luz so much. I’ve never had any problems with her, even though her personality is really shitty. We’d all take care of her. She’d get mad about everything; she’d fight with everyone. She cried whenever she saw me drunk, because I’d grab her, “I love you so fucking

The Doña and the Dons

much, mija,” and I’d sit her on my lap and I’d say, “Don’t cry.” When I had money, I’d buy my carnala some sneakers, or I’d give some cash just to her. Once, I bought her a pair of sneakers that would cost 2,500 pesos if you bought them today. They were really fancy sneakers, but I didn’t give a fuck about the price, because they were for Luz. I’ve had problems with all my other siblings. With Israel, with Lalo, with Lidia, with Mariana, with Alfredo. Israel, in spite of everything, is my carnal; he’s the one I’ve gotten along with best since he was little. I’d always tell him, “You’re my son, güey, not my brother.” But when he was fifteen, he started hanging out with the gang in Alcatráz. He started getting into marijuana, into weed and all that. And unfortunately from there he started to do whatever he wanted with his life. ’Cause he didn’t give a fuck anymore, right? We’ve almost beaten the crap out of each other, but I try to talk to the güey. I tell him, “Don’t kid yourself, goddamn carnal. Things are like this and like that.” Unfortunately, he doesn’t understand. Or he sees things differently. Well, he’s of age, he must make a life for himself and everything. But honestly, he’s gone down a really bad road and I can’t do jack shit. I guess I’m different ’cause I grew up with my grandparents on my dad’s side. With my ma, we didn’t get much attention. I’m not saying that to complain. It’s just that she was alone, and she worked a lot, so she couldn’t always look after us. And so we got a little overlooked. With my grandparents, everybody worked. Some of them were secretaries, the other guys were tin workers. I learned hygiene from them. If it wasn’t my aunts, it was my grandma, “Come on, Mario, go take a shower.” A shower in the morning and in the afternoon, and you’d change your clothes twice a day. Even now, I’m used to doing that. They would give me money for the steam room. I would go to work in the morning and then to the steam room in the afternoon. When I got back to the house, I had to take off my clothes and fold them into the washer. I remember over there we folded even the dirty laundry.

LIDIA I had a happy childhood. I remember I always got everything I asked for on Three Kings’ Day. But my mama has always had a strong personality. When you need her to support you, she will, but then she is always throwing it back in your face, “You all are a bunch of ungrateful brats. I gave you what you needed, you owe me.” Honestly, I’d rather she didn’t give me anything because I don’t want her to start yelling at me afterward. But she’s changed. Maybe it’s because she’s older. Because

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she has no problem giving things to her other children or people on the street, but giving me something, that’s another story. Sure, when Mario was in trouble, well give Mario whatever he needs, and now that Israel has problems, everything for him. But when I have a problem, she says “No, I don’t have anything to give.” She wouldn’t even give three pesos to my grandmother, her own mother. It was my grandmother Alicia who got me into movies. I learned how to eat street food from her, and how to go to parks. She was the one who taught me what it was like to eat a torta at the movies, to wear new clothes, new shoes. My mama didn’t leave us completely alone, she was always there too, and she’d buy us things, but if you ask me if I remember going with my mama to the Alameda Park, I can’t say I do. I have more memories like that about my grandma than my mama. Affection? Well yeah, we got it, but not so much from my mama as from my grandma. Even my grandpa, may he rest in peace, would say it, “May God forgive her, because your mother has no reason to be like that.” My grandma says that when my mama was little, she was always getting into fights. She wouldn’t take shit from anybody. It’s a fact that when I separated from Carlos, my mama took me in. Yes, she took me in, but every day starting at seven I had to get up and help her. Obviously, it was my obligation. She gave me my tacos, I mean, she gave me food to eat and a roof to sleep under, but there was never any “oh let me buy you a blouse,” nothing like that. For her, the whole world is her daughter Luz and the grandkids that Luz gave her. That’s her life. She’ll loan you money, but until you pay her back, she’ll be on your case, “Pay me now, you owe me.” If we go ask my grandma, it’s the opposite. The very first thing she asks us is, “Have you eaten?” “No, Grandma, what did you make?” “I made this, here, sit down.” And she’s already serving it to us. It’s the same thing with Elena across the street, “Come sit down, have something to eat.” How is it possible that you’re treated better at other people’s houses than in your own home? I’m not trying to talk bad about my mama, but it’s the truth. My daughter asked her for a taco for Irene one day, and she said no because they were for her grandchildren. Irene might not be her granddaughter but she’s her great-granddaughter. Who refuses to give someone a single taco, especially such a tiny little thing like Irene? It really pissed me off. It’s little things like that, and you say, “It’s not fair, this is your family. Your family is supposed to support you.” But we don’t stick together. Every time we have a reunion, or a little party, or a dinner, we all are there, but at the end of the day everyone’s living their own lives. Of my siblings, the ones I see most are Lalo, Alfredo, and Israel. We’re the ones who are around here in Esperanza. We see each other fairly

The Doña and the Dons

often when we’re with my mama, but aside from that, we never get together. It’s not like I’d go visit my brother. None of us are like that. The only one I might see is Mariana. Out of the blue, she’ll say, let’s go out to eat and get drunk, no? But that’s it. When I was little, Mario, Lalo, and Israel would hold me down between the three of them and hit me until I started crying. But later I’d get them, one by one, when they were alone. I’d throw myself on them like a rabid dog. They’d go running to my mama “Mama, Lidia hit me!” I’d tell her, “It’s because the three of them hit me.” And my mama would yell at all of us, “Stop fighting!” Despite that, I love my brothers a lot, because they’ve been with me in good and bad times, no matter what. Mario and Israel are the ones who’ve been with me the most. They’ve been my rocks if I got into trouble. No matter what it is, they’d always ask me, “Why did he mess with you?” And then they’d go and beat the shit out of whoever it was, because he’d messed with my daughters, or because he’d done something to me. But it wasn’t like I’d go and tell them, “Hey, guess what this guy did to me. Go show him.” They’d always yell at me because I wouldn’t say if somebody was after me, “Hey cabrona, some guys are looking for you, what happened? Did you get into a fight? Why don’t you tell us? What if something happens to you? You should have told me, you’re not alone.” I know that I’m not alone, but I also know how to defend myself. Once Mario got into it with Carlos, my kids’ father. Supposedly one of them stole something from the other one, I mean, there was some argument and they ended up wailing on each other, or in screaming matches. They stopped speaking to each other, and Carlos would say, “Your brother robbed me.” And I’d say, “Well, that’s your problem, isn’t it? He’s family and I don’t want any problems.” I trusted Israel more than Mario. Israel never fought for the hell of it. He only fights for his job, or if you fuck with his girl, or if he thinks you’re disrespecting his family. Mario’s more aggressive. There was always somebody who’d look at him wrong and then bam! bam! bam! But in general my brothers are easygoing. Alfredo’s the calmest. He’d always tell me, “Don’t go out,” and I’d say, “That’s not your problem.” He’s always real quiet and reserved, trying to keep the peace, “What are you doing in the street? Get inside, it’s late already.”

EDUARDO (LALO) My mama had a friend. It was a jump rope. A rope that she folded in half and knotted. She put three knots in it. It was her best friend, and that’s what she would use to beat the crap out of us. Such was my childhood: I wanted for everything but beatings.

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One thing I remember about my dad Don Mario is he’d wake me up early, six in the morning, and he’d tell me to get our things to go to the baths. We’d go to the baths together. I also remember he’d take me to the movies. There’s this one day that’s etched in my memory: he made some egg tortas, wrapped them up for me, and said, “Come on, son, let’s go to the movies.” I didn’t care where we went, as long as I could walk down the street with my dad. That made me feel proud. For me, my dad is the best, and I say “is,” because even though he’s not with us anymore, he still lives in my heart. I always asked myself why my dad died, why he had to leave me, why he did it if he knew he had to take care of me, had to take me to the steam rooms, why he passed away. That’s the hardest part, because once I lost my dad, everything started to go downhill; it all led to me living the way I lived. I knew I was missing him because seeing my friends playing with their dads, playing jai alai or kicking a ball around, that was really hard for me. Every Father’s Day was real sad. I wouldn’t leave the house because everyone was out with their dads. Or sometimes I’d be walking through the neighborhood and I’d hear them singing happy birthday to their fathers and I’d feel so lost. I was just six when our nuclear family split up. Me and my sister Lidia stayed with my mama, my brother Mario went to live with our grandma on our dad’s side, and my brother Israel went to live with our grandma on our mama’s side. My sister Luz wasn’t around yet. The bond we had as siblings was broken. I left school and started doing the street kid thing. I started playing jai alai and cards in the streets with the gang when at that age, I should have been in school studying. I still remember how my mama was a real hard-ass, because when she saw I wasn’t going to school, she tried to educate me through beatings. I’d be playing football and then suddenly I’d be getting beaten with an electric cord on my back or on my ass. My mama would yank the cord out of the iron and knot it up. And I’d think, “Why are you hitting me? I wasn’t doing anything.” I didn’t understand that part of my mama. She was probably just trying to show she loved me, and she couldn’t find the words to say, “I love you, you’re my son.” I don’t know. I feel like it was really hard for her to be alone, having to support her kids selling tacos and beer. It was something we probably didn’t understand because we were too young. When I was nine, ten years old, I started getting closer to my mama. I started helping her. I’d get out the grill, light the charcoal, and set up the stand. I’d hang the tarp and go with her to the market to buy whatever she was going to cook to sell that night. There were times when I’d stay up with my mama until six in the morning. It was nice for me to be with my mama, to have her pay attention to me. It made me happy for her to tell me, “Lalo, go to the market.” In that brief time, my mama got

The Doña and the Dons

together with my sister Luz’s dad. Things got pretty good, because my mama stopped working at night and started paying a little more attention to us. I felt better when my sister Luz was born, but right after that there was another real hard blow. What little stability we had at home fell apart when my mama separated from Luz’s dad, and everything went back to how it had been. Except now it was a little worse, because my mama didn’t feel that security and her unhappiness reflected back onto us. I say “us,” because we lived a part of her pain, the pain of splitting up with my sister’s dad. She went back to the beatings, the insults, the obscenity, and it was more frequent now. There was one week where she didn’t have anything for us to eat. Our neighbors would give us the food they had left over. They’d knock on the door and ask my mama, “Hey, do you want this soup?” And my mama didn’t have any money, and she had to accept it. That was real hard for her. Apart from being real strict and beating the shit out of us, my mama was nice, very happy. She’d go out dancing every Tuesday. I liked it when she went dancing because she’d always have a smile and a string of swear words for me when she got back. I thought her obscenities were sweet, because I didn’t know any other way of telling someone you loved them. I was the only one who was always with my mama, in those hard times. Mario and Lidia would go out with their friends, and Israel was with my grandma. They had someone to be with, and I didn’t, so I chose to be with my mama. But suddenly she started to pull away, you could say that was when my childhood ended. My mama started going out with Don Robert, her husband now. I didn’t really care if my mama had a boyfriend, if they weren’t in the house, the way it was with Luz’s dad. With Don Robert, it was harder, because he’d get together with her in our home, and seeing how my mama started to reject me, it hurt me so much. There were no more hugs for me, no more fussing over me, no more “come here, son, lie down.” When I saw we weren’t going to Santa Elena anymore, we didn’t eat together anymore, I started to fill up with rage towards my mama, and it made me start getting high on a lot of drugs. I’d say, “How is it possible for you to push me aside like this, I mean how is it possible that you’ve changed so drastically?” I hated Don Robert for that. I wanted to kick his teeth in, to run him off, because he’d stolen what I loved most. My mother was the only thing I had left. He knew that my mama was everything to me, and even so, he’d show me how he was going to keep taking her away from me. When I’d go up to her, he’d tell her, “Come on, baby, let’s go over there,” and my mama would have to obey him. It pissed me off to see him kissing my mama, to see him hugging her and starting to give orders in my house. I always felt like in my house, nobody but my dad had been able

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to get in, nobody else. I don’t accept Don Robert, because he was the first person to turn my mama against me. He’d say to her, “Look how he runs around, he doesn’t get it, what are we going to do with him?” Or “What are you going to do with him? Because he’s your son.” I’d hear everything he’d say, and far from telling him, “What’s up with that?” it pissed me off that my mama was obligated to listen to him. Seeing Don Robert staying in the house pushed me to the point of wanting to kill him. I remember one day I had the knife in my pocket, but thankfully, my mama came in. My mama would tell me, “Go to the liquor store and buy Roberto his sherry.” He was, and still is, an alcoholic, because that never goes away. I’d say, “Why am I gonna go get him his sherry so he can feed his alcoholism?” He didn’t understand I was in the same misery, but with drugs. At one point, Don Robert wanted to talk to me about the drugs. He tried to get my attention by telling me my mama was worried, and I shouldn’t cause trouble for her, and why didn’t I ever think about her? The only thing I remember saying was, “You have your own children, go yell at them.” It was hard for me to realize I wasn’t the same boy who came home at eight and sat down to have a cup of coffee and a bean torta. I was a boy who felt like a teenager, who came home at three in the morning with his eyes red and his breath reeking of booze. Lalo was already going to street dances, starting to run with the gang because I was pissed he’d displaced me. As I got more and more addicted, they started putting padlocks on my door and on the patio door, because I’d get out that way. I’d jump up over to the roof, climb down, and leave. I’d come back in the early morning and sneak back in so my mama would see me in bed, but one day they figured it out and that’s when they started padlocking me in. I’d say, “Why does that man bestow that power on himself?” I reached out to my siblings, but everyone had their own shit going on. Mario was with his friends, Israel with his around the corner. Lidia went even further, and there was Lalo, all alone. I remember the police were always after my brother Alfredo for smoking weed in the streets. He’s always liked marijuana. Even though he had his own place, he’d come running to our grandma’s house to hide. He’d go into the bedroom, get out his marijuana and shove it into the chairs. Then the police would come, and they’d beat him and take him away. I tried to go out like he did, but Alfredo would send me back in with a kick. And then there was all the stuff with Mario. When my dad passed, he left us two real big stands in Esperanza. Since Mario was the oldest son, he was in charge of them. And what did he do? He sold them both, one for sixty thousand pesos and the other for eighty thousand. He gave just four thousand to my mama, and that shut her up. The rest of us didn’t see a

The Doña and the Dons

dime. He never bought me any shoes, not a single pair of pants. Nothing. Mario would go out to the corner of Tulipán and Orquídea with all his friends, and you’d see him with his suit pants, his silk shirts, his Duque di Galliano shoes, and that famous Martell cognac. He was living it up and I didn’t have shoes on my feet, my pants were already torn up at the knees. I looked at all of that and I thought, “Why did you have to sell the stands, who gave you permission, and why are you spending what’s rightfully mine?” It made me feel like shit. I never said anything, but I told myself that one day I was gonna get even with every one of those assholes. I couldn’t think of anything subtler than stealing from them. I stole to get high, but I also stole because I was pissed. I remember once when I was fifteen, and Christmas Eve was coming up. Around that time there was always somebody who’d start, “And you, what did you buy? What new stuff are you gonna wear?” “Look at my new this or my new that,” or “I already got my new sneakers.” I started to feel like shit, because I didn’t have the money to buy anything. I didn’t have clothes because my mama didn’t have the financial resources to buy them for me. I was sick of my cloth sneakers, my dollar store t-shirts, my clearance-sale pants. I wanted to feel what everybody else was feeling. I started taking the weed Alfredo hid in the furniture and selling it to make some cash. I also knew where my brother Mario and his wife Cristina kept their money. They lived at home back then. So I said, “Now I’ll get back at you.” That Christmas Eve was one of the coolest I ever had. I bought sneakers, I bought a pair of pants, and I bought a sweatshirt. It was the first time I even realized there were designer sneakers. Later, they figured out what had happened, and they fucked my shit up real good, but I’d gotten what I was longing for. We’re siblings, after all. When something really bad happens, everyone comes around. But normally everybody’s in their own shit, everybody’s running with people they shouldn’t be. Whenever we weren’t supposed to be, there we were. These days I don’t care what my brothers and sisters do. I mean, in the sense that I can probably talk to them about what they do or what they don’t do, but half an hour later we’ll forget about it. My mama was telling me that Mario was working with a boy downtown; they were associates or something like that. I don’t know anything more than that. I know even less about what Israel does. Most of the time when I’m with him, we shoot the shit, we laugh, but we never talk about it, like “So what are you doing these days?” I don’t talk about that stuff with my wife, either. Sometimes we talk about what we need, but we almost never talk about my family. We don’t talk about hers, either. In that way, I respect her business and she respects mine. But who knows how my siblings are? It’s a crazy thing not to know.

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We’re like my mama in that way. I mean, we keep quiet about everything. You’ll see my mama and she might laugh, but she never talks. She’s one of those people who talks only to God, or, in my mama’s case, to La Santa Muerte. Human opinion can be valid, but it’s also cruel. What I’d like most is to have a close family. There’s some closeness, but it’s scarce, because every one of us has a weird way of being. When we’re having fun, everyone has fun their own way. Even on my mama’s birthday, everyone’s there, but who knows what the hell they’re celebrating, güey. Everyone’s walking around, and my mama by herself, sitting with Don Robert. It’s an unreal celebration. This year I didn’t go, I stayed out on the corner, because I was having problems with my brother Mario. I saw my mama from a distance; she looked happy, she was enjoying her birthday with my brothers and sisters, and I didn’t want to mess up the party. I stood on the corner and called her on the phone, “You know what, Mama? Happy birthday!” “But why aren’t you here?” “Mamita, I can’t go there, your son Mario is there, and I don’t want to fight, but I can see you look good, you’re wearing a green outfit and you look really pretty. Happy birthday, Mama. I’ll come visit you tomorrow.” And my mama says to me, “Yes, son, thank you. Where are you?” “Mama, I’m here on the corner, I’m headed home soon, but I can see that you’re partying it up, and that’s great.”

LUZ I knew my father. He had money. He’d bring me presents for Three Kings’ Day. He’d give me boots; he’d give me money. But it wasn’t like I could say, “He’s going to come by this day or that day.” No, he came by when he felt like it. My siblings told me he’d buy them a shitload of food, but he’d yell at them and take them to Mass. He never hit them. I know my mama, and I think if he had hit them, that would have been enough for her to let him leave. Honestly, I don’t get too deep into the topic with my mama. I’ve never asked her about my father, because it’s like stirring something up inside her that she doesn’t want to remember. If he was her lover, that’s her business. She knows why she left him, and I respect that. I’m just grateful she had me. I got scared when Quique was born and they handed him to me. I saw his cleft chin, his big eyes, his eyebrows, and I was reminded of my dad. And I didn’t like what I remembered. I wanted to forget him, because he was so stuck up, so overbearing. He knew that we were in a bad way, economically, because there were so many of us. But my mama is real proud. She says he told her that if hunger knocks her down, pride

The Doña and the Dons

lifts her up. My mama says that once he came to see me and he brought me a cake, but my mama wouldn’t take it. He’d come see me, but we had to meet around the corner, on account of my mama. Ugh. That hurt me so much! I think in part, that’s what made me such a shy person, defenseless, scared all the time. I think that he would have stayed with my mama if he had fought to see me, because if your wife does something to you, you fight for your children and you don’t give a fuck if she sics the cops on you. You say, “Let me see my daughter.” But it was easier for him to leave and not give us any more money. That’s how I see it, definitely. I know it’s probably hard to get up every week, and every time you go visit she doesn’t let you see the kid. But if you really love your children, you fight. You don’t take the easy road. My dad was little. He was my height more or less. Very pale, with black hair like mine. He had a bad leg, he limped, but he was very handsome with a great body from all the exercise he did. I’m like him, because I’m not like my mama. Well, I think my personality is like hers, but my face is more like him. He used to tell me he was going to take me to live with my half-siblings, and I’d tell him no. “Your siblings are Luisa and Ivon.” I think that’s what his children were called. But I never wanted to go with him, even though I knew they would take good care of me. I haven’t seen him since I was six or seven years old. It’s tough, because you live with the uncertainty, and that makes you feel real bitter. But he didn’t think about that when he left me. My husband Enrique says, “Don’t be such a fool, if he comes by one day, you’ll see him.” And I tell him, “Who knows, güey, he’s probably dead by now.” I was little and I couldn’t go looking for him; he could, and he didn’t want to. The only one who’s seen me cry is Enrique. He’d say to me, “Why are you crying?” And I’d say, “I don’t know. It’s real hard for me to be pregnant, to be more or less alright, and my dad doesn’t even give a damn. I mean, he doesn’t know if I’m alive or dead, if I have food to eat.” When I had my kids, it was real rough for me not to have him there. Once, his children came looking for me. They shouted at me, told me I was a good-for-nothing, that my mama was taking money from their dad. His son was already grown, and I swear we haven’t seen him in years. I didn’t open the door, I got scared. There are things in life that mark you. There’s an address here on my birth certificate, and I wanted to go look for him. I’d tell Enrique, “Let’s go look for him, güey,” and Enrique’d answer real fast, “Let’s go.” And I’d tell him, “But you go by the house first.” It was on Constantino Street, who knows what number. He went and looked and told me, “Come on, güey, the house is like this and that, let’s go.” In the end, I didn’t have the nerve. If he doesn’t care, what can I do? It’s not like I can blame him for everything, either. Only he knows if

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my mama did something to him, because lots of times, we humans just tell the part of story that’s convenient. And then Karla asks me, “Hey Mama, do you have a dad?” What do I say? “Yes.” In the end, we all have dads. And she keeps at it, “What happened to him?” I can’t talk about it, and I tell her, “He died.” And the girl keeps asking, “What did he die from?” “Who knows.” “Did he leave you?” “Yes.” “Why did he leave you?” “Ay, Karla, enough already. Hurry up.” I haven’t known how to find the words. And anyway, she’s too little for me to burden her with the story of my life. No way I’m gonna tell her, “You know what? You’ll probably run into someone one day who’s your cousin.” Because even my last name is weird. His last name is Alquiceres. My mama says his family has Spanish blood. He looked like it. But the truth is he’s a shit-blooded baby-leaver. And then today my brothers do the same thing, they abandon their kids. I tell Enrique, “I don’t see the point in having so many kids.” It hurts me to think about how those will have to suffer. It’s easy enough to fuck one and fuck another and fuck the whole neighborhood, but don’t have kids that are just gonna come into a shit life. It’s real irresponsible. They’re just going to repeat the pattern of your life. One of the reasons things go well for my mama is because she fights. Whenever things go bad for you, you keep holding on, and a time comes when God says, “Alright asshole, the good stuff’s coming your way now.” Because he sees that you get up early, that you try to go out and work. I feel that counts a lot. If I told you all the things that have happened to my mama . . . she’s lived through some hard stuff. She ended up with seven children, no house, and no husband. I remember when Don Robert fell off the roof. When an explosion set fire to her altar. When we were in a real nasty car crash; all of us were there. The many times her sons have been arrested. The extortion. The cancer. It’s fucked up that a human being can take all of that and still be standing. I tell her, “Ma, I admire you so goddamn much for everything you are. I admire you so much because it’s real intense that you can bear so much.” And when Quique kept getting sick, I’d cry and I’d ask her, “Why is this happening to my son?” And my mama would always tell me, “No way around it, hija. You must take it on. It’s time for us to fight.” I didn’t want to keep going, I was tired of seeing hundreds of doctors, but my mama was always telling me, “Let’s go see that doctor.” She was the one who got up at five in the morning to take a number at the doctor’s office so he could be seen. These days Quique’s alright and I owe it to my mama. But she has always been real rude; a real hard-ass. When I lived with her, she would chew me out every day. She answers you real rough, but I think that is part of her life, like life has made her strong. If she weren’t like that, life

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would have chewed her up already and spat her out. Finding yourself alone with seven kids in a neighborhood this bad hardens you. And then selling beer and tacos at night; well, it either eats you up or you get hard. But not everyone can handle her personality. The other day, crazy Lidia comes in from the street and starts to go right at it with my mama, who starts yelling at her because she gets pissed. But I don’t get involved, because when I try to, my mama tells me, “But she’s my daughter.” Imagine, on the one side you have Lidia with her fucked up head and her bullshit, and on the other, my mama inhumanly screaming. Why should I get involved in a mess like that? If my mama yells at me, I just tell her, “You’re real rude, because I haven’t done a thing to you and you take everything out on me.” Because it’s not like I’m going to go around crying like Mary Magdalene. When I was growing up, I was always with Israel. We were the youngest. One thing I remember a lot is that one Three Kings’ Day, he gave me one of those Cabbage Patch dolls. An original, not a knock-off. He was little, but he was already selling buñuelos with someone from Cajigal. Israel’s always been a good dog. I get along with him the best, out of all my siblings. He respects me, and I respect him. I mean, I don’t get involved in his life, who he lives with and who he leaves, and he doesn’t get involved in mine. Our personalities are very different, but we try to get along. Lidia and Lalo are the worst of my siblings. When something goes wrong for them, they blame my mama; they blame the dad they never had. But it’s not true. I don’t remember my mama ever stealing, or kidnapping anyone, or getting into drugs, or drinking. Israel and Mario like to get into trouble, but they don’t blame my mama. But here comes Lalo and he says he got into drugs because my mama left him. I’ve said to him, “Look, you son of a bitch, she could have quit work to take care of you and you would have starved to death, jackass.” I’ve told him, “Asshole, shut your mouth, because you’re worse than she is. You don’t have a house, you don’t have a car, you don’t even aspire to a fucking bicycle. You just spend your whole life mugging people.” It pisses me off. We always end up accusing each other. We say hello and all, but most the time it’s just fight, fight, fight. Even though I know she did things, I’m not going to let people talk about her like that. Let’s say she was a real asshole and did leave us all alone. Well, you should feel like you don’t want to do what she did! What did Lidia do? She went and left her kids with my mama. How does she think she can say anything to my mama? She repeated the same pattern. And her daughter Roxana is already repeating it again, because she left her kids too. The only difference is she left them with her mother-in-law. If I were a hard-ass, I’d leave my kids with my mama too, and go work all day.

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I’d do great for myself. But I don’t want to leave my children, much less leave them with her, because she isn’t responsible for them. Those are mine, and I have to be the one to care for them. I remember I lived with my grandma for a while and with my mama for a while, but she had two choices, she could either work, even if she had to work as a whore, or we could go without eating. It’s real stupid to blame people for the bullshit that you yourself don’t want to do. I tell Karla, “Look, I don’t want to hear a damn word from you about how you hit a boy or how you stole something and it was someone else’s fault. Don’t you come to me with so-and-so told me this, or he brought me there, or she made me. Never blame anyone else. You might be good, or you might be an asshole, but it’s all on you.”

GREGORIA When I first met Chequito, he was a different person. He was an asshole with his mama. I can’t say he was right, though he probably was. When he was little, like eight years old, they lived in building 23. There have always been a lot of lowlifes around there, and the older ones pulled him into it, “Come on, cabrón. Hit the pavement. Bring me a little cash.” They’d take him out to steal things, and at home if he didn’t give them money, they wouldn’t give him anything to eat; they wouldn’t even let him stay. He slept on the roof a lot. A real fucked up life, to be honest. Once they grabbed his dad in Guadalajara and they put him in jail. So the mama went to see him, and Checo went with her. Well, they found a bag of weed on his mama. She said it was Checo’s. Checo didn’t know shit about it and they went nuts on him. Then the dad said, “Son, I’m gonna get out soon, you take the fall and I’ll get you out.” That was how Checo got locked up in Guadalajara for that weed. And a little later, the old man got out of prison and he never even went to see him. Checo spent ten years in Guadalajara. When he got out, he came back to live here again. One day he goes into the vecindad, and they say to him, “Clavo!” which was his little brother’s nickname. They look alike. Well, that jackass turns around and they say to him, “Come on, motherfucker, you’re Clavo.” He goes over to see and they throw him into the Santa Marta prison instead of the brother. Everyone tells his brother, “Don’t be an asshole. Go see your brother, güey, he took the fall for you.” “He took the fall because he’s a jackass. Why did he turn around? They were saying Clavo; his name isn’t Clavo.” Checo was in jail for seven more years. He’d already married Lupe when he got out of jail the second time. They came to the altar and I did what I do with everybody, I put my

The Doña and the Dons

balm on Checo and Lupe, and I talked with them. And then they started coming to the altar and to the rosaries. Once there was a rosary in Iztapalapa, and Checo says to me, “Let’s go, Señora.” “Alright, let’s go.” That’s how it started. Around that time he was messed up with drugs, stealing, everything. And I’d tell him, “Wake up, motherfucker! There are cameras everywhere. Enough!” He was stuck on being pissed at his mama. He hated her. He’d say, “Goddamn old bitch.” Real rough like that. And I’d say to him, “Ay, don’t talk like that.” “Ma, she was a real asshole to me. That’s why I wouldn’t put in any money for the funeral when she died.” And I’d say, “Son, go ask her for forgiveness,” but he wouldn’t. One day, I told him, “Let’s go to the cemetery to see your mama.” So we went, and when we got there, I told him, “Enough, mano, ask her to forgive you.” He didn’t want to. “No, Ma.” “Go on, tell her to forgive you for everything you’ve done to offend her. Get that hatred out of you; get that rage out, or you’ll never be happy.” Her grave was there, and we washed it for her. We gave her flowers. And he started to sob, and I told him, “Grow a pair and do it.” Lupe and I left him there. There he was, with her. He never talked bad about his mama again. Later, we went back again and again, but he’d already been by. He’d buy her flowers and bring them to her; he’d clean her grave. He’d get a pinwheel from somewhere around there and he’d give it to his mama, because in that cemetery all the graves have pinwheels. He forgave her. When the man who gave the rosary here went to jail, I asked Checo, “Now what are we going to do?” And he said, “Well fuck it, Ma. I’ll give it.” He started studying; he learned the rosary and he gave it. And then he did it again the next month and the next month, and he started to do it every month. So he ended up giving the rosary. Nowadays he also works with the Palo Monte Brujería in his house. He’ll take spells off and put spells on; he does cleansings. His house is real nice. He bought a little car; he wants to buy a truck. I love him a lot; I have blind faith in him. He’s a badass: he does things well, he works well. That’s where my faith comes in. When the forces get together, we’ll get ahead. It’s something I’ve seen. Everyone knows he’s my son. I feel he is.

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3 Walking the Razor’s Edge

Robbing, Stealing, and Mugging ISRAEL Esperanza is like the Bronx. It’s real nasty; every minute there’s shots, bodies, trafficking, whatever the fuck else. I can’t even walk over to the other side, not even as a joke. If they caught me “over there,” they’d gun me down in a hot minute. There are bodies left and right. Here in Hortensia Street, if you see some güey you have problems with, boom! boom! boom! you beat the shit out of him. But from the Eje on over, shit’s more intense. This bullshit between the gangs has been going on for years. Those güeyes have a lot of balls, starting shit in our dance halls all the time. If some güey is with his lady and she’s from over there, balls to the wall, or if you’re from over there and you show up here, shit’s gonna go down. When it’s least likely, when you feel safest, that’s when they’re gonna fuck you up. If you don’t take care of yourself, nobody’s gonna take care of you, güey. Truth is, I’m looking out for everything and nothing. It’s your survival instinct. You grow up here and you learn it’s better to keep your enemies close, because that way you know where they are, where they move. If you back off, they’re gonna get the drop on you and they’re gonna fuck your shit up when you least expect it. You can’t always dodge death, but you can try to keep away from it until your

Walking the Razor’s Edge

number’s up. And when it’s your turn, well it’s your turn, güey. Around here there are guys who are forty, forty-five, some who are gonna turn a tostón, I mean fifty, but most don’t make it to that age. Most kick it when they’re the same age as my nephew Sponge. He’s only sixteen and he’s already on the streets. He’s young and he feels like a real baller. If he wants to get into my line of work, I’ll take him with me, let him work. Sponge already knows right from wrong. If he wants trouble, let him get himself into trouble, let him start stealing, but he knows the cops can grab him or they can shoot him down, or he’ll start problems with other güeyes. The streets teach you that around here. I started boosting watches when I was sixteen, seventeen. We’d cruise Las Lomas and Las Palmas in a car, or on a motorcycle, “Let’s go!” and then “Get out, quick, the watch!” Sometimes we’d bring in two Rolexes a day. You’d go into a restaurant and bam! bam! you’d get them all real quick. That’s why people started going around with more bodyguards. These days, it’s real tricky to boost watches over there, ’cause of the cameras as much as the cops. But I love watches, pocket watches, wristwatches. They give you the time and everything, but they’re more than that. They’re an accessory, a kind of jewelry that lasts a long time, same as a chain or a ring. A cell phone, for example, comes with a clock and tells you the time, but it’s just a necessary device, it doesn’t last as long as quartz watches or wind-up ones, or those old watches that your dad had thirty years ago and kept nice. You just grab them, you put them on, and they start working on their own, they don’t need a battery or anything. There are watches that tell you the phases of the moon, leap years, they detect the position of the planets and tell you your horoscope, there are some that tell you the time in every country, or the temperature. There are special scuba diving watches that can go underwater, or ones for the car with a stopwatch and a speedometer, and ones that measure altitude in feet for airplane pilots. Every watch has its purpose. The Rolex Explorer, for example, is for people who are running around exploring, roughing it. There are some kinds of watches where there’re only ten of them in the whole world. Thus, a good watch isn’t something you buy. You’re just renting it, because you die and the watch goes to your kid or your grandkid. You can say a watch isn’t really for you. At least that’s how it is with a good watch, the kind people with money buy. They know what a good watch is, and that’s why they hold onto them and they pass them down. “Look, kid, I want you to have this,” and the kids get the dad’s watch. Later those kids might buy another one, but there’s always gonna be a watch passed down, for people with money.

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I’m not like that because my dad didn’t have money. Maybe I have a way to get some, and that’s why I can wear an elegant watch, but that kind of watch is for elegant people. I wear one, I keep it for a while, and then I sell it. And then I get another one and I keep it for a while, and round and round, but it’s not the same. Since I was a kid, I’ve tried to bring in enough change to survive, but you spend it over here and you spend it over there. We give money to people for everything, just like that. I don’t even have an elegant watch anymore, because I sold it and I blew the money on women, partying, drugs, booze. How long do you think twenty thousand pesos lasts me? I blow through that shit in a month. And if I go on vacations, I spent that shit in two or three days. Unfortunately, if you have a lot of money, as soon as you get your hands on it, it’s gone. I’ve been running with the Alcatráz gang since I was a kid, and I saw the watches they wore. I even got my hands on Don King’s watch. Years ago he came to see a Julio Cesar Chávez fight, and the Alcatráz guys stole it from him. Afterwards, Chávez gave him a plastic one, “So you don’t leave empty handed,” he said. I swear it’s true, if you go online and you look up “Don King mugged in Mexico,” you’ll see it’s true. His watch looked like a dog collar, ’cause that guy’s got a huge fucking wrist. Rolex made it special for Don King. There isn’t another one like it in the world. I had the privilege of holding that jewel, a goddamn gorgeous watch. I’ll never see another one like that in my whole life. Back then, those thugs got 900,000 pesos for it. They sold it to a Jewish guy downtown, and he gave it to an Arab guy who flew here just to get the watch. The Jew got all his best clients together, five or six of them, and he said, “Guess what? I have this watch.” Those kinds of guys are collectors, people with money. Well the damn Arab showed up and shazaam! Word on the street is he paid 8.5 million for that watch.

GREGORIA Did you see the photo of that guy from PEMEX [Petróleos Mexicanos]? They put his picture in the newspaper. He was wearing a watch, who knows what brand it was, but the cheapest watch that company makes costs forty-four thousand dollars. And there he is with his little watch, saying, “Mug me, mug me!” and then they go and kill him. After, they said it was the Rolex gang who stole it. But the people who wear those things, where do they get the money to pay for them? And he was running around in Las Vegas. The minimum bet there is fifty thousand pesos. They flaunt the money they’ve stolen from here.

Walking the Razor’s Edge

MARIO There was this guy who worked on the corner where the trucks were. One day he quit and went to work somewhere else. He was always real grubby, but after that he started to look sharper. One day out of nowhere, he comes by and he says, “What up, Mario, you wanna get in on a little business with us?” He explains it to me and real quick I tell him, “I’m in, fuck it.” Because I was real broke. The first time I went with them, he just passes me the badge and the glock and says, “Go stop the truck, güey.” “What the fuck! How?” “I don’t fucking care how, just stop it.” It was an oil truck. Fuckin’ A! I had no clue. We got to the red light and I made sure our car was in front of it, to have something to block it, another car. I got out, I climbed up to the driver’s window with the glock and I screamed, “Open up, motherfucker!” We got him out and we put him in the other car. Then our driver got in and took the truck. That was the first semi I stole. I remember when I was sitting in the car again, it was like I was drowning. All that adrenaline. And my man says, “You did good, güey, for real. You did it nice and fast. I don’t have to teach you a fucking thing.” Even those other fuckers who were working with me told my man, “Shit, he works faster than we do.” We did good business. As soon as I’d get them out and get our driver in, I’d follow the truck to watch it, and the other guys would go somewhere else with the driver we pulled out. Truth is, when I was jacking trucks, I got along real nice with the drivers. I’d tell them, “Easy, güey, relax. I’m not going to do anything to you. If you see a cop, don’t start shit, motherfucker, ’cause I’ll kill you.” When we found an empty spot where we could park and switch the drivers, we’d say, “Pull over there, güey, let’s get this fucker out of the truck.” And we’d stop and we’d take his ID, his license, everything. And we’d give him the song, “For real, fucker, I got your name and your address right here. I have people who work where you’re gonna go make your report. And if I hear a whisper about you ratting on us, I’m gonna go to your house and blow your brains out. You and whoever else I find in there.” And we’d take the IDs, to cover our bases. We’d tell them what they were supposed to say, “Alright now, what are you gonna say? You’re gonna say a pickup truck came, and a bunch of guys with boots got out.” I’d threaten them, “If you don’t say what we’re telling you, I’m gonna show up at your house and it’s gonna get real ugly.” But we never got our hands dirty. It was all just verbal terror. We’d wear uniforms so we’d look like cops. I’d say, “Pull over, Judicial Police!” A lot of them would stop, but some wouldn’t. Anyone who didn’t stop, we’d grab at the first light. We’d let the driver have it, “What,

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motherfucker, why didn’t you pull over? You steal this truck or what?” “No, it’s just that I thought you were going to jack me.” “You must have stolen it, that’s why you didn’t pull over.” “I’m pulling over, güey!” “I’m gonna check you out; let’s see your papers. What do you have in the back, güey?” And after we checked out the goods, if it was something cool we’d say, “You know what? Put your head down and don’t start shit.” If it was something shitty, we’d say, “See, this was just a checkpoint to see what you’re hauling, because a report came in on a truck like yours, cabrón.” We always had a badge to show we were cops. It was like a leather wallet, you’d open it up and it had a gold star. Once, we didn’t have the badge. Who knows what those jackasses had done with it that day? I had a black and yellow wallet that had a Tasmanian Devil inside, and I go and pull out the wallet and I show it to a truck driver. I guess it looked like a badge to him, because the guy pulled over. Afterwards, I was laughing my ass off. “No fucking way! I pulled an oil truck over with a Taz wallet!” They never caught me, not once. Thank God. When you’re a thug, everything’s a risk, but it’s a jackpot too. We stole a ton of shit. We’d always run in two cars, checking. We were real good at knowing what the trucks were hauling. When they passed a bump, you get an idea of what kind of cargo they have inside. They make one kind of noise when they’re empty and another when they’re full. For example, electronics weigh less than sacks of beans, and they make the truck sound different. We jacked rum, cigarettes, engine oil, groceries, sacks of beans, different kinds of medicine. Once we jacked a truck full of Caprise shampoo. Another time there was one with just irons and blenders. You didn’t always make that much off of it. For example, the paraffin candles didn’t go for a lot of cash, although it was a nice chunk in the end because we sold a lot of them. The one thing we never took was medicine from the Seguro Social, the public hospital system, because nobody would buy it off of us. Now trucks have trackers in them. On the roof, there’s like a pot and there’s a little green bottle on top of it, that’s the tracker. Before, we’d look for trucks that didn’t have them, but now they bring a guy around who knows all about that. He’ll take it off for you in five, ten minutes. Even if it’s inside the truck, under the seat or under the wheel, it can’t send the signal, because those ones are real easy to disarm too. You crawl up in there like a rat to look for it, to see what’s there. After we unloaded the truck, we’d dump it in a different neighborhood and then meet again to divvy up the cash. The guys I worked with always split everything up evenly. There are some who don’t do it like that, but we always gave everyone the same amount. You’d just say, “Let’s see, it was this much for gas, this much for cards, this much for

Walking the Razor’s Edge

food. Five thousand pesos in expenses? The rest is between us.” Clear and concise. And we’d say, “We all make the same amount. Save your money in case you get busted, because the day that someone goes down, it’s everyone for him-fucking-self! I’m gonna have my way out, and if you don’t have yours, I’m not gonna bail your ass out. Just so there’s no bullshit, no misunderstandings.” I’d always say, “The day shit goes down, I don’t wanna hear your wives, your mama, your brothers saying, ‘The thing is, he’s in there and you’re out here.’ No! That’s why we split things evenly, you gotta have a little scratch hidden away for whatever shit comes up. Same thing with me, nobody’s gonna go crying to you if it’s me that goes down, because I know that we all make the same amount, güeyes.” They only got some of my guys once. We’d just stolen a truck and those jackasses were speeding down the highway. We told our driver, “Easy, güey, don’t fuck around. Relax.” And nuts! The Federal Police pull them over. Still, in spite of the bullshit they caused, we helped their families. We gave them some cash. But the dad of one of them and the wife of another were a pain in the ass. The señora kept coming and coming until finally we told her, “We’re giving you something for your household expenses, but seriously, we’re not maintaining you.” “But he works with you.” “Yeah, but we all make the same amount, and from the last couple runs, we all made this much.” “But he never brought that much money home.” “Well, ask him, we all make the same amount.” No way to tell her that he probably went out whoring or something. That’s his problem. But she was real shocked. I don’t have any bank accounts. I’m old school, as they say. In fact the whole gang kept their money in their houses. In my case, it was Alba who took care of the dough. Everything’s in Alba’s name: my house, my two cars, everything. Because if the cops get you and they start beating the crap out of you, you know, “Where do you live?” “I live with my ma, güey, for real.” “And your wife?” “Well, I was married, but I got divorced, she kicked me out.” “What do you have? A car?” “Nothing, güey, nothing.” “Ah, a truck.” “No, it’s my old lady’s, check the registration, it’s in her name.” “Tell your old lady.” “No, you call her if you want, I don’t even know her number. If you find her, tell her my whole life’s gone to shit. Because I haven’t lived with her in years, and I don’t send her shit. You think she’s gonna help me out?” I don’t have a whole lot, but I take good care of what I do have, because it wasn’t easy to get. I tell Alba, “You can tell me to fuck off whenever you want, I don’t want a thing.” It’s fine, because in the end it’s all for our kids. Yet they don’t know about my work. Alba knows a thing or two, but she’s always telling me not to do it. I tell her, “Don’t you tell me what to do or what not to

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do, because then I’ll be upset when I leave, and something will happen to me. I know what I’m doing. You just ask God to make sure I come back with my hands full.” Then I’d go see my mama and I’d leave in the early morning. I’d give her a kiss and say, “I’m off, Mama.” And she’d say, “I’ll see you tomorrow. Be careful.” I always came back with some scratch. I remember that I bought her teeth, her first color TV. I also bought things for my grandma, her washing machine. I swear, whenever I pulled something off, I’d give them some cash. I was never an asshole about it. Not long ago, my mama said, “You should have made a shitload of money.” “Well it was just for a little while so we could be more or less alright. Anyways, it’s over now, Ma.”

LIDIA Only once did my mama have to go get me out of the police station. I wanted to learn how to shoplift, I mean, how to stick things from a store between my legs or under my clothes. It could have been blouses, shoes, jackets, whatever, but I was a real fool, I was nervous from the get-go. The day they busted me, I hadn’t even taken anything, I was just the lookout. I was with a friend and she hid a couple of things. That’s when they figured it out and they busted us, but since we were underage, we ended up in the Carmen station. Back then, my brother-in-law Ernesto was a detective, my sister Mariana’s husband. He worked in that delegation and it was him who pulled strings to get me out. My mama showed up and read me the riot act. She cussed me out the whole damn way home, and she smacked me upside the head a bit. But that was it. I think she was more scared than I was.

EDUARDO To cover the expenses of my addiction, I had to mug people, take their things, sell them, and keep getting high. I’d pull my shit on the Eje, because it was real quick to get from the Eje to the house to hide. Once I stole a tank of gas from a neighbor to sell it, and when I was walking away with the tank, the neighbor came out with a gun. Sometimes my mama would say, “You motherfucker, you’ve been out doing your bullshit, haven’t you?” She was ashamed because she’s always been one of those women who say, “You wanna make money? Go work for it.” I wanted to go mug people somewhere else, so she wouldn’t see it. But I never did, because I always ended up going out and getting fucked up

Walking the Razor’s Edge

with the other thugs, “Órale, take a shot or two and let’s go.” “Alright, let’s go.” “Where?” “Wherever we end up.” Mugging has its tactics. You see somebody, you see if they’re alone or if they’re with someone, you see what they have. When you go in, you have to be firmly decided about taking their belongings away. You can’t consider consequences in that moment, because if you do, then it’s over. Sometimes you pick the weakest person. If you see someone who looks scared, you say, “Motherfucker, give me everything cabrón, I’ll kill you if you don’t,” and you check them head to toe. If it’s a girl, we’d say real quick, “Don’t scream! Shut up or I’ll fuck you up!” because women are real loud, they scream a lot. That’s why I’d rather mug men. I did all my mugging on Mondays, Tuesdays, and Wednesdays, because every Thursday we went out dancing, no matter what. I remember once I went with a friend to Mocambo. It’s a dance hall that was real popular; they played merengue and salsa. I must have been fourteen, fifteen years old. It was Thursday, almost Friday morning, and the guy I was with got a call and had to go home. So I stayed with some other kids from Orquídea. We were having a few drinks and when everything was over and we were getting ready to go home, one of them says, “What if we do something else? Let’s go to Acapulco.” We didn’t have any money, all we had was a car. Well, we all went into our houses, looking to see what we could sell. I took a TV, someone else took a stereo, and someone took jewelry and other things to sell. We left at eight a.m., headed to Acapulco. It was the first time I had gone to Acapulco and I swear it was really cool to be on the highway with all those cabrones. I turned around and looked at the trees, the landscape, the road. I had a real adrenaline high when we got into Acapulco and I saw the palm trees and the sea for the first time. I liked that a lot, even though on the inside I was afraid, too, because I was asking myself, “What am I doing all the way out here?” We had paid for the tolls and the gas, and the money was running out. The first day, we were outside Baby O, which is this really cool discoteca in Acapulco. We didn’t go in, but there we were, seeing what was up, seeing how people were, how they got on and all that shit. I was happy to be in a place like that, with beer, women, partying. We bought a few beers and stayed on the beach. The days went by and the police told us we had to leave the beach. We couldn’t sleep there. The car also broke down on us, and we didn’t have the cash for a bus ticket back. I just started walking around. I’d get to one side and then I’d come back, just walking. Days went by. It was fun, but it also made us nervous. Eventually we all started to get hungry. We could have mugged somebody and gotten some cash for food, like we always did. It would

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have been the most obvious thing to do, but we didn’t do it. We were scared because we didn’t know what was up around there. So instead, we just let the hours roll by. Then one of the guys met a cop and we went to go see him. We sold him a video camera that somebody had. He saw us looking real hungry and told us, “Go over there, at that bus stop. Ask for this guy; tell him I sent you. He’ll give you something to eat.” I remember that guy at the bus stop bought us a rotisserie chicken and some tortillas. It was the best chicken of my life. Nobody knew where I was, not even my mama, until we got tired of being hungry and we started phoning home to ask our families to send us money to buy bus tickets and come back. I called my mama, “Hey Mama, guess what? We’re in Acapulco and we don’t have enough money to come back.” My mama says to me, “Really, mijo?” “Yeah.” “Well you can go fuck yourself. Stay there for all I care, because I’ve been running around looking for you and I had to find out from other people that you were going around like a jackass, you son of a bitch.” I turned to my crew and I said to them, “No, güey, truth is, my family told me they weren’t sending anything.” And she didn’t. It was lucky the other kids’ families faxed us all the tickets. When I got home at ten in the morning, the first thing I felt was my hair being yanked. My mama started to knock me around real good, “Motherfucker, here I am looking for you, worried, and you’re running around like an asshole in Acapulco.” I thought, “Today I earned an ass-whooping, but I’m happy.” The punches didn’t hurt. That’s when I realized I could leave. Sometimes I’d wake up in Oaxatepec, in Michoacán, in Acapulco. Even though I haven’t had any big adventures, the little ones I’ve had have been real cool. I got to see the ocean, I met simple people, who at any given moment, without knowing me or knowing what my intentions were, gave me their beds and slept on the floor. But like it or not, all good things have their bad side. A lot of the time, getting fucked up led to the cops chasing me and looking for me. I got used to committing crimes; I didn’t care about people. I remember once, my mama got mugged on a minibus and they took her money and her stuff. That’s when I said, “Shit, now I know what it feels like when it’s your family getting mugged.”

GREGORIA Truth is, I do admire the thugs who really risk it. The ones who do their hold-ups on the highways, the semis, the real big ones. Those are badass

Walking the Razor’s Edge

thugs. Not the ones who mug people outside their houses or in the little stand with their little pistol, and then go running home for Mama to protect them.

Pirated Goods and Contraband GREGORIA There are a shitload of street peddlers in Esperanza. Some of them even make five times the minimum wage. Maybe lazy people and jackasses can’t make it sell in the streets, but anyone who puts his back into it sells big. You stock up on whatever sells best. For example, when school starts, a lot of people come to buy backpacks, pencils, things for their kids. You sell a lot at Christmas, too, and New Year’s. Three Kings’ Day, Valentine’s Day, Father’s Day. Everyone has a plan for those days, because you can’t just stand around selling one thing. You gotta go looking for it. You gotta sell what’s gonna bring you cash, because you have to remember that you have four or five kids and that minimum wage isn’t enough to survive. The government doesn’t help you with anything. When are you gonna hear them say, “Let’s help Esperanza, because everyone’s hooked on drugs? Let’s bring in jobs.” They might say, “Alright, there’s a factory there. Well, let’s set them up so they can work for a decent wage.” “They don’t have papers. OK, let’s go help them get their papers in order.” But it is not true, all they do is fuck you over. Big companies pay crap wages; the street peddlers make more.

EDUARDO The merchandise comes to the Eje at night. Trucks full of boxers, cosmetics, electronics, perfumes; they all come from the border with the United States or Belize. They’re the ones that don’t pay taxes. I mean, they’re smuggled in. There are around fifteen of us that unload the merchandise that comes to the Eje. My nephews, Gustavo and Victor, they’re always there too. When we get there, people are already waiting, “Sup? Is the merch here yet?” “No, it’s not here yet, but it’s on its way.” We just wait until it gets there, and then we start unloading. When everything’s done, we leave and everyone else stays to do inventory, to see how many boxes came, how much merchandise, what they’re going to move, all of that.

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LIDIA There are always people watching the merch when they unload it. Even the cops come by and pitch in. They watch out for them. When Adán worked over at the police station, he’d hit up Israel on the radio and tell him to disappear from one spot or another, and the detectives would go out for coffee, or get dinner at one of their houses, or go to the movies. They just had to look the other way. That’s how Adán spent his time, at the movies or drinking coffee, “The thing is we have orders not to stop any cars, nothing,” he’d say. That’s how I knew not to go out if I saw the cops drinking coffee or at the movies. Soon I’d hear, the huge-ass semi coming down the Eje, it’d stop and unload real quick, and you could hear the damn mosquito, the helicopter, too. When they finished unloading, that’s when the police would come out like crazy to arrest half the city, scooping up the crumbs. But busts only happened when somebody didn’t give the cops their cut, or when they got pressure from higher up. Then they’d say, “Go bust them.”

PATRICIA Busts are pure adrenaline, real intense. It’s not so much because the cops could arrest you for selling pirated goods. It’s more because of the craziness of all the guys that go and throw themselves at the cops, or because the cops come by and take everything they find. Even things they didn’t come for. When the police leave, that’s when shit really goes down. That’s when the looting starts. If a semi goes by, they stop it, they pull the driver out and, everyone takes what they can get! Once I went to take a look, but real quick. I saw how the kids come in their pickup trucks, and they fill them up right there. They emptied out everything; I mean, we emptied out everything. They also go into other places to steal. Once they got into an Aurrerá Supermarket that opened on Tranvías. They stop cars too, minibuses, everything. Everyone does it to get revenge on the cops, so they won’t do any more busts. Once, they threw grenades and tear gas, and the kids were looting and looting, but I mean real bad. And at night, every time a semi went by, they’d empty it. That time, you could see all the ladies, kids, old people, all the people in the neighborhood carrying off their Wonder Bread, their toys, dolls, everything. It was real nasty. Then they announced that they were going to start coming into houses. The whole barrio emptied out. It looked like a ghost town. In the vecindad, all the lights were off; everything was all dark, and us looking through the window bars at the police trucks going

Walking the Razor’s Edge

by. It was something else. They didn’t come in, but there was a lot of tension. Last time it was in the afternoon, and Alfredo says to me, “Guess what? Over there on the corner, there’s a whole bunch of cop cars.” “Ay, who knows.” And he left again, but he came back real fast. “We’d better pack up, come on.” We just barely managed to pack up the stand when they started throwing rocks. I saw someone light a police pickup on fire. Alfredo was yelling, “Let’s go!” Later, the police came with dollies and everything and they took all the merch to the trucks they had waiting on the Eje. Not even a week later, there was the merch again. They gave them their cut. It’s goddamn robbery on every front. I pirate CDs, and that’s illegal, but there’s no other way. That’s how we put bread on the table. All because I didn’t study; that’s why I’m selling pirated shit. They’ve never taken our merch though. But the police have taken pirated stuff sometimes. Maybe they just come for the stolen stuff, but since everybody starts to get worked up, they grab the pirated stuff too. So I’m glad we keep our merch at Alfredo’s great aunt’s house. We’ve been keeping it there for seven years. Even though it’s just CDs, they’re safer in her house than in a warehouse by the Eje. Years ago, a man gave money to the police delegation so that they would let him make these stands at the Eje, and he sold them to whoever had the cash and wanted to buy them. The husband of a friend of mine bought one, and she rents it to me. It costs six thousand pesos a month. You have to take it out of your sales. You also have to take money out to buy the stuff, and to live. I’ve never done the math; it depends on how well you sell, but you do make something, because I pay the six thousand in rent and I give my mother-in-law two thousand pesos a week for the tanda, the community savings cycle. Add it all up and it’s fourteen thousand pesos a month. I also make enough to pay the bills, the phone, the electricity, and the property tax. Thanks to the stand, I was even able to buy the house where my son El Pelos lives with his wife. And I bought the accesoría out front that we’re working hard to fix up. I bought it because I think it’s a good investment, since later when we’re old we won’t be able to move; we won’t be able to keep working like we work now. So then I can sell gum and sodas there, or live off the rent from the accesoría or from the other house. Aside from everything, I also put something away for savings. Even if I’m bored, even if I’m stressed, I keep selling pirated CDs, because you do make money. When I started, we sold them for four pesos, but then they dropped it to three, and you started to make just one peso in profit per CD. People are real bad, they drop the prices like jackasses. The idea is to work to make a profit, not to make half a profit.

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I bet people would even pay five pesos per CD. But all of the prices have to be the same, otherwise nobody sells anything. But I don’t want to sell CDs anymore because it’s too risky, but that’s what you can make the most on right now if you don’t want to start selling drugs or open up a back-alley dive. But I don’t know how much longer I can last. You know they’re cracking down on pirated goods right now. In the meantime, we have to put our backs into it, to scrape a little savings together. I try to limit myself as much as I can to save something. I don’t have a bank account because I don’t like them. Plus I don’t have enough capital for that, and they charge you out the nose. I had an account once, and when I had five thousand pesos left, they wouldn’t let me withdraw it. The bank kept it. That’s why I don’t keep bank accounts. We don’t burn the CDs like we used to, because once two cops showed up to the workshop and asked us for twenty thousand pesos to look the other way. After that, we decided to stop burning. I know my daughter Desiré and my niece Diana lost their job with that move, and I’m sorry for that down to my soul, but it also happened because they weren’t applying themselves to their jobs. For example, I needed the merchandise in the morning so I could set up. And they’d bring it to me at one or two p.m. I wasn’t gonna forgive Desiré just because I’m her mama. I couldn’t keep waiting for her. I told her, “No, that’s not how you work. This is so you learn to be responsible. No way around it.” Now that I’ve changed my provider, I just pay the boy who brings me the merch. He brings me the album art first. Every provider has their own brand of CDs, and every brand has its own album art. I pick the ones I want, and he takes them to another guy who makes them. Then he comes back with the CDs. He brings me my merchandise on time, and I pay him, and I give him a little extra, so he sees we’re fair. I have no problem with him, and it’s easier. I don’t take chances, and we’re free to buy from whoever we want. There’s no mafia. Since the muggings started around here, it’s been affecting our sales. Over the last year, the thugs have gotten nastier. It’s not like before, when they’d lift your wallet without you realizing it. Now they mug people, two, even three times a day. With switchblades. Before, the sellers would strip them naked, beat ’em up and throw ’em out. Now, nobody gets involved; if they rob you, that’s your problem, because otherwise the lowlifes beat the shit out of you, too. That’s why we’ve hired a couple of guys for security now, and the lowlifes don’t come around as much. All of us sellers have to pay them ten pesos a day. They come and they tell you, “We’re offering security, because there’ve been a lot of muggings around here.” “Ah, well let’s give him something.” I don’t know those guys, but there are people who do. I think even those same lowlifes say to each other, “Let’s not mug people anymore, let’s just charge them

Walking the Razor’s Edge

not to get mugged.” That way they don’t mug as much, and they make money. Easier for them, because the people who come to buy from us don’t have rings, watches; nothing like that anymore. I’m sick and tired of this life, because every day you get up at five in the morning and you come back at five, six in the afternoon. Every day, every day, every day. Alfredo gets there first. He has to wait until the metal structure is unloaded, so we can hang up the CDs. It takes three, four hours to set them all up in the stand. I get there around eight, eightthirty, and we finish putting them all up between the two of us. Then we’re there selling them the whole day. Alfredo sometimes has a few errands to run, but he comes back and breaks down the stand starting at five in the afternoon. Breaking down is faster than setting up, but it also takes at least an hour, if not more. The only day we have off is Monday. Every other day, we’re working, even holidays.

ENRIQUE (LUZ’S HUSBAND) Pirating CDs is still going strong, but there isn’t as much work for us anymore. I’m not complaining; we still get some carriage work, but it was better when we were working with that man. I used to do four, five trips every Friday for him, until some guys got their hands on me. They held me up in my truck and they took my ring, my hoop earrings, my phone, fifteen hundred pesos I had on me, and all the merchandise I was carrying. I had like fifteen packets, with two thousand album covers each. They called my dad, “We have your guy and your goddamn merchandise.” “How much do you want?” And they say, “Five hundred thousand.” And my dad says, “What the fuck, güey! What do you mean, five hundred thousand?! You can keep him.” They dropped it from five hundred to thirty. But my dad wouldn’t pay, so all they got is what they took off me. And even then, when I got out, the guy I worked for said, “Don’t be an asshole. They paid you off, didn’t they?” He thought that I had set myself up, that it was a self-kidnapping, but they really did kidnap me. In the end, he fired me.

The Gangs LUZ It was like a war to see who was the most powerful, who could get who. If the guys from Xochitlán killed one of the Alcatráz guys, then the Alcatráz gang would get their guns and go kill one of the Xochitlán gang.

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Then the Xochitlán guys would come back and off somebody from Alcatráz. When they ran into each other, all hell would break loose and everyone would start fighting. Once I went downtown with Mario to work. I ran into Yazmín; she was with her husband, but she was seeing one of the Xochitlán guys. Blam! They shot her from a window. Suddenly everything went nuts, fucking bullets everywhere. I had Desiré with me, and I threw myself under a table, with my mini skirt and my stilettos and all my crap. Yazmín died from a bullet to the belly, poor thing. And she had a fourteen-month-old baby, too. It was real awful. Horrible. It was a miracle we made it out alive. They’ve calmed down now, but back then every eight days, there’d be a corpse.

EDUARDO For me, there was never that parenthesis of “don’t go over there.” I could go to the Xochitlán gang and hang with them and I could go to the Alcatráz gang and hang with them. They never rejected me for that, they never even said anything. I always walked the line because over there in Xochitlán, there was a lot of mafia too, and my brother Israel was already well-known in Alcatráz. What I was interested in was chilling with them, riding in the car, messing around. I just wanted to feel like I was part of something I wasn’t part of. In the Alcatráz gang, there were a million guys: El Bato, El Chulo, El Sombras. They were all famous around the barrio for stealing expensive watches. They had a lot of women and they’d go to all the best places in those days: Maraca, El 21, Antillanos, places you needed a lot of dough to get into. I wanted to know what it felt like to be in a place like that. I got to see the ambiance and everything. Logically, it caught my attention. But I’ve always been scared; I couldn’t get to the point of carrying a gun or shooting someone or even stabbing anyone. If you cross that line, you don’t know what’ll happen tomorrow. And that’s what happened; soon, a bunch of guys in the gangs started dying. A long time ago, Xochitlán was a street for honest work, but when the drugs started coming in, it became a hotspot for distribution. When I started getting into the drugs, I met the guys from over there. I’d get together with five or six guys and we’d end up going to a lot of houses where real hard guys hung out. I met a million people: Jiji, Hummer, Perro. I’d go out dancing at fancy joints with Aguilar and his thugs; the tab would be twenty, twenty-five, thirty thousand pesos. I swear to God! “Cool, it’s on me, order whatever you want,” he’d say. We’d do the same thing every eight days. We’d also go to these seedy strip joints: Burbuja,

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Bombas, Casa Blanca. I was fifteen. At my age, being in a strip joint with women who were thirty, forty years old was like walking into another world.

LIDIA Once, my friends and I got into a quinceañera party for El Rojo’s daughter. The dance hall was like a palace. Outside everything was lit up with candelabras and candles in all different colors, real nice. Inside, it was all roses and orchids. I think with the picnic seating and everything, there must have been room for seven hundred people there. The girls were all wearing these long gowns. They served who knows what kind of crazy-ass shrimp thing for an appetizer, and then the main course was chicken breast with like red peppers and cream. They served like four different main courses and these little individual cakes for dessert, with vanilla whipped cream and some kind of ice cream. A real delicious, elegant meal. There was a professional dancer. Cacheo Bandaza was playing, and the Zona Rica band too. The birthday girl must have danced for like two hours. She danced samba, reggaeton, like ten different dances, and she wore a different dress for each one, with these designs—I can’t even imagine how much they must have cost. They say the Mass was really nice too; they had it at a church in the Roma neighborhood. But get this, right after the Mass, the cops arrest El Rojo and the mother. So we got to the dinner and they weren’t there, because they were being detained. The cops wanted a million and a half in bail, right on the day of the party.

EDUARDO The fights between the gangs have always been about women. The Xochitlán guys like the Alcatráz girls, and the Alcatráz guys like the Xochitlán girls. My mama would say, Esperanza women are sluts and the women from El Rosal are even bigger sluts. When everything started, my mama was still selling tacos at night. Back then, a guy called Isaac controlled Esperanza, and El Chulo controlled El Rosal. Isaac was seeing El Chulo’s sister, and since El Chulo didn’t like her going out with Isaac, they put a couple bullets into each other. That’s how everything started. So if the Xochitlán guys went over to Alcatráz, they were gonna get it, and if the Alcatráz guys went over to Xochitlán, they were gonna get it too. That’s why they killed Gordo, too, because he was seeing a girl from over there.

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Sombras died while he was jacking a watch, and they left Pica bleeding out over in Alcatráz. The strongest ones now are the people who are involved with my brother Israel, in the Alianza gang. He runs that gang really well, but he still has bosses, and his bosses have their bosses. Alianza is a mix of the cabrones from here in Xochitlán and some of the ones from the Alacatráz gang. Some people reordered things so that Esperanza and El Rosal were together again. That’s why it’s called Alianza, the Alliance. The idea was for Esperanza to have people in its market again. Almost nobody was going because there were so many muggings. The money was moving to other places with more surveillance, more police. The idea was therefore to offer people protection from the thieves as had happened in those places. When the project came in, we all started working on it as employees, like permanent flunkies. I started out watching over Xamaika and Xochitlán. We even invited the muggers to participate, so they wouldn’t keep mugging. We’d tell them, “Come work over here, güey, stop clowning around, we’re watching these streets now and if we catch you, we’re gonna bust your shit up.” The same guys who’d been mugging came over to work for us. We charged the vendors ten pesos a day. A lot of people agreed. And a lot didn’t. They started to say that we were extorting people, kidnappers, or drug dealers. Once when Israel was starting on Lirio Street, the cops showed up and arrested him because they said he was extorting. I mean, they said all kinds of ridiculous stuff, when all he wanted was for everything to be okay, to not have thieves. The cops weren’t ok with it because we were stepping on their toes. We’d get our hands on the thugs and we’d give them to the people in charge. We all know the cops have always been alright with a lot of illegal things, but there are some that aren’t: the uncorrupt ones. Those were the ones who were supporting us in their way, because they’d say, “It’s cool, now the crime levels are actually going down,” and the corrupt ones would say, “Those motherfuckers are keeping me from making my money.” In the beginning there was unity in Alianza, because we were all working real cool, but it’s hard to work with your old enemies, you never know if you’ll turn around one day and they’ll put a cap in you. They made unity that wasn’t really united. Plus it didn’t take long before a lot of guys started getting into it to fuck around, to start their businesses on the side, to have their spots to push drugs. Now that all that’s been let loose, who’s gonna stop it? The government? The bosses? Who knows? The real top dogs of the city are involved now. Drug dealing’s a business that brings in easy money. Who wouldn’t want to have a house, a new car, a bunch of beautiful women? Even if it’s just because of your money, even if it’s through a fake personality. But when you feel like

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money controls everything, that’s when you fall the easiest. As they say, if you’re gonna walk the razor’s edge, you walk it. You know that there’re consequences, that you’re risking your life, that tomorrow you’ll probably go down when someone wants revenge, wants to even the score, or ’cause the cops got you and sent you to rot out your sentence. In the end, money’s what’s always going to be in demand. Everybody says, “How much do you have? That’s what you’re worth.”

LIDIA The problem is a lot of people from other states come here, they get into vice, they get into drugs. And since their families don’t know that they’re here, well they get killed, and who’s going to say anything? Nobody, because their families aren’t from here. But they really went too far when they killed the homeless man, the señor with the guitar. I saw Chucho and Paco drag him out by the feet, dead already. They pulled him off the sidewalk and they even cracked his head against the pavement. Some fat bastard who ran with them took his body to dump it in Alcatráz. Mari told me what happened before that. She heard Chucho say, “Alright, carnal, we gotta try out this gun on that fucker, see if it works.” She says he said, “No, hang on, I’m leaving already,” and then Paco said, “Wait, güey, get down on your knees, open your mouth,” and they forced him down to his knees and they shoved the gun in his mouth. She says she heard them shoot him. The bullet went through his head and the wall was all covered in blood. They murdered that homeless guy, may he rest in peace, just to get their rocks off, just to see if the gun they had worked. Toña and Camila came out to wash the wall with bleach and water and everything. They dumped out the water and locked the door. That’s where they fucked up. Because when the cops started investigating, they came and closed off the street from corner to corner, and they used their special lights and found the bloodstains on the wall, and Paco and Chucho’s footprints leading up the stairs, because their shoes were full of blood. They did a reconstruction of the events, they proved homicide, and they arrested them. Each of them got more than one hundred years, because from there they started to prove certain other deaths they had caused. It was declared that they’d killed so-and-so, such-and-such, what’s-his-name, and what’s-his-face, and they were taking five thousand pesos to kill people. They say it was Paco who killed Azucena on the bridge. He was real infatuated with her, and one day she says to him, “You know what? You can fuck right off, you don’t fulfill me.” She humiliated him, she

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castrated him, because Azucena was real brutal. And what does he say back? “Well if you can’t be mine, you won’t be anybody’s, fucking bitch.” And then they found her on the bridge. There was another one, the girl in Buganvilia that they knocked off because they say she saw them kill a guy. They chased her, and they caught up with her in Buganvilia, and a bunch of neighbors who were watching out their windows said they heard the screams, “Don’t kill me, I didn’t see anything, I swear I didn’t see anything.” “Shut up, fucking bitch, don’t cry.” And Chucho said, “Motherfucker!” Blam! blam! A bullet to the head.

GREGORIA Chucho and Paco were cabrones. I think everybody was afraid of them. But what could we do? They’d go out like crazy, just to start shit. They had no fucking problem mugging or stealing, but they never came after us. But don’t go thinking the people they killed were innocent little doves. Things aren’t like you think. They killed murderers, like them. For example, Paco was seeing a girl and that slut goes and starts up with some other guy, and she starts running around with both of them. And that jackass Paco figures it out, and since he’s in love with the damn girl, he goes and kills the other jackass, who was a cabrón too. And then from there, some other cabrones who were friends with the cabrón he killed come around, and they want to kill these guys. But these guys weren’t so easy to kill, and it ends with them killing the ones who came after them. It’s a fucking slaughterhouse. Before, we were real good at keeping up with all the gossip. “Who did they kill?” and all that bullshit. Now, there’s no fucking way, because the whole damn lot of those asshole cops comes running up with their cameras, and they take photos of all of us, everyone who’s there. And then they come around looking for you. “Ah, you were there,” and “Why were you there?” and “Why did you stop?” “Where do you live?” We don’t want any of that. The time for gossip is over; they don’t even let us go see the poor little dead guys anymore. Somebody got killed. Well, go on into your house, lock the door, and don’t come out. Keep your head down. That’s what we do.

EDUARDO Paco and Chucho felt real safe because they were murderers and part of the Alcatráz gang, but they never imagined that one day people, or the authorities, God, or La Santa Muerte were gonna put the brakes on

Walking the Razor’s Edge

them. They’re slashed now, the air’s gone out of them; they deflated. With all the people they hurt, all the people they extorted and stole from, they managed to make everyone scared of them. When you feel real sure of yourself, that’s when you fall the hardest. That’s when a rat comes around, somebody sells you out to the cops. That’s why I’m a solitary type, because I don’t wanna know anything about anybody, “Who’s that?” “I don’t know.” If you wanna live well, don’t get together with anybody, don’t ever know more than you have to about people. That’s why I don’t know anything about Israel’s problems, even though he’s my little brother.

Drugs LIDIA I’d broken up with Carlos, I didn’t have any money, and I had four little kids. There was no time to fuck around with a normal job. Plus, I won’t lie to you, I’ve never liked working. The truth is, I was used to having everything handed to me. Well, so I said, “I’m going to sell drugs, that’s easy money.” There was a boy I’d started seeing, and I helped him set up shop. I hooked him up with someone from “over there” [Xochitlán], and we started buying in grams: a hundred grams, two hundred grams. First, we’d weigh out between one and three grams of powder, and then we’d fill the little paper packets we sold it in. So for example, if you bought enough for five little papers, you’d sell them for twice what you paid. And then the next day you’d buy ten, and the day after you’d buy twenty, and you keep doubling like that. The boy also started buying pelotas, which are like a kind of cookie that you make with the cooked drug, and you put in speed and ground up aspirin, a lot of things. I didn’t know what was in them till later. But I never cooked them, because if you don’t know how to do it, the drug bounces and you waste everything. You lose a lot of money that way. Later, we had to grind up the rock so we could keep making packets on demand. We were in charge of wrapping the packages, if you can call it that. We’d assemble bags of a hundred papers and deliver them. I’d put the money in the bank, and then on to the next one. Since I’m a woman, I’d carry a purse and that’s where I’d put my two bags of material, powder or rock. If we saw a cop, I’d hug whoever was closest to me. There was always someone who’d hug me, who’d hold my hand and we’d walk to the store to distract them, like we were a couple. Even if the cops showed up, whoever was around me wasn’t sticking

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their neck out, it was me who was sticking my neck out, because I was the one carrying the material in my purse. If they tried to inspect me, I’d get all up in their faces, “You lay a finger on me and I’ll sue.” The police would think about it and they wouldn’t inspect me, I’d pull one over on them. Or when we saw them coming, I’d pull it out of my purse and hide it in the flowerpots, or I’d toss it under a car and keep walking. If they don’t catch you with anything, you didn’t have to give them jack shit. You’d say, “You haven’t caught me with anything, I’m not going to give you a dime. Take me wherever you want, I’ll report you for kidnapping me right now.” Or, “You lay your hands on me and as soon as we get to the station, I’ll tell them you tried to molest me, that you’ve been groping me the whole way over.” They’d say, “Fucking bitch, she knows all the tricks,” but they wouldn’t get near me. The thing was to play it like a bullfight; you learn to be slick. We had it all planned out. We’d meet on a corner; one of us would go to the avenue and the other would go down the wide street, and the other at the corner. If anybody saw a patrol car, Pssssst! You’d hear them whistle, and then depending on the whistle, you’d know which direction the cops were coming from. Heads up! There’s the whistle, they’re coming down Juarez! Heads up! There’s the other whistle, they’re coming down Hidalgo! Heads up! They’re coming down Chapultepec! Or, they’re coming through the park! Then whoever it was would run, climb a tree, and leave the stuff there, while everybody else stayed at the corner. The blue cops were the biggest jackasses. You’d tell them to go to hell right away and they’d go, “Nah, fuck it.” And they wouldn’t give you shit. With the judiciales detectives, we had to be a little sharper. Once some detectives showed up at the store because they knew we were selling. There’s always someone who’ll sell you out, or sometimes they’d grab somebody who’d just walked out of the store, and they’d make them tell, “N o, well it’s so-and-so, what’s-his-name, and some chick in there; what’s-his-face is the one selling.” Well, this time, they came in and they arrested the guy I was seeing, and they got like twenty thousand pesos out of him, which back then was a lot of money. Afterwards, they told him that if he wanted to keep selling, that he had to start paying them a weekly cut. I wasn’t afraid of that business. The guy who supplied me would give me five hundred pesos for bringing him new people, and whoever I delivered to would give me five hundred pesos for going to buy the material. I got five hundred pesos for each purchase and each delivery. But in the end, I had to get out, because that güey I helped set up shop was after me, he wanted to kill me because of that stuff with Adán. That’s when we split for Tijuana.

Walking the Razor’s Edge

MARIO I’d shut myself up for days doing blow, drinking, real nasty. Once I walked as a pilgrim all the way to Chalma. We were all coked out of our heads. When I got there, and I was standing in front of the Lord of Chalma, I was real skinny, like yellow, filthy, and I thought, “No, everything’s all fucked up. This has gone too far.” And without even thinking about it, I promised the Lord I’d stop doing drugs. When I got back to my mama’s house, I told her about it and she even yelled at me, “Why did you promise Him that? You’re going to break your promise,” and all that shit. I felt real shitty for a few days, sort of shaking and sweating, but thanks to God, I kicked it. I haven’t gone back to it. No downers, no weed, no blow, nothing that fucks you up any more except alcohol and women.

EDUARDO I started doing drugs right in my room. There was a bed in there, a dresser, a TV, and my clothes. It got to the point where the room was a garbage heap, there were cans thrown everywhere, lighters, papers. It looked like a den of thieves. Even having a bed, I was sleeping on the floor. My mama didn’t know what to do. At some point, she told me, “It’s your choice, go ahead and die if you want to.” That hurt, because she turned around and left me abandoned. Sometimes I’d leave the house and I wouldn’t come back for a week, or after two weeks my mama had to go looking for me in the streets. She’d go down Orquídea, Hortensia, wherever, asking if anybody had seen her son. Sometimes my brothers’ friends would find me, they’d pick me up and bring me home. My mama would open the door. “What is it?” “Well, we’ve brought your son. Israel told us that you couldn’t find him,” and then they’d bring me in. When I got into the house, I’d say, “Finally, I’m home.” But I knew that I wasn’t going to get a big welcome, because I had pulled my shit. Aside from doing drugs, I stole from them. I was never a good son, I was never a good father, never a good friend, a good brother. I was always written off by society, by my family. I’ve been sent to rehab six or seven times. Rehab is real good, because in rehab you start to realize that you’re alive. You stop getting high and you start meeting people that you never in your life imagined you’d meet. There are people that talk negatively about rehab, that they hit you, that they shave you bald, but for me rehab was really cool. Nothing like that ever happened to me. You get there, they inspect you, and

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they tell you, “Get dressed, güey, it’s ok. Is this your first rehab?” If it’s your first rehab, you have the right to not do anything for three days. Normally you have to do service every half hour, which is to say, mop, sweep, make the beds, do laundry, clean the bathrooms. Every hour and a half, there’s a meeting, like Drug Addicts Anonymous, or N arcotics Anonymous. They’re intense, ’cause it’s directed therapy. They say, “You, güey, you don’t understand. Your mama’s already been here. She brought you your clothes, and you still want to leave, cabrón.” Because some of us guys in rehab wanted to escape. At first it scares you, because you turn up somewhere where you don’t know anybody, and everyone there is a real son of a bitch. You see them expressing themselves and you say, “No way, how am I going to tell those assholes about my life?” But then you loosen up because expressing ourselves in tribune is a necessity for us addicts, we need it to free ourselves. The meetings take an hour and a half, and in total, there are seven a day. Sometimes you can stay for the night ones. Those are more for talking about sexual stuff, or if you’ve done something really fucked up, because at night it’s not as big a deal, there aren’t as many guys around. In rehab, we didn’t eat like we ate at home. I mean, no milanesa fried chicken, no chicken in adobo sauce or whatever. We ate potatoes, carrots, squash, eggplant. That’s why when we went to the market, we’d say to the vendors, “Good afternoon, we’ve come from a Drug Addicts Anonymous rehabilitation center, and we’re asking for donations of any food products, because we don’t have any institutions supporting us.” Then they’d give us beef liver, whole hearts, cow udder. We’d go back to the rehab center with all of that and the guys who were in the kitchen would chop it all up and cook it. Thanks to that, we could have some nice big pieces of liver with onions, for example. After a certain amount of time, you are allowed to go out and sell cookies or bread. We’d sell it outside of the State of Mexico Churches. They’d give us three little packets of cookies for us to eat, and we’d sell them for fifteen pesos, but that wasn’t enough for us to eat, it was just enough to buy some tortillas, a little ham, a slice of cheese. Then we’d ask for donations in the churches where we sold the cookies, and a lot of people would give us fifty, a hundred pesos, or sometimes they’d buy the products and they wouldn’t take them. So we’d get more money that way, and we’d go eat. I’m going to be honest with you, it’s thanks to what we did at rehab that I got to taste KFC, Burger King, McDonalds, for the first time, because before that I only knew them from the commercials. It wasn’t stealing, because we’d wear ourselves out all day long under the rays of the sun. We’d wait for each Mass to start before going up to the atrium, and we had to say to people, “We come from this place, we’re offering cookies.

Walking the Razor’s Edge

If you’d like to support us, we’re right outside.” Once, they put me in charge of all the sales, and we went into a Sanborns department store like it was nothing. Us sitting there in the VIP café. We had three thousand pesos on us. Everyone did it, even the guys that ran the rehab did it, and always with this look like, “it’s no big deal.”

EDUARDO (speaking from the podium to his “homies” at Narcotics Anonymous) It feels real cool to be here again and see all my homies, seeing as I had to split from the group on account of my disobedience, and try to look for help elsewhere. I felt there was no way around it, but here I am again, thinking, “I better open up.” Without realizing it, I’ve always hurt the people who love me. Because as fast as you can blink, I’d be back to doing drugs. For me it’s been real intense to have to show up in some dark hole with a freakin’ bucket in the middle, a candle, and a shitload of fuckers around you, all of them like, “it’s fine [to do drugs].” At a certain point I forgot about my family, I forgot about holidays, whether it was Christmas Eve or Mother’s Day. There’s this loneliness inside you: Now where do I go? Now what do I do? Coming home and seeing those sad faces, those goddamn faces accusing you, “Motherfucker, you’ve come home fucked up again, güey.” And me all panicked, reeking and drunk off my ass. Sometimes I’d say to my woman, “It’s fine, tomorrow I’m gonna get a job and she’ll calm down,” but inside there’s that voice already, “Go back, güey.” There were times when I’d come to say hi to my padrino, but I wouldn’t stay, because I was freakin’ scared that my woman would be on me, like “What took you so long?” And if I got home late, I’d tell her, “Jeez, I was at work.” I let her manipulate me real bad. I’m probably too dependent. If my woman doesn’t talk to me, I get real bad, I run around like a crazy bastard. But there’s something in me that won’t let me say anything to her, I just listen. Right now when I was listening to the padrino, I was thinking that my wife should listen to what I have to say, because I don’t want to keep biting my tongue, but when she’s bad I wanna run away more than I wanna talk.

GREGORIA I know many women who sell vice. Those señoras have balls like grapefruits. They know beforehand if the asshole police get them, they’ll rape

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them first, then turn them over so they can rot in jail for a few years. But life is hard. They have to put food on the table; they have to walk the edge for their families. God bless all of those girls. Paulina, the girl around the corner who sells vice, she comes to me one day and she says, “Your son’s at my place, Goyita.” “Ay, Paulina, it’s fine, don’t worry.” And then some other damn bimbos from the same vecindad came over to tell me that Lalo was over there, and when I told them I knew where he was, they attacked me and told me to go to the station to sue Paulina, to have the police take her house away. I told them, “You know what, I’m grateful to that bimbo for letting him in. Because if she didn’t, where the hell else would that asshole go?” ’Cause if Lalo doesn’t buy it from her, he’ll buy it from someone else. He likes to go around being a bastard. We can’t put all the blame on the one selling it. I’ve already rehabbed Lalo like fourteen times, and every time that asshole got out, he’d go straight back to Paulina. In the Xochitlán vecindad where Lalo used to go, that’s where the cancer was. They sold vice: drugs, guns, everything. But the police raided the vecindad and the whole damn cancer spread. N ow there’s a shitload of assholes from around here selling drugs in Iztapalapa, Ecatepec, around Neza. That’s what the Chief of Government achieved: before it was just us dealing with the cancer, and now he’s gone and spread it everywhere. I don’t blame anybody; people who likes drugs is gonna buy them. When they were selling in Xochitlán, whoever consumed it would go there to look for it. Now, wherever you turn someone’s selling vice. Those of us who live here in Esperanza see fucked up shit, and we say, “Güey, this world is real fucked up.” You look, you listen, you learn, and you know how to live, but this life is real hard. When I first met you, this place was a slaughterhouse. Now things have calmed down a little, because some of them are dead, others are in jail, others are on the run, hiding so they don’t get arrested. They gotta make more jails, because the bastards won’t fit into the ones they have. Those poor people who get robbed by them. I mean it, it makes me really sad. They work their fingers to the bone and those assholes show up thinking they’re real slick, “Fork it over!” They take their pennies and don’t give a shit about the harm they cause. The police know where vice is being sold, but they don’t give a fuck. Rather they let them keep getting into their vice so there’ll be more muggers around. Why don’t they come get rid of the vice we have around here? Because it’s not in their interest to kill the goose with the golden eggs. Thanks to that, a bunch of güeyes become millionaires. And getting out of this mess would cost them a ball and a half. They learn to live the good life, to have lots of money. Why would they want to back out?

Walking the Razor’s Edge

Never! Instead, they say, “I’m gonna keep walking the razor’s edge.” And in the media, whenever they tell you about somebody who died, they say it was so-and-so, such-and-such, what’s-his-name, or what’s-his-face who killed him, fighting over businesses and territories. It’s not true. Every one of them has his own business. Nobody’s fighting at all. The ones killing people are those vice-ridden assholes who’re up to their eyeballs in drug. They feel like they’re real badasses from Michoacán, and they pull all kinds of bullshit. But that’s a different story.

EDUARDO Delinquents today are youngsters. Thirteen, fourteen years old, and they’re already armed. I mean, they leave school because they wanna look good, they wanna be hip, they wanna be more than everyone else. It’s like a virus we can’t find the cure for. Call it addiction, call it adolescence, call it vandalism, call it corruption: there’s no cure. What good is it if they arrest the big bosses, if there are still little bosses down below? Joy went out of this neighborhood a long time ago. In the old days, you could walk freely, you’d see friends drinking on the corner, peaceful, drinking their beer and listening to music. Not anymore. The joy’s gone out. There’s been so much fighting, so many grudges, so many cops, so many corpses.

MARIO The baby-gang in Esperanza now is real crazy. Unhinged. All of those kids are killers. N obody punches each other out anymore; now they just shoot each other. When I go over there, I just say hello and they say hello back, but I don’t stay, not even for a drink. And then every few minutes the damn patrol cars come by, to see who they can pick up. It’s my ma I worry about. Why did Israel have to buy a house there to pull his shit? A shitload of armed assholes come by to see Israel. Everyone knows he’s there. I’ve told him, “Go somewhere else. You can go work every day doing what you do, but live somewhere else and you’ll sleep real nice. You can go out to the store, to a mall, you’ll be able to walk around the block without trouble.” “No, but I want to take care of my ma,” says my carnal. It’s a double-edged sword, because he’s also attracting assholes by being there. If he wants to take care of my mama, it would be better for them not to see him there. Sure, those crazy fuckers already know that if they cross the line with my ma, for real, I’ll bring

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out the monster and beat the shit out of them. No need for Israel. Plus, a lot of thugs know my mama. After all these years, nobody has ever dared touch her, because the gang itself takes care of her. But some crazy fucker could come around looking for Israel, and I know my mama is gonna get involved for sure, and that could drag the whole family into it to defend her.

The Straight and Narrow GREGORIA My first job was with Don Juanito. After that I did housekeeping at a hotel in the Suite del Parque, in la colonía Roma. After that, I worked as a waitress in a restaurant. I mean, I’ve done everything. I went with my children to sell buñuelos outside the churches when there was a good holiday, like on December 12th or San Juditas Day. Right outside my house, I’d sell tacos all night, with cheese, ground beef, mushrooms, brains, meat, potatoes, beef head, beer. Work comes when it comes. You start doing something and you see how it turns out. A lot of the time, you don’t even know when it occurred to you, when you did it, but you know that you have to make money to take care of your children. You have to work, because life is fast. Mexico is a country where you’re always in a fucking hurry. You get on the subway, you get off the subway. You get onto the bus and you get off real quick again because the driver is in a fucking hurry. You walk fast down the street because if you don’t, the guy behind you is going to step on you, knock you down. Life is always accelerating on you. It’s always saying, “Run faster, I’m catching up.” I don’t want to buy a house or a car, and I don’t want to leave Esperanza either. I have what I deserve and what God wants to give me. Sure, I buy myself whatever I want, when I can. I have my dolls, and my cats, but not because I wanted them; I went and I saw them, and I liked them, and that was it. None of this, “Oh, I want that.” No, no, it’s all on the fly. You’re walking along and you buy a doll, but you’re not thinking about it for fifteen days beforehand. The truth is, I don’t want anything other than to be happy and to not have so many problems. For everything to go back to being peaceful, and everything fall back into place. You aren’t God to go around fixing things. But there are little Gods who can start fixing little things and put them in their place. And if it’s not possible, well, let it be however God wants. But you don’t think about poverty. You don’t realize it, because we’re all fucked. We all concentrate on living life, breaking our backs to put food on the table.

Walking the Razor’s Edge

LUZ I was in a beauty school in Bella Vista. They taught me how to cut hair, and permacology. I mean, how to do perms. The guy who was my teacher went to Europe every year and brought back all the latest trends. It was a really good school. I learned a whole lot. The basic laws of color, for example. When you bleach hair, it comes out orange, but if you want it to be yellow, you have to put in a dye with a blue tint. All the stuff about the color wheel is very complicated, but I got an A because I studied really hard. I got all A’s on all my tests. The degree from the school lets me work with good brands of dyes that require degrees. They’re brands that almost nobody can use, because you have to have a degree, pay taxes, and become an associate for them to supply you. It’s in your interest to have dyes that nobody has, because if my clients see that I dye their hair with some whatever brand, they’ll go home and do it themselves. But if I work with a brand that nobody has, they’re going to come back to me, right? In the future, I’d like to have my beauty parlor on an avenue with lots of people, somewhere where it can be seen. I also want to learn makeup and massage. That’s why I’m taking a course with Patricia and Mariana. When people come for a haircut, we can also offer them makeup and massage, and make more money. It all goes together. One day, my friend Nancy, who went to school with me, calls and says, “Hey güey, let’s go work for a beauty parlor.” I asked, “Where?” “Well, it’s over here.” And we went to work for Bella Vista. They paid us real little, one hundred pesos a day, and they exploit you a lot—we’d work from ten in the morning until eight at night—but you learned. Since what I needed was practice, I stayed for a while. But she left. It wasn’t too long before she called me up again, “Let’s set up a stand.” “Where?” “In La Raza,” because she already knew how to work there. Well, we went, but we didn’t sell hardly any of the knick knacks we had. My friend Nancy has to walk the edge. She’s a widow and she has to break her back for everybody, because she feeds her daughter, her mama, and her grandma. And she has two brothers in jail. She says her husband Jack was a real womanizer, and he beat the shit out of her. She’s missing a chunk of her face, because one day he got pissed and took a key to her. He was killed when she was with him. She told him, “Hang on, let me run down for a quesadilla,” and when she left, she heard blam! blam! blam! and she turned around and they had gunned him down. But first he suffered real bad. He couldn’t die, so they “killed” him at the hospital. Then things went well for her, because he left her two stands. One she lost, because she couldn’t work both of them, but she set the other one up real good. Damn girl was doing real well, she

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had money, but then suddenly the boy who helps her called her up and said, “Guess what, Señora? They got into the warehouse and they stole our whole dolly.” She went from having everything to having nothing. In the end, we went to a different market. It drove me nuts that I didn’t bring home more than thirty pesos after a whole day. We were only in La Raza on Sundays, and even then, nobody was buying knick knacks. Now we’re more focused on doing our thing. I mean, we do extensions on Thursdays, Saturdays, and Sundays. The girl that passed the stand on to us had a lot of clients, but she didn’t know anything about styling. She just did extensions. Nancy and me, on the other hand, we say, “You know what? I’ll put in your extensions, and I’ll also give you a razor cut.” And they say, “Ay güey, well, the cut’s free, right?” So then it catches on, and even if you don’t do many extensions, you charge a nice price. It’s worked for us. Yesterday, I did some highlights there in the street, and seven weaves. I charge 150 per weave. We also do blowouts, and a lot of girls come by for updos. Plus we sell costume jewelry, braids . . . there’s always something to do. It’s good bisnes, because the Chinese downtown sell us the weaves and the costume jewelry for cheap, and we sell them for more. I make like sixteen hundred from just three days a week. When it’s like that, it’s a pleasure to go back to that place. Still, walking sales is a pain in the ass. Plus, it’s hard to live in Esperanza. That’s why I’ve talked to Enrique about leaving, going far from here to somewhere that’s worth it. What holds me back is my mama, and what holds him back is his. We could probably all go, because my mama knows how to work, but I’m sure it’s just as fucked up wherever you go. At least here people know you, they respect you. We don’t bother anybody; we try to live peacefully. Somewhere else, you show up and you don’t know what could happen, or what could happen to your kids, right? So in the meantime, we’ll wait and see if we can get an apartment. We work hard; we get together and we try to be alright. Plus, we spend a lot of time with the kids, with different activities. We teach them, so that even though they live here, they don’t spend their time in the streets. We tell them, “Karla, don’t hang out with the girls around here,” or “Karla, when you come back from school, I don’t want you hanging around downstairs like an asshole.” We try to make them good people, a little different. When I first got here, I would talk with one of the neighbors. Things between us were pretty good. One day, she knocks on my door and she says, “I’ve come to ask you a favor.” I tell her, “Sure, what is it?” “The thing is, my husband is running around with some woman.” “Aha.” “And I told him that you saw that skank come around here.” “Ay no, I

Walking the Razor’s Edge

didn’t see anything like that.” “But tell him that you saw her, that you were here.” And I say, “The thing is, I can’t do that, because if I do, Enrique’s gonna be on me for spying on the neighbors.” Why should I say I saw something I didn’t? I could make up any kind of bullshit, but what if they fuck me up for something that isn’t even my business? So when I’m home, I’m always inside. I go downtown with my mama; I keep her company, and if I’m at home, it’s so I can fold clothes, do laundry, make bracelets. The truth is, I never have any free time. Why should I want somebody like that in my house, criticizing how I live? You have to take care of your own life. I mean, my neighbors know me, they see my mama come by, but since I don’t let them stick their noses in my life, they can’t ask me anything. When they knock, I just open the wooden door and we talk through the metal grate. Not even Nancy is the kind of friend I’d talk to about private things. She’s never been in my house. My mama wasn’t one for friends either. She wouldn’t even let Señora Bertha into her house, and she’s her friend.

PATRICIA I signed up with Luz and Mariana to take a massage course for reducing love handles, sculpting the body with massage and oils. I wanted to learn another trade, something new, something more peaceful. What should I do? Ah, I’ll take a massage course. So one day I went to a friend’s house and I told her son, who had his computer there, “Do me a favor: look up the address of a massage school downtown for me.” He found it and wrote the number down for me. First, they’re giving a course every Tuesday for two months in reductive massage, and then they start a year-long one in other techniques. Desiré says, “Go on Mama, give it your best shot. Then you can take one on cosmetics, and you can open a spa.” And I tell her, “Oh sure, but let me see if I’m any good at it. Let me see how my vibes are, how my hands are.” The teacher gave us the theories, and then he’s going to teach us how to eliminate bad vibes. He says it’s harder for some girls than for others, but they’re going to teach all of us reductive massage, hot stones, wraps, all of that. There are lots of vain people who invest a whole lot of money on makeup, permanent hair removal, tattoos, salon stuff. Why not massage, too? With all the stress in this city, there’s a real need for it. In December, two boys set up shop with their white coats and two little baths, and they started giving massages. Desiré says, “Look, Mama, they even have a line of people waiting.” It’s because people are most stressed in December. You could see they gave real good massages.

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Yesterday, they showed us a massage at school. The teacher put some compressive wraps and a gel on an older lady. He left her like that for half an hour or an hour, and then he gave her a massage. Her waist shrank a centimeter. The truth is, that’s not very much. Your clients are gonna get bored if they just lose one centimeter per session. Imagine, you’d need ten sessions to lose ten centimeters. Clients want things fast. Even for us, the classes are boring, because they repeat a lot and you barely advance. There were about thirty of us who signed up for the course, and I’ll be surprised if there are even ten left by the end. It’s also because the course costs seven hundred pesos a month, and you also have to buy the oils, the creams, gel, wraps, herbal compresses, quartzes, seeds, sand. If you want to start a business, you also need the bed, a chair, one of those electric steamers, a slow cooker, and who knows what else. All of that is expensive. Even just an obsidian rock kit costs thirty-five hundred. Truth is, I can’t afford it, because CD sales are really low right now. I would have liked to go all the way to the module on aligning chakras, but who knows how far I’ll get. We’ve barely started the one on compresses. The other day, I was walking downtown, and there were lots of people giving massages in front of this little church in Loreto. They had their benches or chairs there, and they were shouting, “Relaxing massage, anti-stress massage, thirty pesos!” Truth is, I’m not going to set up a shop to give massages at that price. I’m not going to set myself up in the street like that either. There’s no point running around wasting my time. Plus, people today don’t have the patience for massages. Most women just get surgery. They get lipo, or they get their asses done. It’s not worth it to set up a spa.

MARIANA Ernesto would give me money for my expenses, but he didn’t want me to go to aerobics. So I started working as a cleaning lady at the gym. The owner told me, “Help me out, and that’ll be your monthly payment.” I started cleaning at one gym, and then another one. The idea was to make enough money for my aerobics. The owner taught me how to give massages, too. She had a temazcal steam room where they’d give them, and one day she called me and she said, “Come over, help me with the massages.” We did the massages real nice, with the grease and the rollers. Cleaning and massage ended up being my way of paying for my aerobics. Then I started at the APAC (Association for People with Cerebral Palsy), which is an association for people with cerebral palsy. One of Ernesto’s cousins worked there as a secondary school teacher, and he told her to let

Walking the Razor’s Edge

me know when there was an opening. I started working as an assistant, and I worked there for almost nine years. They just asked me for my secondary school papers, because they’ll teach you themselves, if you want. They paid us fourteen hundred pesos every other week. I mean, it was the minimum, but it was good because they’d give us bonuses for punctuality, and the right to six paid days off, plus your vacations, which were four weeks a year, because they followed the school vacations. At six in the morning, I’d put the water on to shower, and at seven, vámonos, because it took an hour to get to the APAC on the subway. I had to take each group back and forth to the different therapies: physical therapy, hydrotherapy, the place where they taught them trades in Camelias, baking, printing, or to the masseuse or the dentist, things like that. There were several floors with different work areas. I started in the Province Consultant area, and then they moved me to Medical, where I started helping blind people. I saw a lot of things at APAC. For example, the mamas who came to Early Stimulation on rideshares with their big kids, thirteen, fourteen years old and paralyzed, wrapped around them like some kind of shawl. They probably had wheelchairs, but since they couldn’t afford to pay for a car that could fit the chair, or because of how hard it was to bring a wheelchair into the rideshare van, maybe they preferred to bring their children that way. It was really good for me to work at APAC, because they would ask for assistants, for example to go to Cancun. Every center took the kids on vacations to different places, and they’d ask you, “Can you take a kid to such-and-such a place?” “Yes!” And they’d introduce you to the parents, they’d give you whatever you were going to need. But going with them meant being totally responsible for the little person you were taking. You had to take care of them, change their diapers and all of that. But I had a lot of fun. I went to Cancun, Ixtapa, Zihuatanejo, and Puerto Vallarta that way. The association connected us with the DIF (the government bureau of Integrated Family Development), and they’d pick us up when we arrived and arrange all of the places to take the kids. For example, when we went to Cancun, they held a breakfast for us at the Hard Rock Café, and then at night, they held a Noche Mexicana in another restaurant. It’s a shame I had to leave the job after almost nine years, all because of some business with a guy who fell in love with me. The other day I went to Social Security and they told me I only have to work for five more years before I can receive my age-based retirement. That’s why I’m looking for a place where I can get on payroll, where I can get my Social Security deducted. It’s complicated, because if I go work, who’s going to take care of Boris and Jorgito? They’re the two littlest boys I adopted from my daughters, Ines and Alicia. They’d be all

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alone from seven in the morning till five, six in the afternoon. Before, I’d leave them “alone,” because my older children, Inés and Ernesto, would take care of them for me. But they’re not here anymore. I can’t go back to working as an APAC assistant either, because it’s real heavy work. I know how to manage the chairs real well, how to put them together and everything, but they’re really heavy and the ramps are steep. With the kids, there’s no problem, but a lot of them are adults, big ones. There were times it would take four of us to move them from the massage tables to the wheelchairs. I can’t handle that kind of work anymore. N ow I make candles to survive. Before, my mama would give the ones that were already burned to her compadre on Violeta Street. One day she said to me, “I don’t know why the compadrito wants all that trash, and all the glasses.” Well I told her, “How can you think your compadre isn’t using them? He washes the glasses and recycles the wax. He’s making his own candles, and you’re giving him your whole market.” And my mama says to me, “Really? Well if I give them to you, can you make them for me?” So we started to take on all that work of washing them and refilling them. We take out the wax, recycle it, and fill the glasses back up again. We have to buy more wax sometimes as a supplement. The color comes in bags—just a little is enough to dye a whole lot. We’ve been putting out between fifteen and twenty boxes a week for my mama. That’s like three to four hundred candles. We give them to her for cheap, 150 pesos a box. The other ones cost 380. We’re just charging her for the labor, because she gives us the material. It takes a while to make them, because you have to keep an eye on them. We wash the glasses, and Ernesto, my son, fills them with wax, then El Troll puts the wick in, and Boris watches them while the wax dries. That’s how our candle factory works.

EDUARDO I wash cars. It’s all good, as long as you have the willpower to do your little things, go right ahead. And my wife has her sewing machine, and we get by. When we aren’t doing one thing, we’re doing another. At the hardest points, I start wanting to go back to mugging, to go back to worldly things. But I don’t wanna do that anymore. It’s awful to live like that. It’s awful, knowing the cops are looking for you, seeing a patrol car and wanting to run. Now I walk freely, patrol cars go by, “Young man, we need to inspect you.” “Yes sir, go right ahead.” “What’s your name?” “Soand-so.” They inspect me. “You can go now.” “Thank you very much.” And I feel calm about that.

Walking the Razor’s Edge

I see how they go around, my “friends,” who went and mugged a lot of people, and now they have thousands of pesos, or they have phones. But what good does it do them, if they didn’t work for it? They show up and maybe they can eat some tacos on the corner, but they’ll still be hungry. They could even spend five hundred pesos, and they’d still be hungry. I work hard, washing the cars, sweeping. I get back to my poor house, and I’m served dinner and I’m very satisfied, because I’ve got determination, I’ve got willpower. They say that in this life, what you spend is time, money, and effort. Time, in washing my cars, money for my expenses, and effort in saying, “Alright güey, give it your all.” The magic word is action. Faith is action. They say God helps out the dumb fucks, not those who fuck around.

MARIO I don’t wanna keep doing bullshit like that, it really grinds on you. You go out boosting and you can get killed. It has its risks. You get to a point where you think, “No more.” God forbid if something happens to me . . . . I still have two little kids. My other kids are grown now, I even have grandchildren. Imagine how I’d look if I’m still running around acting the fool when I’m an old man? I’m no good for it anymore. What I was able to achieve, I did already. Now I just come to the barrio to see my ma, and then I go pick up payment for my work downtown, but I don’t like being around Esperanza anymore because the last thing I want is problems. I went to live far away, and I try not to get into trouble so my old lady can relax. But I generally keep to myself, like a dog if you like, to avoid that kind of trouble. The few people who do end up with me, they’re with me one hundred percent and they take care of me. Nobody knows where I live now. All the addresses are under someone else’s name. And I try not to get into any trouble where I live now, because what’s the point of having left if I’m gonna be fighting where I am? I do my thing with my family, I walk around, peaceful. I speak to everyone I see, “Good afternoon, señor,” “Good morning,” “Good evening.” I don’t need to be starting shit, as the gang says. I want to have a more peaceful life and apply myself to importing merch from China. I’ll start by smuggling things with no brand name. I’ll send them by plane, because the boats take up to two months, and then customs is a pain in the ass. It didn’t go well last time, the merchandise took forever and there were a lot of problems. But little by little, because I have to learn the ropes first. N ow things are getting more complicated with China. That’s why a lot of people are turning to Belize. But I want to go back to

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China and this time I’m connecting with the Chinese here downtown. They make money anywhere in the world. They’re real hard workers and badasses in business. Like that Chinese girl on the corner of Carmen and Apartado who comes out with a little cart, selling rice and sushi rolls. She’s there the whole day in the sun, she never quits. She sells and sells. But the Chinese are real wary now because the gang around here has screwed them over real nasty. They order merch, and they pay them two, three times, but then for the last payments they fuck them over. The first time I went to China, it was because a friend of mine invited me to go with him to bring back some merchandise. Things were going well for me back then, so I went to see what was up. Over in Hong Kong, a Mexican guy was waiting for me. He took me to the hotel, and from there we went to the offices of his Chinese friend. Then they took me out to eat. The Chinese guy took us by train to Hangzhou, another city in China where everything’s big stores, just like the ones downtown. There was a market for imitation leather, and another one for electronics, another one with just watches, a market for underwear, brassieres, everything. There are these huge buildings where you walk around looking, and you end up spending big bucks. I finished my shopping in two days, and I was there for ten. The rest of the time they took me sightseeing around Hong Kong. That city is real pretty. You know, you’re there and you think you’re in London, because the steering wheel is on the other side and all the buses are two levels, like the red ones in London. The streets are real clean and you don’t see any junky cars. I also went and got a massage at a hotel. These girls with little robes showed us in. They took us to a room with a real big pool first. That’s where the steam room is, with one of those wooden buckets full of salt on the side, and a little pool of icy water. You had to scrub yourself with the salt, go into the steam room, and then take a dunk in the cold-water pool. Then they took you to a kind of refrigerated room. I remember I told the Chinese guy, “This is gonna do me harm.” And he said to me, “Come on. It’s just five minutes.” From there, a fat cabrón gives you a massage and then you go to a room with thermal sand, where they bury you real nice. After half an hour, you go into these pools that have like different waterfalls, and they give you a certain type of massage depending on where you stand. Even under the water, there was a jet so that you could stand there, and it would massage your balls. On the next level, there was a chair just for you, where they cut your fingernails. Manicure, pedicure, all that shit, all while they’re massaging you. They bring you drinks, you throw down a few rounds, and then in the end you go to the “happy ending.”

4 Infidelity

GREGORIA There are a lot of women who come to the altar praying for their husband to come back because he’s gone off to live with someone else; he left them for their sister or their niece. But if your husband leaves you, it’s because he doesn’t love you anymore. Let him go, then! What are you gonna be jealous of? Let him run home. You find yourself some other nest. You don’t wanna have anything you have to force. Sweet God—Diosito— he’ll take care of handing out punishments for being an asshole. The other day, I ran into a boy, who honestly I don’t even know who he is, that’s how many people I see. He had his apartment here, but he went to the United States and he was sending money to his woman. Meanwhile she shacked up with a vice-head and ended up pregnant. She spent every dollar that he sent so she and that cabrón could live together. When he finally comes back, he finds the guy in the apartment and wants to kill him but in the end he just leaves. His eleven-year-old daughter told him all the crap she saw her mama doing with the guys from the block. She told him one day, one of her mama’s shitty friends was gonna rape her and what did the mama do? She went running out to get cozy with who-knows-who. And do you know what, he says to me when he comes over here? “I have two of my daughters with me now, but ay! I still love her [the mother]!” He should’ve said, “I got my two daughters back, the eleven-year-old and the eight-year-old, so now

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I’m really gonna let her have it. I’m gonna sue her and I’m gonna do everything I can to get back the boy she still has.” And then he can have his three kids with him, and life goes on. But no. There are some real jackasses out there, there really are, but this guy is the biggest of them all. Really. If I’d been young and living with a hundred bastards and one of my daughters told me one of them touched her leg? I’d kill the motherfucker. I just can’t wrap my head around that. How is it possible for your daughter to tell you, “Mama, what’s-his-name grabbed me,” and you go on like nothing’s wrong? Another señora who was at the altar comes up and hugs me. She was about to pass out from crying. She says, “I want a candle. He humiliates me.” He doesn’t hit her, but verbally and psychologically he fucks her shit up. “Do you have kids?” “Yeah, a ten-year-old boy.” And I say to her, “Well, what the hell, girl? You’re pretty, you’re young, and here you’re a fuckin’ sob story. Look, you buy sadness, you sell sadness, and you make people sad for you. Look at me, I’m no sob story, not here and not anywhere, and I’m almost seventy years old.” And she gets quiet and I say to her, “Learn to have some shame. No more crying, enough already; you’re driving me up the wall,” and she stopped crying. I say, “All your pain, all your sadness, you’re pushing it onto your son.” “Yes, Señora.” “How can you care more about an asshole who treats you bad than about your son? Look, tell Diosito and the Santa Muerte to help you be smart and stop you from being such a jackass. Tell them to give you strength so you can give all your love to your son. Wake up, girl! Look how pretty you are! Real pretty, real young.” And she hugs me, and she says, “You’re gonna see me come back in good shape.” “Well, get moving! Your son comes first and then you; you’re crying over a pair of stinky balls.” People laugh at what I tell them, but they get it, I mean they react. “Kiss your son and tell him you love him. Everything you’re carrying in your heart, all the love you give to your husband, give it to your son instead. Help him with his homework, ’cause you don’t even give that boy the time of day.” Your children come first, but a lot of women don’t see that, a lot of women say, “My man comes first.” It’s sad. Whoever wants to live with me has gotta keep in mind my kids come before him. And if he wants to leave me, let him leave; I was born naked and alone. It pisses me off that women get beaten. I say, “Ay Diosito, why do they beat us? Why are we allowing ourselves get beaten by these sons of bitches?” How come that ever since we’re little, Mama can’t say a word to us without us brushing her off, “Ay no, not right now, Mama.” But with a son of a bitch you don’t even dare say anything to him, because he’s already beating the crap out of you. I would grab a frying pan and beat his fucking ass and I’d go to the police station and I’d say the son of a bitch

Infidelity

hit me. Or those women where their man’s never touched a hair on their heads, but it’s even worse because he’s psychologically attacking them. Better to beat the crap out of them and not be threatening all the time. Men treat women real bad, but they do it because from the beginning, women accept it: “I don’t like that blouse. Don’t wear that, my love. It makes me jealous; it makes me pissed when men turn to look at you.” If you accept that, you’re fucked, because in a year that little bit turns into a big beating. It goes the other way, too, women who beat their men up. That also happens, because we don’t learn to respect each other. Those women are ballbusters, and the men who let them do it are jackasses. In a marriage, in a relationship, if you’re shacked up, the stupidest thing you can do is tell your man about your past. If things were good for you, if someone beat the shit out of you, if no one gave you a damn thing to eat. Keep quiet. There are good people who can understand it, but there are many who get hung up on that when you fall in love, “How did that other asshole treat you, bitch?! Didn’t he beat the fucking shit out of you? And you’re asking me for what?” Better to say, “We met and we’re gonna start a new life and see what God has to say about it.” If I want to start a relationship off nice, I don’t want to know if you’ve been with a hundred cabrones. What does that matter to us? I swear, never in my life have I told Don Robert anything. I talk to him about when we shacked up, but from there on, for me to say “Ay, you know this one time . . . ” No, even talking like that shows a lack of respect. I remember one Christmas Eve. I called my daughter’s house, when my daughter lived with my son-in-law, her kids’ dad. And a woman picks up, “Hello?” And I say, “Put Mariana on.” She says, “Put Mariana on?” Ernesto takes the phone from her and I say, “Who was that, who answered the phone?” “Ay I don’t know, I think the cables got crossed, Gregoria.” Ay, I felt real bad about that because the phone was in the bedroom. I never told my daughter, until the day he confessed to her. When she came and told me, I told her, “Look, hija, I’m not telling you to leave him or to stay with him, I’m just asking you as a favor: don’t cheat on him. When you want to leave him, leave him. And then sleep with everyone in the world if you want to, but don’t cheat on him. If you stay with him, that’s up to you, but don’t go running around with the neighbor or some guy on the corner. No, hija, don’t do it, you’re gonna get burned.” You want to run around like a skank? Leave him, and then go right ahead. If he doesn’t want to let you leave, you go and you sue him. Now if he comes near you, he knows next time you’re gonna get him thrown in jail. My son-in-law, Ernesto, left Mariana after living together for twentytwo years. He left her because he said he’d discovered true love and he

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went off to live with some other woman. He threw a quinceañera party for that woman’s daughter; he bought her a car; he got her an apartment and he bought her furniture. But one day he gets home and she’s in bed with her old husband. They fought and she emptied out the apartment. She took the car, the furniture, everything, and then she went back to her husband. She still lives with him. Once, long after, Ernesto came to the house to tell me he’d gotten a job, but the boss hadn’t paid him, and he’d had to move to Cancun, and who knows what. And he asks me, “Why do you think things have gone so bad for me?” “Because you’re an asshole! You’re a fucker, and things will always go bad for you.” “Don’t tell me that.” “Damn right! And you’re gonna pay for it.” I never would’ve said anything; I never even talked to him, but he asked. And he didn’t come back. It’s nice, in a relationship, to be together in the good times and the bad. Let them appreciate us, let them accept us as we are, with all our defects, and let us get ahead in all we wanna do. That’s the idea. You get used to someone, you get along, and you say, “That güey revs my engine! I’ll get him in line or I’ll eat him alive!” and that’s it. Fuck love! If you ask me, it doesn’t exist. For example, my daughter Lidia has had a hundred cabrones; has she been in love with all hundred of them? Come on. Passion, sure, passion’s something else. There’s passion in every relationship when it starts. Passion spins you like a top, but love? I don’t know what love is. All that walking around on a pink cloud. I’ll fall off and break my ass. Fuck the cloud! You’ve always gotta be walking on the ground. Plus, there’s no love here. Here it’s just goddamn vice-heads, goddamn muggers, goddamn fuckers. If you want to get tangled up with them, that’s your problem. You’ve never left the shithole, and that’s right where you’re gonna stay. Then you’ll have kids, your future, and they’ll stay right here too, because you never pulled them out. Our world is fucked up and real fast: you have kids, and there’s nothing to eat, you can’t make ends meet, and the cops, they’re arresting people, there’s a bust going down, fuck it all! Before, there was a little more time to go to dances every night and you’d see someone and, “Ah, so-and-so’s here. Well, let’s dance and then we’ll go here or there.” These days, everything’s screwed up. I went, I banged him, or I didn’t, and the next Saturday that güey shows up to the dance with some other bimbo. I mean it was just a “freebie,” you know, a “relax.” You have a friendly fuck and that’s it. If you want, you do it again, and if not, no problem. Then in that “relax,” he starts digging you and, well, you start seeing him. That’s where the mental jackoff starts, “Look, y’know, I like you, I like your vibe, let’s move in together and see if we can make it.” But it’s based on nothing. They tell you, “No, well,

Infidelity

y’know, we’ll split the expenses; let’s look for a little room.” And I say, “Alright, let’s see if we can make it.” But if we don’t make it, it’s everyone for her-fucking-self. If love didn’t show up before, it’s not going to now. Things like that are just what’s convenient. Maybe it’s ’cause we have real bad information about what it’s like to be in love. If when we were girls, somebody’d told us: falling in love is having dreams, painting a pretty picture, a nice future, getting married, having a husband who supports us, having a safe place, a house, wanting a car and sharing so many dreams with our husbands. But no, who taught us that? That, I’ve never heard; nobody explains anything to you, nobody tells you life is nice. You walk and walk and fall down. Get up! And you fall down. Here girlies get pregnant and then they get informed. I had kids really young; I had no time to think about love. If I’d had my first kid at thirty . . . But with this many, you find yourself wanting to strangle them. In the beginning you start feeling close to somebody and that relationship goes as far as you want it to go. Like me with Don Robert. One day he shows up, we look at each other. Then after a while he shows up and says to me, “You know what? Cards on the table.” He tells me we’re gonna move in together and bam! we move in together. After some time went by, I said, “Ay, seems like I never thought I’d be as happy as I am now with Don Robert,” but that’s after you’ve lived a shitty life for so many years. Love is one thing and being grateful is another. I’m very grateful to him; he’s a good cabrón. I’m real used to him, he’s my little rib, part of my life. What would I do without him? A lot of things are wrapped up in that. But is it love? Gratefulness, sure; he’s an honest person, and loyal. Maybe that’s love and I’m on my honeymoon. And my honeymoon’s never over because you always gotta have joy, have happiness. I’m always happy. Problems, I figure out a way to solve them. How? Who knows? When? Who knows, but we’ll figure it out. He’s a real sweetheart to me. I tell him, “I’ll be back in a bit, give me some money.” He never says no or asks me for the change. We trust each other, and we should. If not, we’re fucked. The skanks who come to see the Santa Muerte, a lot of them come over and start flirting with him, “Ay Señor, are you always here?” And me right there, sitting on the bed. It’s enough to wanna grab a gun and put a slug in them, but I don’t say a word. Why? Because I’m smart, because I know the kind of person I have at my side. I know what that’s worth. He lives a peaceful life with me now. Before, his whole life was drinking. I told him, “Look, you’re gonna drink. I don’t drink. Are we gonna split up over that?” We lived together for years, him drinking every day. One day he fell off the altar and he broke both his hands. He really busted his shit up good. I guess he started thinking about it after that, and he cut back little by little. Then he

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had his heart attack and that’s when he quit both smoking and drinking. He drinks now, but nicely, at parties. He doesn’t drink like he used to. A lot of people make excuses about drinking, “Ay, it’s a disease.” How’s it possible for that whole pack of assholes to not drink all week long, but on Saturday and Sunday they get drunk off their fucking asses? That’s not a disease. The guy who gets drunk on Saturday because it’s his favorite vice, is he sick? N o. He likes to drink. That’s a different thing; they like to down their little tequilas, their little beers. They’re Sunday-boys, Saturday-boys. They’re not sick. They have their tricks; they have their vices. The body doesn’t ask for anything. If the body was asking for it, they wouldn’t be able to stop during the week. And when they give it up, it’s not that they’re giving it up for their family, like they always say later. Mario, for example, he gave up his vices because he wanted to. He didn’t give them up for me or anybody else. It’s personal. They give it up because they get tired of going around doing things like that, because they’re fed up with it or they have a lot of problems now. They give it up for themselves. If they were doing it to stop hurting their family, well, they wouldn’t do it. It’s a lie to say it’s for the family. If they really loved their family, they’d value them from the start. But no, they use their family as an excuse; their excuse is their mama doesn’t love them, their excuse is they suffer a lot, their excuse is you love your other son more. I mean, pure lies. There are also those who bring their shitty little friends home with them and there they are, being bastards. If they pulled that with me, I’d tell them, “You can fuck right off, go to someone else’s house to drink. Not here, because my kids are here.” We women have to be sharp. Those are people you don’t even know, people picked up along the way. You don’t know if they’re rapists, murderers, opportunists. And then after everything, all of those men who bring people home, well the jackasses end up losing their women. “Well she went to go live with my compadre, and she’s running around with my friend.” But they bring it on themselves. The bullshit thing couples are doing now is the woman goes and works and the husband stays at home to scratch his balls, to bathe the kids. Fucking idiots! Why? Because the father starts bathing the girls or the boys, the devil gets into him and he fucks them. Their own goddamn father rapes the kids because he’s got the flesh right there. They get into their mental jackoffs and they don’t know what the hell to do with themselves. These days, all the raped kids are getting raped by the asshole father, the grandfather, the uncles. They don’t even have to go out in the street anymore to get raped, they’re screwing them in their own homes. But the girlies wanna go work so they can wear the pants. Fuck those motherfuckers, let their kids get raped!

Infidelity

The other day Luz takes Karla to school and she drops her off with the teacher. So then the principal says, “Señora, don’t leave yet, please come with me.” And they tell her they’re going to give a talk and she has to stay. They bring in all the mamas. A social worker and a doctor want to talk to them about how bad the risk of rape has gotten in Esperanza and all the surrounding areas. They themselves said that ninety-nine percent of the men that do those things are family members: uncles, brothers, fathers, stepfathers, grandfathers. They say that they just had a case here where a four-month-old girl choked to death, and they saw the girl was bleeding from her little throat. The girl had been left with her father and that motherfucker put his member in her. They also talked about a case where another girl was raped in her rectum by her uncle, and he hurt her, too. Another güey raped his three-year-old baby, and the girl started to have a bad smell, and when they took her to the doctor he told them that because that güey had raped her so many times it had affected her little parts. They recommended being very careful, and they said everyone who has computers at home shouldn’t let their children be alone in front of a computer more than ten minutes, because someone can take their picture. I don’t know how, but later the little face of their baby gets put into pornographic movies. And they said if we go to the park, if we’re in the street, to be very careful because there are people going around photographing children, and they make an album out of the photos. And then they take that album and they go show it to someone. He says, “I want that girl,” and then they come after you and steal your kids; they take them away and rape them. And then later they’re found dead and horribly raped. The social worker said, “We called you in here because a lot of this is going on, so be careful.” God save us from a calamity like that!

PATRICIA I’m here all the time, and my merchandise attracts a lot of men. If I were a wolf, well I’d have slept with all of them already. If I did that in my house, everyone would get mad at me. They’d say I was the biggest whore of them all and that it’s wrong, but when Alfredo runs around with some woman or another, or Israel, or Lidia, well then it’s all laughs, partying it up, a-fucking-ok. Every family has its own way of life. Me and my sisters, well, either we’re wolves or we aren’t, but all of us have just one husband. But with this family, there’s never any stability. They don’t even know what it means to have stability, to have a partner. All of Gregoria’s sons are like that. Mario, tell me what he’s like? And Alfredo?

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Him too. Israel, how many hasn’t he moved in with? Mariana, how many have there been with her? Look at Lidia. I think she really believes her lifestyle is alright. Mario’s too much. I always tell him, “Easy, because even though you know us and we’re your sisters-in-law, you’re going to start running after us, too.” And he laughs. He’s had a lot of mistakes. Cristina, his ex, has a sister and Mario was running around with her. He even has two kids with her. He moved her into Mariana’s house, and the chick was living above her house for like two years. Mariana says that when she got there, she already had a baby. Mario went to see her just once a week. He’d bring her money and he’d leave. Later, he wouldn’t even go see her, and Mariana and her husband were feeding her and the kid. When Cristina found out that Mario was running around with her sister, poor thing! Cristina was yellow, she was white, she couldn’t even talk. Another time, when Mario was in jail, Cristina found out on a Tuesday that he was going to get out of prison. She went to see him, and she says there were no kisses, no hugs, no love, nothing. Well, so she goes on the day they’re gonna let him out, that Thursday, and she asks, “And Mario?” And they tell her, “He left already.” He’d already gone off to Guadalajara with some chick he met on the inside. And Cristina also caught him with that chick who’s his wife now, Alba. For a long time, he was with both of them. Alba would tell Mario gossip about Cristina, and he’d go and beat his wife. Really awful. For Cristina, it was really hard. Now Mario lives with that señora. They got married, but he’s running around with another woman anyway. Alba must think she’s in heaven with him, but no, he’s running around with someone else. I think everything we do comes back to us twice as much. Alfredo is calmer, we’ve been together almost thirty years, but by now he must be wanting to swap me out. You think he’s not running around with some woman or another? It’s just that with him, women use him like a disposable diaper. No woman’s dared take him away; there’s no one saying, “I’m gonna keep him.” I would’ve liked it [laughing].

MARIANA Ernesto, my kids’ father, he was a great partner. Real good people. He was sweet to me for seven years. He liked playing basketball. He’d go to some rec center and he’d take little Inés with him. Even I’d go to the games to see how he played. You’d see him with his little jersey on, and his shorts, and it was “Vámonos to the game!” He never got jealous. He wasn’t the jealous type; or at least, for the first seven years

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we were together, he wasn’t the jealous type. Back then he worked as a carpenter with his dad, and in the glass shop. My in-laws had those two workshops, and he worked with them. Later he started working at the Seguro Social, and that’s when things got fucked up. As soon as he started there the love was gone. I remember in the beginning I used to walk him to the bus. The first year he worked the night shift. Right from the beginning he was working in the kitchen, and he’d wear all white, with his chef’s jacket and everything. There was a place where they’d be, and he’d tell me, “Ay, I can’t stand the nurses, they come in and throw themselves at us.” I’d tell him, “Oh sure, ’cause you’re just that hot.” I’ll never forget the time we went to that wedding. There were tables set up, and a couple who were friends of his was there. They were dancing and kissing, very romantic and everything. I thought, “Well she must be his wife or his girlfriend.” And I was calling him El Manco, the One-Armed Man, because he had his whole hand bandaged up. Well, El Manco goes to the bathroom, and when he comes back his hand wasn’t bandaged anymore, and I said to Ernesto, “Hey, his hand isn’t wrapped up anymore, what happened?” Well he’d put on a sling to ask for disability pay, but really there was nothing wrong with him. I said, “You sons of bitches.” When it was almost eight, nine at night, we were drinking and drinking, laughing and laughing, and suddenly I see the lady throw a pack of cigarettes at Ernesto, and he grabs them and puts them in his pocket. I say, “What?” And he says, “N o, nothing.” And then a señor comes up who looked a little older than El Manco, and he sits with the girl. And they start to say hello, “How are you?” Well I was drunk already, and I looked at them and I asked Ernesto, “Hey, what about El Manco? Why is she kissing that señor?” Ernesto says to me, “Shut up, El Manco is her boyfriend.” It turns out the señor who’d arrived was her husband. And they all worked together. That’s how promiscuous the Seguro Social was. There was a lot of free sex going around, everyone with everyone else. Later he took me to a different party, and I saw the same thing again, the same sluttiness. I don’t remember who was getting married or what party it was. Ernesto’s older brother is a musician and he’s always wearing a tuxedo because he plays with a conjunto. So Ernesto borrowed his brother’s tux. And we get to the wedding and he introduces me to a friend, one Señora Arévalo, and her daughters. I’ll never forget that señora’s name. The point is, a girl comes over and she gives him a kiss and everything, and she says, “Hello my love, you look so handsome!” And she even straightened my man’s bowtie. And I just stared at her, but back then I still hadn’t realized all that was going on. Elizabeth was the girl’s name, and she went on and on, “Erne, Erne.” And I saw Señora Arévalo go green, then white, then

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red, and then she said, “Introduce her to your wife, Ernesto. Elizabeth, here’s his wife.” And the girl stares at me and I say, “Ah, nice to meet you.” At that moment, I started to see a lot of things. That was the only time something like that happened to me with him, because I imagine after that he warned them, or they started to know what I looked like and they realized who I was. So I said, “No, I’m not going to go to any more of your parties.” When he’d say, “Let’s go to one,” “Ay no, you go with your lady friends, have fun. It’s better for me to stay here in my home.” But from then on he became incurably jealous. Seems to me that after seeing so much stuff, spending time with so many people and living what he lived in there, he must have said, “Well all women are the same, so this one must be too.” I don’t think I give off the impression of being a whore. I’ve always been very happy, and I like to laugh with people, but that’s it. I’ll go to the butcher and say hello, “Hola, buenas tardes.” Or I’ll go see El Camilo, the guy who sells vegetables, “Hola Camilo,” “How’s it going Señor, how are you?” I’ll even talk to the street dogs, “Hey doggy.” I remember Ernesto used to say to me, “The damn dog isn’t gonna say hello.” But that’s how I am. It’s not that I’m running around with señores, it’s just that I like to be happy. And he was very jealous, he didn’t like me looking anywhere but straight ahead. He didn’t like me going out, and if I went out I had to take all the kids with me. Sometimes I’d run over to the mercado real quick and I’d just bring two of my kids. I’d leave the other two inside with the door locked, and I’d tell them, “Don’t open the door, don’t open up for anyone.” They knew not to answer the phone, because if they answered and I wasn’t there, he’d lay into us. When I got back and the phone was ringing, boom! I’d pick it up quick, “What’s going on? Where were you?” “At the mercado.” And he’d ask them, “And your mother, where was she going and what time did you leave?” The phone would ring all damn day, “How are you, what are you doing?” It was always ringing and ringing. I almost never went to see my mama because I didn’t have the time to go. If we went on the weekends to the Casa 21 where my mother-in-law lived, I couldn’t take a single step away from there because any minute he’d come to see us, come looking for us. Or sometimes when he was working, since the workshop was on Girasoles and he biked everywhere, we’d make it to my mama’s place and sit down with her, and just as my kids were sitting their colitas down in the chairs, he’d come in, “Alright, we’re leaving.” And my mama would always say, “Yes hija, go on, hurry now.” So we’d leave and I hadn’t even gotten to talk to her at all. I was with him for twenty years, but you learn a trick or two. I’d sneak out to go do my aerobics, and then the cleaning at the

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gym. When I got back, I’d say to the kids, “What should we have for dinner, this or that?” They covered for me on a lot of things. Then I started working at the APAC (Association for People with Cerebral Palsy). As a worker there, you had to take these courses on selfesteem, sign language; there were a lot of things there, so you could learn to help people with disabilities. Male and female psychologists taught us the self-esteem classes. Those classes helped me understand a lot of things: how I should be treated, how I should make myself be valued. They go and take you all the way back to the past, they bring your whole childhood out of you and you realize where it comes from, the fact that you accept violence. That’s when I understood why I let myself be treated so bad. It’s a long process, because you’ve been living with violence since you were a kid, and you don’t realize it. I lived through that with my uncle Jorge. He did it, supposedly, so we’d know how to defend ourselves. My mama was a real bruiser too. She was really energetic, had a lot of blows in her, was ready to fuck us up if we were bad. So you grow up with that pattern and when you end up with someone who’s aggressive, well you don’t feel it as much. I was always submissive because I already had all that violence in my blood, I already had the fear. I don’t like to have any trouble. I don’t go out looking for it either and it seems to me that trouble never brings you anything good. Before I started working at the APAC and took that course, I’d think about what I was going to do with my kids if Ernesto wasn’t around anymore, how I was going to afford it. Maybe I could make enough for the gym, but it was a different thing to think about supporting the whole family. Then I said to myself, “N o, man, even if it’s just beans, they’ll have something to eat.” I remember once Ernesto started going through my backpack and I told him, “Leave my things alone.” He started to hit me, and I thought, “That’s it. One day he really is going to kill me.” He attacked me again a second time, but that time I already had it in my head, from that course, that I’m powerful, and we beat the living shit out of each other. He landed some on me and I landed some on him. That time I even grabbed a bottle and I busted it over his head. I was beyond just trying to get a few scratches in. That’s when he said, “I’m leaving. You know what? Let’s take a break, because right now we really are going to hurt each other. Let’s take a year of truce so we can think things over real well.” That’s how we split up. Later came all that crap where they try to win you over, and he’d come see me at work, he’d bring me candy, he’d bring me flowers. Like I was going to want his goddamn flowers. I mean, I told him, “No.” It was over, and I’d already met someone else, El Chino. He treated me different. Must’ve been eight, nine years of sweetness and love; he was

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wonderful. I’d tell him, “I’m going to go to this place or that place,” and he’d always say yes. But then the same thing happened, the jealousy came in again. There are things where you say, how can you go through this again? Back then I was getting up at five in the morning to shower and get ready to go to APAC, and I’d come home real tired at night. I remember we’d get off work and we’d come home together on the metro. Sometimes I’d be sleeping on his shoulder and he’d wake me up, “Mar, Mar.” “What, what happened?” And he’d say, “Do you know that jackass?” And I’d say, “Who?” “That one right there keeps staring at you.” And I’d say, “He must be watching me drool.” And if we were riding standing up, I don’t know where he wanted to put me. He’d jerk me over to him and he’d grab me hard. I’d say, “Let me go.” “Someone’s gonna touch you.” Once he even told me, “If I tell you something, you won’t get mad or offended?” “No.” “Well, it’s not even like you’re that hot, you’re not even that pretty, but there’s something about you that attracts a lot of attention. If I could deflate you, I’d put you in a bubble, I wouldn’t let you out and I’d carry you right here with me always.” My friend Lupita from the APAC told me, “Think hard about whether you wanna move in with him, because he has diabetes. In a few years, you won’t be able to bear him. Mar, my father even used the broomstick to take his jealousy out on my mother. What my mother lived through with him was hell. That disease is the worst thing a man can have.” And I said, “He has diabetes, but I’m going to be with him, I’ll love him my whole life. I’m going to teach him how to live.” And when we had a house ready to move into, in Pantitlán, my mama talked with me, “Are you sure of what you’re about to do? It’s just that Ángel is real jealous.” But I was dead set on it, “Yes, I’m going. I want to be with him.” We got to the house. It was really pretty and everything. And he says to me, “Listen, I’m not going to pick you up at work anymore.” “N o?” “N o, now you’re going to be the lady of the house and you’re not going to go out. You have to wait until I get home.” And I said, “Ok, that’s cool.” Since it was comfortable, a lovely apartment, it had everything. Down the road from the house there was a cultural center that had a gym and I told him, “Ay, baby, I’m going to come here for the aerobics class.” “Sure, baby, sure.” He came home a few days later with a treadmill, with a cardio and all that shit. It was really cool. And I said, “Ay, how nice, wow! Whose is it?” “It’s yours. Now I just have to buy you the stationary bike.” “Why?” “Because you’re going to exercise here, you don’t have any reason to be leaving the house. You can put on the TV, you’ll have everything.” “Well, alright, I won’t go out.” Then I get home one day after picking up my grandson Jorgito from school; I always dropped him off and picked him up, and there was

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Ángel putting a metal grate over the door. He says to me, “You know what? Find a school that’s as close to here as you can.” “Why?” “Because the kid’s going to come home by himself.” I told him, “You’re crazy.” “You can drop him off because I almost always leave here around nine, but you’re not going to pick him up anymore. Jorgito’s going to be the only one who has a key, you’re not going to have a key. He has to come home by himself. The kids are the ones who’ll open the door for you if you need anything. They’re going to take care of you.” When I saw the door, it even had three locks, I thought, “Ay güey! This is how far it’s gone; this is how crazy he’s gotten.” He says, “You’re going to have a refrigerator in here and a pantry; everything will be stocked up. Here, you’re not gonna want for anything. You have no reason to leave.” “Don’t be ridiculous, the store’s right outside the building.” “No, you’re not gonna go out even to the store, so start thinking about what you’re gonna cook, or what you’re gonna want, so I can have all of it delivered weekly.” I thought, “He’s jerking my chain.” He was really meticulous and neat. He’d tell me I was lazy. He’d say, “Don’t you put your feet on the bed, you’ve been wearing sandals.” “So what?” “Get off the bed, go wash your feet and then come back.” He was excessive about keeping things in order. If you moved something from here to there, he’d come and say, “Hey, where is the thing that used to be here?” I mean, he had everything in a certain place, and he knew how he’d left it. He’d call me like forty times a day, “What are you doing?” “I’m here in the house.” “Who are you with?” “I’m with Jorge.” “Put him on so I can say hi.” It was to see if I was really in the house. We’d go out in the street together and I’d always walk with my head down, I never looked around. I didn’t like to look at people, because if they smiled at me and he saw me at that second, that was enough for him to start with, “If you don’t know him, why is he smiling at you? Why is he looking at you? Who is he?” So I chose to put my blinders on and not look anywhere. If we agreed to meet up somewhere, wherever he said, I’d have to be there exactly at the time he told me to. My days were packed, I didn’t even have time to do anything in the morning. I was running around all day, taking care of chores, making lunch, everything. There were times I’d be running late because of something or other, and I’d leave the house running, running. I’d get there half an hour later with my heart pounding because I knew I was late. After a while, I started getting rude. If he said to me, “Well shit, what happened? Your boyfriend wouldn’t let you leave?” I’d answer, “No he wouldn’t, and he kissed me mwah mwah mwah.” He’d get pissed. When I was on the metro, he’d talk to me on the phone the whole way. “Who are you with? I hear voices.” I’d tell him, “Should I pass the phone to

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the señor sitting next to me? Because he’s talking on the phone; I don’t know him, but if you like I’ll introduce myself right now.” And he’d get furious. But it’s what you allow, and what you let slide, because it’d happened to me once before, and I fell back into the same pattern. Finally I said, “I’m not going to live like this. I might have everything, I might have a lot of money, all the luxuries, but no.” It was too much. It was more than I could take. That was it, I left him, the love ran out. When I told him I didn’t want to be with him anymore, oh man! He himself says he spent like five or six months, drinking, drinking. And then he’d call me, “I’m going to kill you; you’re not going to be anyone else’s. Wherever I find you, I’m going to kill you. You’re mine, and no one else’s.” It was an overwhelming violence. Right after that I started seeing El Troll. I left Ángel in June, and in July I started going out with El Troll. His mama was my friend. She was an older lady. She and I used to sell our things across from the Conasupo. She’d cry to me, “Oh my son, wah wah wah!” And I’d cry to her, “Oh, and me, sniff sniff sniff!” I mean, with her I could open up. With my mama, there wasn’t that kind of closeness, because she’d tell me, “You’re a jackass.” I wanted to be comforted, not chewed out. Well, that’s when the señora told me about her son. He’d been separated from his woman for several months, and he’d started drinking hard. He felt like he was dying, like he was having a heart attack, and so he ended up here with his mama, who tried to pick him up. His mama told me, “Thing is, I’ve got him, but he’s in real bad shape.” And I said, “Ay amiga, no need to suffer. You have him now. Tell him he’s gotta quit the drink.” And she said, “He doesn’t want to, he’s a real jackass for that woman.” El Troll’s sister taught dance classes, and I told my friend, “I’m going to sign up to dance, because I don’t know how to dance.” And I signed up. At the same time, he started selling tacos with us, because they’d taken away the taxi he was driving. One day his mama says to me, “Hey, don’t you have a thermos you could lend him?” “Yeah, I have one but it’s at home. I’ll loan it to him after I get out of my dance class.” And here comes El Troll that day, he shows up to the class all nice and clean. I turn around and he says hello to me, “What’s up?” His sister always left some free time at the end of class so we could dance. That day I said to him, “Come here, Señor, don’t you know how to dance?” And he says, “No, my sister’s right over there, and she gets mad real easy.” “So what? I pay her for the class. You come here, you’ve gotta learn to dance, manito.” So I grab El Troll and he throws my hand up even, you know he gets on the floor and he starts to dance. “No, man, this is right up my alley. I’m keeping this one.” We started going out and we became a couple. With Troll, I’ve been harder than with the other two. I let them yell at me, hit me. That doesn’t

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happen with him. Even my son’s told me, “No, Mama, you go too far with that poor Troll.” It’s just that I don’t want it to happen again. Troll is used to being the one who gives the orders in his house. He was raised that way, because his mama sort of made him the man of the house, and he got to decide everything about his life. That’s why I told him, “It’s happened to me twice already; you’re fucked now, because there’s not gonna be a third time.” So with him, I’ve sort of taught him my own way. For example, I wanted to go see a dance hall. My mama was telling me about the Salón de los Ángeles, and I really wanted to go. And I went. Later, at like seven at night, I called El Troll and I asked him if he wanted to come to pick me up. I went out to get him and I asked him, “Hey, did you have enough to pay for the taxi?” “Yeah, I paid already.” “Well come dance a few songs with me, pay the cover.” And we went over to where my aunt and I had been sitting. Man! Dancing and dancing and dancing. And that’s how things are with us. He’s not jealous, he lets me be free. Now my kids’ father is nice when he speaks to me, and I’m nice too. It’s like all that resentment’s been erased. He calls me, “What’s up hija, how are you?” And I tell him, “Good.” I mean, he doesn’t have that rage anymore. I told him once, “I respect your life, and you respect mine, because in the end we have to be near each other at some point because we have the kids. We can’t be tearing each other to pieces.” And now I’ll also hear Ángel [El Chino] ask, “How are you, baby?” And I’ll say, “I’m good. How are you?” “I just called so you could give me your blessing.” “Well alright, go on, hijo, may God be with you, take care.” He’s very close with my grandson Boris, because he raised him, he paid for his school; it was all him. Back then I was Boris’s mama and Ángel was his dad, his carnal, because Boris would call him carnal. Even now it’s like that. Ángel calls me, “How’s Boris? What does he need for school?” “I don’t know, I’ll put him on the phone.” And then he’ll say, “Carnal, they asked me to get this book or that book.” “I’ll meet you at this place at this time.” And he gives him the money. I mean, I don’t ask him to help him, it’s a bond between them.

MARIO I had good luck with the girls. The smell of panties had me acting like a jackass. Chicks from all around would come lookin’ for me. You see how the family says to me, “Cabrón, you have like two hundred kids.” But all in all, there must be like twelve of them, because two of them died real little.

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As a kid I was running around with grown ladies. I had them wrapped around my little finger, the hussies. I was like nineteen, and I was going out with a señora who was like thirty-two. Her name was Eva. That chick really was bad; she was older than me and more experienced. We’d go out to eat wherever and she’d pass me some scratch under the table. She’d give me a little cash; she had me well kept, la Señora Eva. I didn’t have any money, I was broke, so I let her. Back then I was also seeing Vanessa. Her parents were loaded, and they bought her everything. She’d come pick me up in her car. She had a Spirit, I mean one of the cool ones, and she’d pull up right in front of the house in her car. She wanted us to live together, but we couldn’t do it, because I was fuckin’ out of control and she, well she was a homebody, educated, she had a degree and everything, that chick. Later she married some güey, a businessman who had dough. That chick was something else, for real, but she loved me a whole lot. There was also Rosita, who bought me my clothes. And I also had a chick who was in the AFI, the Mexican FBI. She’d come to the barrio dressed all in black, in her uniform. I told her, “Don’t come here like that, cabrona, they’re gonna think I’m squealing on people.” “I don’t give a fuck.” “Well I do.” She was taller than me and I said, “No, this one’s going to get me into trouble.” And we stopped seeing each other. My relationship with Cristina started when I was a kid. I thought she was good and she turned out bad. She wasn’t hot, just horny, because I’ve had hotter chicks. I went nuts for her. Even now I don’t understand why I was with her for so long, because she was a pain in the balls. I don’t know if it was because of the kids. We put up with each other, until we straight-up split. Alba and me started seeing each other before Cristina and me split up, but I don’t know what we were. It was my bullshit as much as hers. It wasn’t till I ended up in jail that she moved out, and damn! She took the kids. She left me because I was a real asshole. Once she came to see me in the slammer and she found out I was in there with some broad who’d come to see me before she did. When I came over, she told me, real pissed and crying, “I’m leaving!” All I said was, “Well, she came to see me. What am I supposed to do?” Since we split up, I can count the times I’ve talked to her on one hand. We always end up fighting, to the point where I tell her, “Enough, go fuck yourself.” When Cristina left with the four kids, I stayed with Alba. Back then we already had the baby, real little. Alfonso was a year old. Alba’s never left me. She’s always loved me a lot, and she’s dead set on staying with me, no matter what. She started on with, “Let’s get married.” I think it got to the point where I said, “Alright, stop nagging, I’ll put in the paperwork.” She still wants to get married in the Church. So fine, no need for all that shit, I’ll marry that cabrona. Just let me get a little something

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together, so we can put on a comida, a fucking awesome party. I’ve been with her for eighteen years. There are times she drives me up the wall. I’ll start drinking and she’ll get on me. I tell her, “Come on, it’s not like I’m coming home, pulling you out of bed, waking the kids up, beating the shit out of everybody, or screaming in the street.” I come home, I eat dinner, and I go to bed, and the next day I get up and let’s all have breakfast. I don’t come home and act like a damn jerk. Alba isn’t jealous. Sometimes I feel like she’s saying, “Well as long as I don’t know about it, I don’t care.” If I want to go out dancing, I tell her, “I’m going with some of the guys.” “Who?” Since she already knows the guys I go dancing with, I tell her, “I’m going with El Oso.” Then I go with a side piece. We leave early and go off to fuck a couple times. Serious shit. And then in the hotel, since I have my shower stuff with me, well I take a shower, so I don’t smell like that little hotel soap. Thanks to Alba, I’ve changed a lot of things. I’ve started liking being at home, because of her, to tell you the truth. Celebrating, being at home with my kids. When we have a little extra dough, we order a pizza or chicken, or we go eat mixiote over there at the tianguis market, and when there’s more dough and I’m in the mood, I’ll pick up some seafood at the Central Market and I’ll make fried shrimp, shrimp cocktail, fried fish. Alfonso sometimes says, “Ay, I don’t wanna go to the tianguis.” “I’m not asking you, güey. I don’t give a fuck, if we have time to get together all four of us, then all four of us are going. When you have your own family, you can do whatever you want, but right now right here, you’re fucked. I’m warning you.” So he goes and then when he’s eating, “See güey? And you didn’t wanna come.” What I want is for them to have good memories. I barely have any memories like that of my old man, and the ones I do have, I keep like treasures in my head. When you have a family, you start thinking about a thing or two. For example, if one day I’m on the street and I see my daughter’s boyfriend fucking around, I’m not going to be the asshole who makes my daughter feel bad. No, instead I’d tell him, “You know what, güey? I don’t give a fuck, just don’t do it near my daughter, so she doesn’t have to know.” If I told my daughter, she’d fight with that motherfucker and he’d leave. So it’s better not to tell her, because in the end, all us men are cabrones. There’s a girl from Guadalajara I was involved with. She came by the altar once with her mama, in November I think. I remember she was wearing pink pants. I was there with my ma and I see her, and I tell her, “You look real pretty, güera.” Later they went inside to talk to my mama, and she turns to look at me and she laughs, checking me out. Then when they were leaving, she asks me, “Hey, do you know where I can get a taxi?” I told her, “I’ll take you.” There I go offering to walk her

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there. She gave me her walkie-talkie number, all really good. Then when I get to the house and my mama asks me, “Where did you go?” I tell her, “I went to drop off la güera. She didn’t know where to get a taxi.” “That motherfucker, how’s she not gonna know if she’s been here a hundred times?” I tell her, “Ah well then she must have liked me, Ma.” And from then on, we started going out. After a while, she told me, “You know what? I’m gonna start dating somebody.” “That’s fine, I only see you once a month. And well, truth is I have a wife; it’s no problem.” Then later she calls me, and she tells me she got married and she puts her husband on the walkie-talkie. He’s over there in the Guadalajara prison, he was extorting from inside. He tells me, “Hello, good afternoon, I’m Ana’s husband.” And from there I started even doing bisnes with him. La güera was loaded. Every time she came by, she had a Hummer and some huge chains on, until I told her, “Take those off. The gang around here’s gonna mug you, hija, ’cause they can see from a mile off you’re not from around here.” I always told her, “I like you a lot, you’re real pretty, cabrona,” and from there I kept kinda puffing her up. But at a certain point I had to tell her, “Look, güera, don’t misunderstand me, but for real, I’ve had chicks as hot as you. Maybe not hotter than you, but as hot, and if I tell you that none of them moved me, don’t you take that the wrong way.” And from there I sorta cut her down to size. Israel, my ma, Don Robert, everybody met her, because she’d come by and then she’d give me a huge hug and my kiss. I never said she was my girlfriend, or that I was seeing her. Later I told la güera, “Look, I don’t know your husband personally, but for real, this is getting to me. We’d better stop, because he gives me his attention, his trust; we’re doing business together and I feel like a real asshole.” Later they separated. I don’t like her anymore. The last time I saw her, I said, “Fuck, she looks like a faggot.” She was a real lovely girl, thin, real put-together, a lovely face, delicious tits, her whole body was lovely, a gorgeous woman, but she started getting injections in her lips, she got fake tits, she got ass implants, she was going to get an implant in her calves. I told her, “You’ve gone and fucked yourself up, mija.” I mean, it didn’t look good: tits out to here with her giant pancake nipples and you look at her back and the giant curve of her ass out to here. It was fucked up. And then you could see the scar where they put in the implants. We’re still friends, she talks to me, she says hi, but I’m not into the güera anymore. I like natural women. They might not have big tits, but they’re natural. If they’re skinny, it doesn’t matter, I know that skinny girls look lovely with their clothes off. And if she’s thick all over, fine, but natural. The kind where you say, “look at how much I’ve got to eat up.” But then there are chicks who’ve had so much surgery, spent so much money,

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and they won’t let you even touch them, “Ay no, it hurts, it’s moving around.” They look good, but they won’t let you play. I’m not jealous with Alba, I know who I married. This is the second round in jail she’s been with me for, and she’s always ready for whatever. However, sometimes I’m jealous with my side girls. They know I’m married, and I tell them, “Alright, we’ll see each other and everything, but tell me honest, are you gonna see other guys? Do you have a husband?” Suddenly the situation is “I’m married, let’s just have fun.” Fuck that, because she’s with her husband. Or there are girls who tell me, “I’m seeing a guy, it’s like this and like that.” “Cool, fine.” But if I find out all of a sudden that she’s running around on the downlow, well, better for me to tell her, “Look, if you’re going to run around like that, it’s better to tell me and I can avoid that shit.” Instead of getting mad, it’s better to say, “I know you have a husband or you’re dating someone, so I’m not pissed.” But at the end of the day you can’t help feeling jealous if you dig the girl and you know she’s with some other guy.

LIDIA My oldest daughter’s father is named Israel. I knew him in grade school, and then we stopped seeing each other. Later I ran into him at a dance and we started dating. I moved in with him; and it didn’t take long for me to get pregnant. I was fifteen. I didn’t have any idea what pregnancy even was. Back then we were living in Cuernavaca with his mama, and one day I come in and I tell her, “Ay, could it be that I’m hungry?” And I remember the señora said, “Why, honey, if you just ate?” “It’s just I feel like my guts are moving around. Could it be from hunger?” She stared at me and then she started to laugh, “You’re crazy. Don’t you think you’re pregnant?” “What do you mean, pregnant?” “Well, that you’re gonna have a baby.” My belly started to grow, and I stopped having my period. Back then, my mama wasn’t talking to me. She was mad at me because I’d left home. When I went into labor, someone went to let her know I was in the hospital. The next day I was crying, “Ay, how can my mama not be here?” I remember I got up, they cleaned me up, they gave me breakfast and I fell asleep. I was half asleep when I felt my mama next to me and I woke up. I asked her, “Why didn’t you come yesterday?” “No, hija, they came to tell me, and I couldn’t leave because of the baby,” because my sister Luz was little then. She picked up my daughter Roxana in her arms and I remember she gave me a real pretty little painting that said, “Congratulations Mama.” And after that we started talking again.

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My daughter’s dad was full of vices. He did a lot of drugs. I left him when my daughter was three months old and went back to my mama. Roxana was about eight months old when I met Carlos, my other three kids’ dad. I met him through a friend. She came looking for me one day and she told me she didn’t have anywhere to stay. I talked to my mama and I moved her into the house. One day Carlos was outside on a motorcycle and my friend started talking to him, “Take me for a ride.” They chatted for a while, they got to know each other, and my friend introduced me to him. We started talking and he invited me for a ride on his motorcycle. Soon we were dating. We’d only been together for two months when he came to talk to my mama. In the beginning she was really annoyed, because she’s always been sort of rude when she talks. She told him “I don’t have anything to talk about with you, goddamn boy.” And he insisted, “Please, give me five minutes. I want to talk with you. I love your daughter and I love the baby too.” When he said, “I love the baby,” my mama stared at him, “Alright, come in.” And they started talking. He told her, “Señora, don’t think that I’m here for your daughter and I’m just going to take her, I’m here for your daughter and for your daughter’s daughter. I want her, baby and all.” We went to live in the Hotel Colombia. He worked for Vamos, a transport company where his dad was the manager. The money he made there was enough to pay for the hotel, for all three of us to eat, for diapers, milk, and whatever the baby needed. He made good money back then. Then I got pregnant with Diana and we moved into his mama’s house. After that, I moved back home, and we lived there for a while. Then the other baby came, Lidia, and then Carlitos. My kids’ dad was good to me, but of course we had our dust-ups, because he was always a real womanizer. But as a husband, in terms of his home, he was always responsible, a homebody, a good father. I think he’s the best one my kids could’ve had. He gave them everything, he humored them on everything. There was never a no; they were never left wanting anything: not a snack, a toy, clothes, a trip. He gave them everything. He gave me everything, too. The fights were because the girls back then were all over him. They’d send him messages, they’d come by the house asking for him, things like that. But as far as him being irresponsible or not providing for us, no, it was never like that. We split up a bunch of times. We’d be apart for a week or a month, two weeks, fifteen days, but never more than that. I’d kick him out, I’d tell him to get the fuck out of my house and he’d go stay with his mama. Then after a while he’d come looking for me. We’d start talking, and he’d come and move back in with me in my grandma’s house. But one day he went to jail. It took me a few months to get the paperwork in so I could go see him, but by then he was already with someone

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else. After that I decided to end my relationship with him definitively, and I stopped going to see him. He did sixteen years in different prisons. He’d call me and we stayed in touch, but we were always fighting, always pissing each other off. We didn’t respect each other anymore. He didn’t come looking for us until he got out. He talked to one of my daughters and to me, and he said, “Give me a chance.” But when he got out, he was married already, and he has a girl the same age as Carlitos with his wife, and a little three-year-old tyke. Plus he has a very aggressive way of being, lots of blows, and I won’t put up with that. My daughters are grown now, we’re old already. It’s better for him to have his life and me to have mine. I met Adán through my friend Yola. She had met a couple of guys who drove combis, the shared taxis and she introduced me to them. I ended up being the girlfriend of one of them, Toño, and she ended up as the girlfriend of the other. We went over to their neighborhood and they introduced us to the gang in their barrio, and Adán was one of them. We went to all the dances together, all the parties. Then Toño started dating Adán’s sister. I didn’t know, but like five months after I figured it out. I’ve never known how to hold anything back, and I threw everything in his face. I gave him a chance and he blew it. So the second time I found out that it was her he was really dating, I said, “Bye, see you around,” and it was over. But that’s where the third wheel came in. Adán said to me, “Are you the other woman or is my sister the other woman?” Because on the one hand he was hurting for his sister, but on the other he didn’t know which of the two of us was getting played. I told him, “I don’t care either way. As far as I’m concerned, it’s over.” “You sure?” “Yeah.” “Well, if you’re not seeing him anymore, what do you say if we go out?” “Yeah, sounds like a home run to me.” And that’s how I got tangled up with Adán. He was always a thug, a boozer, a rat. He’d beat the shit out of everybody. To this day I’ve never seen anyone land a punch on him. I liked him a lot, because that güey was a real badass. I mean, I liked him because he didn’t let anyone push him around. Men like that have always caught my eye. In the beginning everything was real cool. He was good people, peaceful, quiet. He never hit me. Just once because I was cursing him out, he went to hit me on the back, but he just barely got me and with just his finger he left a little bruise. All you could see was a little spot. But beyond that, for me to say he kicked me, he grabbed me by the hair, he slapped me, well no. On the other hand, I slapped him in the face more than once and he never slapped me back. He’d push me up against the wall and he’d say, “Motherfucker, nobody has ever touched me, and you, bitch, you hit me.” He was even crying from rage, and I said, “Hit me, asshole, hit me! Come on, fucker!” He pushed me up against the wall. But he never hit me.

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After a while he started to change because of his jealousy. He lost his mind. I don’t know what happened to him, but he really changed a lot. He wouldn’t let anyone say hello to me, not even “hi,” much less for someone to come kiss me hello on the cheek or shake my hand. He’d say, “No güey, don’t even say hello to her, I don’t like people talking to my woman,” real rude. His jealousy was sick. He was happy for me not to do laundry or iron, or do anything, as long as I didn’t go out. I’d go downtown with my mama and he’d fight with me: why did I take so long, who had I gone to see and who was I with and things like that. I made up my mind to leave him so many times, but my hands were tied, because he always told me, “You leave, and your brothers will pay for it.” Because he knew what they did, how they made their money, and he had family in the Federales and the Judicial Police. My mama always told me, “You’re a real jackass. You don’t get it. Why don’t you tell him to fuck off?” But back then I couldn’t tell my mama that her sons’ lives or freedom were in danger if I left him. I couldn’t even tell her why I was with him. I went two, three, four months without seeing her, locked in with him so he’d forget more or less, and then I could come back here again. And my brothers didn’t know either. They still don’t. There were a lot of things I kept to myself because I thought telling my mama or telling my brothers would mean throwing them in to fight with him. It would mean exposing them too. It was like that for years, and they always were on me about why wouldn’t I leave him. I was afraid of him, but my family didn’t know. I went to Tijuana because a narco who had power and who I’d dated was looking for me. He threatened to kill Adán and me. We left overnight. I couldn’t even say goodbye because I didn’t know I was leaving. Adán came home at ten at night and he told me, “You have to be at the airport at six a.m. because your flight leaves at eight.” “What?” “You have to go to Tijuana, I’ll meet you there tomorrow because there are some things I have to take care of.” “No, I’m not leaving.” “You’re leaving and that’s it.” I just left a letter for my kids, and I went. I told them I was going for work, that I was going to be in contact with them and if everything went well, I’d come for them soon, but for them to hang tight and wait for me for a little. My mama was a little annoyed, but when I told her why she told me, “Alright, you know what you’re doing. God be with you, just think about your kids.” I landed in a city I didn’t know. I had no family, no friends. On my way out of the airport, like one hundred meters away on the highway, there was a girl someone had thrown out of a truck. In Tijuana, the thing is there’re a lot of companies where girls work assembling lightbulbs, stereos, all that kind of stuff. And they told me when the girls come out

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of work, they get pulled into trucks and taken away. A lot of them are found in ditches or thrown on the highway, dead already, like the one I saw. Every day you’d hear the girl upstairs was kidnapped, and the girl downstairs got taken. I lived four years in fear, not being able to go out alone. I was always locked up. Plus, Adán wouldn’t let me leave, or work, and I couldn’t work anyways because I didn’t even bring papers with me. Adán worked as a cop and only after he got home could we go out. I spent all day crying, sleeping, because I felt alone, I didn’t have anybody to talk to. When I was able to call, it was because I had enough money for my phonecard, and I’d dial up my mama or my friend Chata. I lost a lot of weight. Those were years of being locked in all the time, depressed all the time. In the end we came back to Mexico City and broke up. In the beginning when we split up, Adán would call me to piss me off, he’d send me fucked up messages, curses and everything. It got to a point where I said, “You know what? Kill me, do whatever you want. I’m going to run around like a slut anyway, with whoever I want.” I hung up and changed my number. He got my number again, and we talked, and that was it. Now he calls me, “What’s up, Flaquita? How are you?” “Good, güey, and you?” “Good.” “Ah, that’s good Chaparro, take care of yourself, work hard, God bless you.” Sometimes he calls me up and he says, “Guess what? Where are you?” “Why, what’s up?” “No, it’s just that I’m in the neighborhood here in Esperanza, I’m outside your house.” “Híjole, guess what? I’m living in Puebla,” or I tell him I moved to Oaxaca or I’m in Toluca. I mean I always tell him that shit even if I’m home. Now I’m going out with Mario. He has a wife and a family. It’s just a break, just having fun. Just “what’s up? I want to see you.” “Yeah, okay.” “I’ll take you out to dinner.” “Sure.” “I’ll meet you at such-and-such a place, or I’ll pick you up at home.” We don’t see each other very often. Truth is I don’t want real stable relationships. As long as there’s passion, I’ll be there, but I don’t see myself doing the day-to-day with someone anymore. I feel like if I did have a relationship, it’d be with more respect, more trust, more security. But for me to get together with someone again, or to get married? God forbid. I’d rather be alone.

EDUARDO I fell in love with Esther, my oldest son Aarón’s mama, at the age of sixteen. When I saw her for the first time, she had such an impact on me. I mean, a slim girl, refined, long curly hair. She really caught my eye and I said, “I like that woman, and I want to go out with her.” And I man-

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aged to. I lasted a week as her boyfriend, and then, I went all in. That’s how much love was lacking in my life, how much I needed someone who would love me: I moved in with her without even knowing her, without knowing what she was like. We started living with my mama, and I didn’t care if her opinion was positive or negative. My mama told me, “It’s your decision. I’m not going to get involved. Live with her or leave her.” I said, “I’ll live with her.” She’d been involved with several thugs but that didn’t matter to me. In the beginning it was good, but it changed when I found out that she was still seeing her old boyfriend, even though she was living with me. Once, she didn’t come home and I said to her, “Alright, what’s up, what’s this about? I found out this and this.” She told me it wasn’t true. It was always for a long time: no, no, no. When that girl left, it hurt me a lot because up to that point she was the only person where I could say, “She’s with me because she loves me.” After I split up with Esther, I found out that aside from running around with her old boyfriend, she went out with friends of mine, and she even went out with my brother Alfredo. I fell in love with her and she destroyed me. After that, nothing mattered to me. Drinking, whores, drugs, dancing. When I got together with my current wife, it was out of loneliness, not because I was in love. I met her once when I went to buy marijuana over in Alcatráz. I went up the stairs and I saw her sitting there crying, and I stared at her. Seeing her cry caught my eye and I asked her, “Why are you crying?” She started to detail part of what was hurting her. I mean she was just as lonely as me. Her loneliness and my loneliness became one and I started going out with her. I lasted a week as her boyfriend too. When I started living with my wife, we stayed in hotels. We’d always bring a bag with us with a loofah, soap, shampoo. We had one of those electric grills that we’d bring with us too, and a comforter. There was a hotel downtown that’s a warehouse now, where we used to sleep at night. The roaches would crawl right over you, I mean the nastiest place, and my wife put up with it. She had deep pain, just like me. I messed around on her, but it’s just that we’ve always been sort of lucky with the ladies. Like my mama says, “You’re lucky those whores pay attention to you, you sons of bitches.” I don’t know if it’s charisma, I don’t know if it’s fame, I don’t know if we’re handsome, but it’s always been like that. Women are real pretty and even prettier when they’re naked, so you forget you have one waiting for you. There was love, but it was a selfish love where you say, “Yeah, I love you, but wait here for me, I’ll be back in a bit.” Once, they told me in Narcotics Anonymous, “For once in your life, güey, be faithful. But not faithful to your wife, be faithful to yourself.” And I’m trying to do that now, but it’s hard for me

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not to answer my phone, it’s hard for me not to send a text. We’re like that, we’ve never known how to respect the wife we have. Once I started going out with a girl who lives on the corner of Alcatraz and Camelias. Her brother went to school with me. She’d sneak out from her mama and we’d go to the Seúl Hotel on Tranvía. I was with that girl for two years. In the beginning it was just passion, but with time feelings began to emerge. She fell in love with me and she’d cry for me. I remember I was having problems with my wife and we were about to split up. I talked about it with her, but I never told her, “If we split up, I’ll live with you.” She took it that way and lived an illusion. I made her suffer so much. I’d tell her, “You know what? Look, not to be a jerk or anything, our intimate encounters are cool, because they’re cool, but that’s it.” And time has passed and I’ve had to recognize as a man that I hurt her, I did her harm. I still run into her and she comes back with the same intent. Back then I lived with my wife and I was also running around with another girl downtown. I’ve done the same thing to my wife that Aaron’s mama did to me. I took it out on her real fucking bad. How is my wife to blame for what other people did to me? She’s real hurt. There have been times where in real heated arguments, she drags out my whole repertoire, but that’s what I’ve provoked. Now after fourteen years, I realize that I love her and that everything I do isn’t for me, it’s to preserve my marriage, because I love my woman more and more every day. It’s cool to realize she loves me, and I love her. Love is when a feeling grows in you that makes you want to protect and take care of something you have. When you start hurting because of something you’re about to lose, you realize that you’re not an insensitive person. There are limits too, and you can see it easily, because when you know beforehand that you love someone, but that person is harmful, you say, “No, that’s enough.” But when you realize that love is cool, and that it’s probably going to be difficult because of all the problems, but that the person you love is going to love you back, you say, “This is my shit,” and you hold on. My mama says, “Even when they tell you to fuck off, there you are like a jackass.” Well that’s the kind of love that really counts. I have a son with my wife, and I realize how much my wife loves her family, loves her home. You might have a chick come up to you and in the moment you say, “Hell yeah, güey,” but you’ve already seen the difference between what love is and what sex is. I say, “I’ll stick with love.” Because sex is a release, it’s all, “Alright, yeah, right on, boom, get dressed, let’s go already.” And on the other side, lying in bed and having your woman lie next to you and kissing her and telling her, “I love you a lot, baby,” that’s having something cool. That’s what we’re all looking for.

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LIDIA on ISRAEL Giovanna was Israel’s first woman. That güey made off with her right on the night of her quinceañera party, and he went to live with her in my mama’s house. There was the party, the cake, and everything, but that bitch had already left with Israel. From that night, they had Amairani. When he was living with Giovanna, he had a kid with Sol, who everybody calls La Cachetes, Ms. Cheeky. Then he left La Cachetes for Elizabeth, who he has two kids with. He left Elizabeth and he got together with Marta, who’s the only woman he married. With her, he has a girl; she’s big now. They split up, but they never got divorced. She’s still waiting for him. She goes to see him, she brings the girl; they go out to eat, she asks him for money for school supplies. They’re good friends, and I think every once in a while, they go off to “chaca chaca.” She hasn’t gotten together with any other cabrones because she says Israel is the love of her life. What a jackass! With so many men in the world, to be waiting on that beer-bellied fat-ass. Anyway, after Marta he got back together with Elizabeth, and then he was with Yolanda, who he had another kid with, and then he left Yolanda for Azucena. They all know one another and they’d be happy to beat the shit out of each other for him. The latest fight was between Elizabeth and Yolanda. All of them gang up on Elizabeth, because Elizabeth’s always been his go-to girl. Giovanna went after Elizabeth. La Cachetes went to start shit with Elizabeth, Marta went after her too. He was with all of them but he’d always go back to Elizabeth. He was more attached to her. He’d even call her up when he was with this last bitch, Azucena, and I heard him say, “Elizabeth, I love you negrita,” and he was crying, “The thing is I want to be with you, I love you.” “Israel, but the thing is you’re with someone else.” “Yeah, but I love you, negra.” It’s that she helped him a lot when he was doing the thug thing, she pulled him up. He was always going too far, lying in the street, all stupid, and she’d go find him, and pick him up, and take him home. She’d say to my mama, “I’ve brought you Israel, Señora.” “Thanks girlie.” “Yes Señora. I’m going now, I’ll leave him with you, god forbid something should happen to him in the street.” And all that, when he was running around with other women. But she was always battling on. Even now, whenever something happens to Israel, she always comes running to the house, “What happened to your brother, manita? I’ve been looking for you, I didn’t want to ask your mama because she looked really freaked out.” Always looking out for Israel.

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GREGORIA on ISRAEL As a kid, Israel was always with Señora Guadalupe here in Alcatráz; he’d go sell buñuelos with her. He was washing cars at the fairs, and she’d sell sweets. Israel even says she’s his mama. When he was living with Elizabeth, Guadalupe’s son died, and we told Israel. It hurt him a lot, I think he was really upset. Anyways, the point is that he stayed with her all night at her son’s wake, and the next day when he gets home, his wife Elizabeth was real mad because she didn’t even know where he’d been. And she says to him, “Go to your mama’s house! Go on, fucking son of a bitch!” He says to her, “You’ve got it wrong, I was at the wake.” “What wake?! Fucking bullshit! Fuck you, you son of a bitch!” Well, Israel left, and then he called me on the phone, and he said, “You know what, Mama? Go get my things, bring everything.” “Why?” And he told me the whole story. Well I went for his things and she says to me, “Ay, Israel got mad, Señora.” I told her, “Yeah manita, but you know what, I’m his mama, and you called him a son of a bitch. The last thing you should have done in this life is call my son a son of a bitch, because if there’s anyone he hurts for, it’s for me, manita, more than all the whores he has.” “But the thing is I regret it now.” “Well that’s too bad.” He didn’t go back to her, and the baby was a newborn. No fucking bitch is going to call me a bitch.

MARIANA on ISRAEL Israel came to live at my house for a while, with Yolanda. I remember she was telling me how she’d put lip gloss on, the kind that has glitter in it, so that when Israel got home to Elizabeth, she’d see him all stained. But when she was here, well he started running around with Azucena, I think he even had her living with him over there. Well it turns out that Yolanda started to find little hotel soaps in the car, or Azucena also left glitter on Israel, and Yolanda said he even had hickies. Some real brawls went down over here, some real good screaming matches. I just heard them. I didn’t get involved, I just said, “They’re fighting again.” It was their life. They were living here, but they had their own room. I’d step aside; I didn’t want to know anything. And then the next day she’d tell me, “Your goddamn brother this and that,” and she’d come complaining to me. So I’d tell her, “Ay honey. Let’s be honest, mija, don’t you remember putting glitter on your lips to mark-up Israel? Well you’re getting

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a taste of your own medicine. What you used to do before, someone’s doing to you now. What are you complaining about?” That’s when she went and got pregnant, because Israel was already head over heels, totally in love with that goddamn shorty he’s with now.

MARIO on ISRAEL Azucena, the wife Israel has now, drives me up the wall. She’s a mess. When she was little, her parents didn’t pay any attention to her and she was running around real bad, pulling bottles out of the trash, real grimy and lit up. She had a real fucked up past. Her sister has her oldest son. She gave him away. And the other little boy, the baby, the one from some other güey, Israel has him now. This guy’s the one who helped her out, but as they say, “when you’ve got nothing and you get something, your mind takes a thumping.” She really is a dirty whore. Once or twice, I saw how men would drop her off at night, when Israel had to go into hiding. Two, three cars came to drop her off at five, six in the morning. Once we were going to go to Chalma, leaving late Saturday night to get there at dawn on Sunday. I got there at like five-thirty in the morning and she was just coming home. She got out of the car and went in. Even Don Robert saw her that day. At that time of night, where are you going? Where are you coming from? What’s up with that? But that’s my carnal’s problem. I’m glad he’s happy with her now. Maybe she’s stopped whoring around, but she really was a slut. My mama doesn’t say anything because she knows that when that güey is in love, you lose him. He’s been with this one for a while but wait till he finds another chick he likes. That’s what my carnal is like, he falls in love, the love runs out, and he tells them to fuck off.

LIDIA on ISRAEL I’ve never hated anyone in my life as much as I hate that bitch Azucena, whose fault it is that I don’t talk to my brother anymore. On account of her I fought with Israel and to me, if she dies, all the better. I’m real bitter and I can’t forgive. One day her sister, Anilú was fighting with Adán, something about a dog, and I say to her, “Come on, Anilú, how are you gonna get into it over a dog?” Azucena comes out and starts swearing at me and sayin’ who knows what kind of bullshit about Adán. I tell her, “Listen, you don’t even know about this, this isn’t your problem or mine.” But then she starts screaming at me real nasty, “You’re just pissed

Infidelity

’cause I’m the one who’s got Israel.” Ay, she shouldn’t have said that. Right there I thought, “Now this motherfucker’s gonna see,” and I told her, “It’s not that you’ve got him, mana, it’s that you put a spell on him, bitch!” and I start telling her everything her niece’d told me about the spell she put on Israel to trap him. Azucena there, speechless. And from there we got into it, grabbing onto each other. Israel didn’t intervene, or rather, he defended her. That’s where I got really pissed and I told my brother, “You can go fuck yourself, ’cause to me you’re dead and buried, dog.” We haven’t spoken since that day. I’d see him from far off and say, “Ay, there’s my brother. God be with him.” He’d stare at me and he seemed to be at the point of calling out to me, “Carnala!” or wanting to hug me and tell me, “Don’t be an asshole, sister, I love you.” But I’d turn away. Inside I’d feel real awful, because I love my carnal [brother] a lot. Now I feel really bad, too much, but he gave more for her than for me, and me, I would’ve given more for him than for Adán. On the day of Israel’s birthday, she went to tell my sister Luz, Mariana, and my mama that she wanted to talk to me to apologize. Fuck that! I don’t want her near me, ’cause I’ll scratch her face off, ’cause I fought with Israel like this on account of her. And now, thinking how he can’t come to me, well it tears my heart in two. It’s not the same just hearing about him once in a while as seeing him at least, knowing he’s there, even if I’m not gonna hug him or caress his face like before. I can’t do any of that, even though I want to. I don’t show it to anybody, ‘cause I’m not about to cry for him, like I am right now. In front of my mama or in front of Luz? No. I’d rather be alone or with my daughter. I tell her, “Your uncle kept trying to catch my eye, and he’d laugh like this and I’d turn away, and he crouched down and was sad.” And even so, I still thought, “Let that do him right. Let him feel like shit.”

LUZ I’ve never wanted to get married. I pay attention to everything; I’m real observant. For example, when my sister Lidia was living with her husband, they’d fight real nasty. One day we went to Chapultepec, and they started getting into it. He hit her, he kicked her, and she pulled out a knife and put it to his throat. I was like, what the fuck! There’re things that mark you. So me, well I said, “Fuck that! That’s what you get married for? Better to not get married.” Enrique never said to me, “Let’s get married,” and I never said it to him. One fine day I thought, “Fuck yeah, I’ll move in with Enrique.” My mama told me it was ok, that she respected me, and I moved out.

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GREGORIA on LUZ When Luz was little she never talked to me about getting married. I’d ask her, “When are you going to get married?” And she’d answer, “Who told you I’m going to get married, Mama? I don’t need papers to have a man. One day I’ll shack up.” So when my daughter was all grown up, one day she comes up to me and she says, “Mama, you know what? Enrique rented an apartment, and I’m going to move in with him.” I said, “Ay, that’s great mija, God be with you.” But I felt like I was dying, I wanted to tear my hair out, I wanted to kill myself. It hurt me a lot. I never thought she’d leave me. I thought she’d get knocked up, but I never thought she’d leave. I cried for a while, but then I got used to it.

LUZ When I was young and beautiful, I was real wild. I had many boyfriends, and I ran around with guys who sold vice. Even though I ran around with them or I went dancing with them, in my mind I saw myself real different. I wanted a good life, even if it was a simple one, not a life of catastrophes, worrying if he’s going to get arrested or killed. I always said, “I don’t want to move in with one of these grimy bastards.” I always focused on someone who was a good person. Not rich, but hardworking. Enrique, well he’s got that down. When I met him, I said, “Alright, this is the fucker.” One day Enrique says to me, “What if I tell Israel to give me a job doing security?” I told him, “No, better stick to sweeping,” because he sweeps the street with me. “You’re not going to pull me into that bullshit, Enrique, because I didn’t move in with a drug-dealing güey.” I don’t like infidelity at all. All that about cheating on your woman seems real ugly to me, real disloyal. I tell Enrique, “I could cheat on you whenever I wanted, but I definitely don’t want to. I think that’d be fucked up to do something like that to you.” I mean maybe I’ll show up and I’ll tell you, “Let’s break up because I want to sleep around,” but cheating . . . I think that’s the most asshole move, even if it’s because you’re grateful. And I’ve told him, “The day you want to leave me, güey, come right out and say it; don’t cheat on me.” I’d rather he say, “You know what, güey? I’m itchin’ for a new piece of tail, she’s younger and hotter than you.” Let him leave me straight up, not cheat on me or make me catch him. I wouldn’t ask for anything; I definitely feel I’m capable of being without him.

5 Earning Respect by Fucking Shit Up

Since We Were Kids MARIANA I’ll never forget that time the gang from Casa 21 went at it with the gang from Orquídea. My mama wasn’t there. I don’t think my grandma was there either; there were no adults in the vecindad. All of a sudden the guys from Casa 21 come pouring in and start busting shit up with these crowbars they had. Back then, we lived all the way at the back of the vecindad, in number 10. So I start hearing noises, and I go out to look. I see them smashing everything to pieces and I run back inside and get all the kids under the bed. Mario was there, and Eduardo, and Lidia. Everyone. I put a bar across the door so they wouldn’t get in, and I gave a knife to Alfredo, who was the biggest. I had him stand on one side, and I stood on the other with a knife too. We were real little. I must’ve been twelve; the rest were younger. “The first one who comes in, we’ll kill him,” I told Alfredo. “Ok, manita. Ok.” They came and broke down part of the door, and there we were with the knives in our hands, shaking. They couldn’t get in because my mama’s deadbolt went across the door into the doorframe. Afterwards, we saw how bad they’d fucked up the vecindad. They destroyed a ton of stuff. So then the gang from Orquídea went over to fuck up Casa 21. That vecindad was huge. They smashed in the doors and the windows. They

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did the same thing to them that the other gang had done to us. I remember all the bigger kids showed up and said, “Let’s make some Molotovs.” They lined all us little kids up and they had us fill up the bottles and cap them. How do you like that? Us as terrorists. I think the gang from Casa 21 must’ve gone and apologized, because those bombs stayed right where they were. And there I was, itchin’ for an explosion. But think about how stupid that was: if they’d blown up Casa 21, how many people who had nothing to do with the fighting, or who had lots of little kids like us, would’ve gone up in flames?

LIDIA I made boys respect me. I beat the crap out of them, because if you don’t, they see you getting wasted, laughing, drinking, flirting, and they try to pull some shit with you. I realized that if a woman starts yelling at a cabrón, it stops him cold. It freaks him out. Then you grab them in their five minutes of being a jackass and that’s how you land one on them. And then there’s always someone who’ll get into it with you, who’ll help you. Yeah, I’ve gotten the shit kicked out of me a few times, but then I just get even more pissed and I start looking for how or what I can hit him with. I look for a way to get even, to knock him off his ass: hit him harder, hit him where it hurts. You learn a couple tricks, just like the cabrones do. My uncle Jorge’s always been really really rough in that way, and I have a lot to thank him for. I think my brothers do too, ’cause he’d always tell us, “Don’t go looking for trouble; don’t go around hitting people. But if someone hits you, you hit back. And don’t let them fuck you up, because if you do, I’ll bust your shit up.” He was always saying that. There were times where he’d have us punch a sack. “Don’t close your eyes. Open your eyes, ’cause if you don’t, you’re not gonna see where the sucker punch’s gonna land.” Things like that you pick up along the way. Same thing with my brothers: one of them’d hit me, or the other would, and then I’d know how they were gonna throw a punch the next time, ’cause I’d seen it. That helped me a lot. At the dances with my friends, in the fights in the vecindad, all of that. Obviously, things are different now. Back then, you’d just start throwing punches and everyone would beat the crap out of whoever they could. Now it’s not so easy, y’know. Anybody could pull a gun on you, and I’m not gonna be the jackass who starts punching some asshole with a gun. Now, the smart thing is to try to keep outta trouble. But biting my tongue’s been hard for me. Real hard.

Earning Respect by Fucking Shit Up

MARIO In the barrio there were always real good fights, and I remember my grandma and two, three neighbors going out with sticks and crowbars— whatever they could find—to fuck shit up and defend all us assholes. My ma would get her blows in too. All they’d say was, “Take the kids inside!” and we’d get under the bed or hide in the kitchen. One of the neighbors would stay inside to watch all the kids from the vecindad they’d managed to round up. And there was everyone else, beating the shit out of each other outside: against the Central gang, the Girasoles gang, or the Casa 21 gang. Yeah, we saw all of that. I think that’s why we’re like this. My uncle Jorge was a thug. People used to call his brother and him Hans and Fritz. They were real brawlers. I think they were like Israel and me. But back then it was pure mano a mano, no bullets and shit. When we got beat up, my uncles or my mama would get pissed and yell at us. They must’ve thought, “Here we are, real aggressive, we don’t let anybody lay a finger on us, so what’s wrong with these jackasses?” I imagine it must’ve been around then that they told us, “No, no fuckin’ way, don’t be a jackass. If you don’t beat the shit out of him, I’m going to beat the shit out of you, güey.” Well, we’d go with our tail between our legs to have it out with the other cabrón, even if we got fucked up. ’Cause if we landed a couple a punches, we were safe from the beating my old man or my uncle would’ve laid on us. I remember as a kid, a lotta people got the drop on me, neighbors who made me cry. I remember there was one they called El Barco, the Boat. One day when I was little, I was leaving the house with my ma. I’d just showered and I was wearing like a beige sweater. Well that asshole throws mud all over me, and me, I just went home and cried, I went in and I changed clothes. Then when I was bigger, like seventeen, I beat the shit out of that güey, real pretty. Right there on the corner, right there where he threw that mud, there, I said, “Remember me, fucker?” And he says, “Ah, fuckin’ kid.” And boom! boom! boom! I told him and his friends, “That was then, and this is now, motherfuckers!” My carnal Alfredo is cool, but there was a minute with him, too, where I had to settle the score. When he was a kid, he was real stuck-up and creepy with me. You know he’s high all the time, and back then he was into huffing paint thinner and all that shit, his wild years. So he would beat the crap outta me, and even worse, our ma wouldn’t say shit to him, like she was defending him a lot. When I grew up and started defending myself, I told him he could go fuck himself. I remember I was like eighteen the last time I had a real nasty fight with him, and we

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got into it real brutal. I was ready to even nail him with an ice pick. I shoved it in his face, and I told him, “Last time you’re ever gonna touch me, asshole.” And then he shouted, “We’ll see who kills who!” And I told him, “If that’s how you want it, fucker, but you’re never gonna touch me again.” We didn’t speak to each other for a bunch of years. He wouldn’t come near me and I wouldn’t go near him. Now we just say hello, “Carnal, Alfi.” “What’s up, Mario? How are you, carnal?” Beyond that, we don’t talk. That’s when I started getting my name out. First, they called me Loquillo, Little Madman, and then later they called me El Palacio, Palace. A lot of people still call me El Palacio, but I don’t let ’em say that to me anymore. The last thing I want is for people to know me by a nickname, like Israel; everyone knows him as Six Pack. I play it real straight. The whole gang knows that with me, there’s no bullshit. I’ve always said that you gotta have your word. If you break it, that’s fuckin’ it. I feel like keeping your word is what makes you a good cabrón, it’s what counts the most. With the guys I work with, and there aren’t many of them, I keep my eyes open. I keep track of who I can count on, who I can do a straight deal with or a crooked one, whichever, no? There are guys where you just say, “No, not with that motherfucker, because he’s gonna screw me.” You learn with time. There’re people who pick you up and they lend a hand. And there’s people who are real assholes and envious. Of course, sooner or later, shit goes bad for those ones. Something like that must’ve happened to that guy they knocked off the day before yesterday. What I heard was that he faked his own kidnapping, he said the semis had been jacked. But then he starts selling again, big! All the guys who’d put down the scratch for his merch, well they were fucked, and this guy and the other guys who were with him had their stands all nice and full. That’s why I say, the straighter you fly in barrio business, the better it’s gonna go for you, the more people watch out for you. The last gun I had, I sold a while ago for the same reason, so I wouldn’t be gettin’ into shit. Alba called it “La Mini.” It was real pretty. “I’m heading out, pass me La Mini.” That’s how I’d ask my woman for it. I’ve had more than a few; I’ve even had machine guns. That’s why there’re people who are scared of me. Also ’cause I’m not afraid to lay into the ones who deserve it. For example, once they told me that the husband of my daughter Jesica had pushed her. I’m sure he did more than just push her, right? So I go lookin’ for him and I give him a nice beatdown, the holy remedy. They don’t live together anymore, I think they’re fighting or I don’t know what shit, but that fucker keeps giving her cash, for the kids more than anything. I told my daughter, “If he says something to you,

Earning Respect by Fucking Shit Up

or does something, you tell me.” I know my other daughters’ husbands, too. They see me and they get serious. One of them, Jocelyn’s husband, when they started seeing each other, he thought he was a real bigshot. Then when he started asking around about who I was, he calmed down. Good shit or bad, all my daughters’ husbands know me, and for real, just thinkin’ ’bout doin’ something to my daughters gets their asses quaking, ’cause they know I really will beat the fuckin’ shit out of them. Samanta’s husband is terrified of me. If he sees me, he turns and walks the other way, ’cause I’ve already fucked his shit up before. But don’t go thinkin’ I like fighting; I don’t like that anymore. That’s the bad thing about us, we’ve got a hair trigger. I don’t hold back, not until later when shit’s calmer, when it’s already over. That’s when I start to think about the stupid shit I just did.

LUZ I wish I could get my kids outta here, ’cause the barrio gives you nothin’ but burdens. Other times I think it doesn’t matter, ’cause here you already know the assholes. Plus, if your kids are gonna be cabrones, wherever you take them, they’ll still be cabrones. What the barrio does give you is the balls to say, “Fuck you, motherfucker!” ’cause either you get strong or you get strong. The thing is you spend every day with a lot of people who are bigger badasses than you are, and even though you don’t get into trouble if you don’t want to, it still forges you in fire. I have some friends at school who’ve always had money, I mean even without them saying anything, you can see the money, and they’re so weak, those jackasses. You can go and tell them, “Give me your hairspray,” and you use it all up and you give it back to them empty and they don’t say a word. You use mine up and I’m gonna tell you, “No, what the fuck, asshole, why did you use it all up?” I feel like that’s a big difference between a barrio girl and someone who’s never lived in a barrio. The barrio gives you nothin’ but a fuck-ton of backbone.

The Fight against “The Devils” GREGORIA, MARIANA, LIDIA, LUZ, and ROXANA LIDIA: All of it started ’cause this woman’s son and other kids in the vecindad crossed the line with Diana, my daughter. They were always ganging up on her; they’d pull down her laundry, kick her window. At

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seven in the morning, Diana had her laundry hanging on the line, and the kids, when they were headed to school, they’d play jai alai there and they’d hit Diana’s windows, yank her clothes off the line, and stomp all over ’em. What she’d do was she’d go out, grab the clothes, and wash them again. I mean, she didn’t say anything. ROXANA: They’d even put on her blouses and put the jai alai balls right here in the chichis and run around making fun of her. But the last straw was when those kids hit Diana’s son. Knocked him down and slashed his ball. LIDIA: The one who was always bothering her was Diablo’s nephew. The thing is, the boy’s mama and his grandma are a pair of rag-wavers, the kind that park cars outside. They’re real bruisers. GOYA: The whole family’s like that. LIDIA: And since Diana was livin’ all the way in the back of the vecindad, and they lived right at the front, she had to go through there to leave, no way around it. So then rumor has it that supposedly Irán, Diana’s husband, yelled at the kid, and the kid went and complained to his mama, and she and the grandma went and banged on Diana’s door, said if Diana’s husband thought he was such a badass, how dare he get into it with a kid. Diana asked her husband, “Hey, what did you say to the kid?” and he told her, “No, come on, how can you think I’d get into it with a kid.” Hearing that, the kid’s mama went nuts on Diana, she called her an orphan, she insulted her, a shitload of things. But Diana just kept quiet and walked by. ROXANA: One day my grandma says to me, “Hey, what happened to your sister Diana? It’s been two months since she last came by. Go see her, you’re closer.” So I call her up, “I’m coming over.” “Why?” “We’ll go get breakfast, see if we can do some shopping.” And she says to me, “Ok, if you want.” I thought, “Shoot! Something’s not right.” I go over and knock on her door and I tell her, “Let’s go to the store and we can make some sandwiches. I brought the sandwich press.” She tells me, “You go.” I insisted, “Come on, let’s go.” “Alright, let’s go.” But as soon as we were out the door, I saw how she was turning around, looking over her shoulder everywhere, and I tell her, “What’s wrong? Because you haven’t been by. My grandma sent me to see you.” “No, it’s just that these days I don’t go out at all.” “What, one of the women around here did something to you, or what?” I asked her ’cause I know those broads are real problematic. Even just to turn on the water pump, they wanna charge you twenty pesos, and if you don’t give it to them, they get all up in your face. They think they own this vecindad. And Diana starts crying, “I’ve had it up to here with them, güey.” “Why?” “Well, with my clothes, it’s like this and like that . . .” and she started telling me everything.

Earning Respect by Fucking Shit Up

LIDIA: After that, we went to talk to those women to fix shit. To make a long story short, we worked it all out. The señora wasn’t gonna get into it with Diana, and my daughter wasn’t gonna get into it with them. ROXANA: A week later, I was organizing an outing, and my aunt Luz calls me up, “You know what? We don’t have enough for the bus, we can’t go.” I call up Diana to let her know. Right away she tells me, “Guess what happened to me?” “What?” She starts crying, tellin’ me, “that motherfucker Diablo pulled a gun on me.” I made her explain, hung up, and called my grandma. “What’s wrong?” “Well that asshole Diablo pulled a gun on Diana.” “What?” “I told her, this’s beyond talking, for him to pull a gun on her.” “No, you’re right, let’s go fuck his shit up.” LIDIA: I went to my mama’s house, because it was May 10th, Mother’s Day, and we wanted to celebrate with her. When I get there, I see my ma is real pissed, and I ask Roxana about it. She tells me and I say, “Ah, those motherfuckers, let’s go!” Luz and Mariana were there too, and we all went. MARIANA: When we got there lookin’ for the boy’s mama, she’d already left for work. And my mama shouts to the grandma, “What time does she get back?” “At eight.” “Well at eight I’ll be right here,” Goya tells her. GOYA: At eight on the dot, like I’d said, we walked right into hell, into the Devil’s Lair, like they call that vecindad. LUZ: There we go, all five of us real heavy, right? There were like twenty bitches waiting for us outside the vecindad. I thought, “Holy God, real easy it’s gotten now, like three of them for each of us! But no problem, I can take them,” me real ballsy, right? MARIANA: Yeah, manita, real badass. I said, “I’ll take the kids and keep an eye out from over here,” and I stayed back. ROXANA: And then all of Beto’s aunts and uncles showed up. My uncle Israel was with us too. LUZ: We all went over there. Desiré went and she was pregnant with the little girl, and El Ojón went, and Adriana. LIDIA: While that was happening, this dyke comes up, a real huge ass woman. She corners my mama and my mama asks her, “Are you Ana? The one we’ve got the beef with?” “No, Ana’s my sister.” “Ah, then it doesn’t mean shit to you, step aside!” MARIANA: That bitch’s grandmother and sister were yappin’ right there in my ma’s face and she started to get into it with them. And the grandmother says, “I see you’ve got balls.” “I told you I was coming to slice the shit out of your fucking daughter,” my grandma tells her. LIDIA: We started shouting for Diablo to come down. LUZ: Yeah, we had a little song and everything! “El Diablo’s an asshole, El Diablo’s an asshole!”

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LIDIA: “Pussy! Come down little Diablo, such a pussy!” ROXANA: “Come on down motherfucker! Come on down, asshole!” LIDIA: There we were yelling when the goddamn bimbo Rosita comes out. She starts saying, “Oh, you think you’re such hot shit, but last time you didn’t want to come get your asses kicked, did you?” MARIANA: They shouted at us, but they started running, they all went upstairs. LUZ: She’s the one who started running, and some guy pulled out a gun and fired a shot. LIDIA: Uh-huh, yeah, but it was because I threw the lil’ baseball bat at that goddamn girl, Rosita. We had two bats with us, I had one . . . LUZ: And Mariana had the other one. LIDIA: I throw it at her, and the girl turns and runs, and that’s when that guy let off a shot. We all start runnin’ outta there, only my sister Mariana was still standing there in the vecindad, and my mama [Gregoria] was shoutin’ at her, “Get out!” LUZ: That was when Israel calls the head of the Judicial Police. LIDIA: Diana who was there with us goes over to the car with Irán, her husband. They were getting their stuff out because my mama’d told them, “She’s not gonna come, get your stuff out and let’s go.” But then that bitch came back with more women, and Irán says to Diana, “Bust that asshole’s face in!” The bitch says somethin’ to Diana and they start wailin’ on each other. ROXANA: I think she told Irán to go fuck himself, and Diana says to her, “Don’t you mess with my husband,” and they start to get into it. LIDIA: When I turn around, Diana’s beating the crap outta her and Desiré’s shouting, “Get her! Get her!” One of the other bitches says to Luz, “What, what’s up, let’s fucking go,” and my sister Luz says, “Well alright then.” I said, “Alright! La negra’s throwin’ down!” LUZ: Yeah, I said, “Let’s fuckin’ go, you and me, one on one.” LIDIA: “You’re on, negra,” and I’m standing there, “N obody fucks with us,” and the girl, well she puts her fists up and I think, “Shit, this one knows how to use her fists,” and I said, “Step aside negra, c’mon, move over there.” And I tell the girl, “Better let’s throw down you and me,” and pow! pow! pow! And when I turn around, la negra already had her hands on another one. LUZ: Another cousin came along, Lupita Barrios as they call her. She was our nightmare in grade school. She was in third grade and we were in first, and Lupe was a real motherfucker. Desiré and me were afraid of her. That Lupe had all of us shaking in our boots. ROXANA: I turn around and see that Lupe comin’ in crazy, and my aunt Luz goes and says to her, “Ah, this motherfucker!” and who knows

Earning Respect by Fucking Shit Up

what, and pow! pow! pow! she starts layin’ into her. Ay, Aunt Luz, where did you learn to fight like that? GOYA: In the end, Luz, you settled your score with Lupe. LUZ: Yeah, at that point it was like as soon as someone showed up, you jumped on them. GOYA: Everyone found their dance partner. MARIANA: And my mama [Gregoria] was commandin’ the action, leaning against a tree with her arms crossed, smoking a cigarette. She was controlling it all from there. ROXANA: But like my mama [Lidia] got the worst of it, because when I got over there and I saw my mama in the middle of everything, I go and tell my grandma [Gregoria], “Grandma, break it up!” and my grandma says, “No, let her slice the shit out of her. You head over there.” And the girl my mama was fighting was already passing out, she couldn’t even move. MARIANA: She was wailing on her when she was already out, right? ROXANA: And so I was goin’ from one side to the other to see everybody. I went up to my aunt Luz. No, well there’s my aunt, wham! wham! wham! And I go over and see Diana. She full-out ripped the clothes off that bitch she was tangling with. LUZ: Damn girl had her tits hangin’ out. ROXANA: Another sister shows up and wants to lay into Diana. I told her, “Listen motherfucker, you stay out of this.” And we start to get into it, but while I’m wailing on her, I get slammed right in the back and I shout to Beto, “Fuck, man! Someone hit me!” And then they sic the goddamn dog on me, and it grabs me by the leg of my pants, almost gets its teeth in me. Turns out it had been that pussy Diablo who landed a punch on me and so we said, “My uncle Israel’s gonna mess his face up real nice now,” but no, it was our compadre Enrique who really took the cake. LUZ: Enrique jumps on him. All I heard was Diablo saying, “Calm this shorty down! Look how he’s attacking me! Calm him down!” And there’s Enrique, “Here you go, asshole! Here you go!” ROXANA: He got his hooks in, and Diablo couldn’t get any in. And Enrique said, “You thought you’d mess with my niece, motherfucker? Well you and me are cabrones.” LUZ: And Diablo just said, “Calm down, Shorty! Calm down, Shorty!” He ended up getting into it with Israel, and that’s when my brother Alfredo showed up. LIDIA: Alfredo wanted to control all of us, because he grabbed me saying “Enough, enough carnalita, let’s go, come on, enough.” And I was shouting, “Lemme go, Alfredo! Lemme go!”

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ROXANA: And he says to my grandma, “Gregoria, can’t you tell them to calm down?” LIDIA: Alfredo really ticked me off, because he was dragging me along by the arm like this, and I told him, “Enough, Alfredo, lemme go!” “No, I’m not gonna let you go. Come on, take her away, take her away!” he was saying to my mama. “Let me go already! That’s it, enough! If you grab me again, I’m gonna fuck you up!” and I get away from him and I go over to where Israel and Diablo were gettin’ into it. I come up from behind and boom! I land one on Diablo that makes the bastard double over. “Alright motherfucker!” But Israel was all, “Sister!” I told him, “Sister what, fucker?!” But Diablo, I swear he doubled over just from the sucker punch I landed on him. He told Israel, “Look at her, carnal, calm her down.” Wasn’t he supposed to be the biggest badass? Fuckin’ pussy. ROXANA: Diablo came down when he saw the patrol cars rolling up, he’s no jackass. I think he was hoping someone would help him out. Out of all those asshole police, not one of them stepped in to help him out. Nobody moved. LIDIA: There were also a shitload of guys on the corner, all those guys who move blow over there. LUZ: It was a battle royale. Everyone from the vecindad, everyone from the next one over, from all of the vecindades came out and were cheering at us shouting, “Beat the shit outta them!” GOYA: From behind their window bars and inside the gates of their vecindades, they were shouting, “Give it to ’em, give it to those motherfuckers!” I said, “Yeah, let ’em have it!” MARIANA: The thing is in general, those rag-wavers are real nasty, all of them. LUZ: They’re real rude, right? They’re super rude, super dykes. MARIANA: In the end, they themselves called the cops. LIDIA: A Comandante had already shown up on behalf of Israel’s boss, and another guy who was with the Judicial Police. They were there to arrest Diablo, but those bitches called the cops themselves, and a whole bunch of patrol cars showed up. LUZ: The cops in the patrol cars were yelling at us too, “No, enough, enough! Pull your mother out of there! Don’t get into it anymore.” LIDIA: I told them to go fuck themselves. The thing is there was this bimbo who was shouting who knows what at me and I gave her a little kick and a mazapancillo and she fell right onto the patrol car, “Look, look officer! She’s hitting me.” And the cop says to me, “Enough, señora, let her be.” “Why should I, motherfucker? This is a private party. Who

Earning Respect by Fucking Shit Up

invited you, asshole? N obody asked for mariachis!” and who knows what. In the end I don’t know who was telling me, “Calm down, calm down.” The cop turned around and left. Then we left too. GOYA: After that, seems like they’ve chilled out. I think that’s what they needed: an ass-kicking. ROXANA: They don’t bother Diana anymore. She doesn’t live there anymore, but when they see her, they don’t say a word. LUZ: We have run into Lupe, right? Once my mama, me, and Lidia were walking down Cajinal Street and she was sitting at a stand. I felt someone lookin’ at me and I turned around and saw her like, tryin’ to hide. I told my mama, “She looks familiar.” And my mama turns around and says, “Well it’s that Lupe, the one you beat the shit outta.” ROXANA: They said they were gonna shoot up my grandma’s house, that it was supposedly gonna be their revenge, that we were gonna regret having gone to start shit over in their house. . . . GOYA: But they never came. LIDIA: We pulled some benches outside to sit and wait for ’em. I even had a couple of beers out there. LUZ: It was a one round fight. It was good, got our adrenaline out. MARIANA: Really, it was an honest fight. LIDIA: Yeah, real nice. ROXANA: It was huge. GOYA: It was good. It was like everyone had her own mission. You don’t expect to see everyone busting each other’s shit up. I mean, you see that and you say, “Ay güey!” But it’s good that you all won, that you’re no jackasses. But you know why those other women lost? Because they were sure they were gonna kick your asses. The thing is they’re used to ganging up on people, and here you were fighting them one on one. And there were a lot of them! They could have fucked these girls’ shit up, for real, but not all of them got into it. N ow everything’s calmed down, God bless. MARIANA: And the thing that pissed ’em off the most is that we went over to their territory. GOYA: And you know what the thing was? That everybody knows us. If it wasn’t for that, they really would have fucked us right over and shot us down. Everyone knows them as shit-starters, gang-up girls; they start punching anybody who walks by. They’re real nasty, and we’re not known as fight-starters, we’re known as the women from the altar. And if they don’t know me from the altar, they know me from long before, from other things: ’cause I used to sell tacos, ’cause they’d buy from me and they know what I’m like. So, when those bimbos start lookin’

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for backup and people ask ’em, “Where are we going?” “We’re going to Orquídea.” Everyone says, “No, I don’t want problems there, not there.” ROXANA: They also started running out of steam when people found out that Six Pack is a killer and Mario is a motherfucker and he was running around with so-and-so, and on and on. They started saying, “No, not with them. We’re not gonna get into it with them.” Because those women really do know a lot of people. LIDIA: They went to go ask for backup in Gladiolas, in Nardos, in Magnolias; they asked a bunch of girls I know. In fact, a friend of mine told me, “What’s up, you’ve got beef with the diablas?” She found out because they came to ask her help and she told me that the truth is that all those girls were gonna go with them, because when somebody asks for backup, they go. But when she told them the beef was with us, they told her, “No fuckin’ way! I know that girl Lidia, she’s my homie and I know Six Pack and this girl and that girl. We don’t want beef with them, no. I know them, they’re not gang-up girls.” They went around asking for a lot of help and nobody gave them shit. Everyone was saying, “They even showed up and beat the crap outta the diablas on their own turf.” That’s what hurt them the most, that we went over to their home to beat the crap outta them. MARIANA: That’s what they least expected. LUZ: And we danced real nice that day. It was good, it was delicious. LIDIA: With Comandante Gregoria in the front, everybody against the diablas!

School GREGORIA Desiré, Patricia’s daughter, comes to me and says, “Grandma, I wanna tell you something.” “Sure, hija.” Back then she was hangin’ out with the girls from across the street. She says, “Guess what Lula’s niece told me? That the teacher hit Roxana.” “The teacher?” “Yeah, she threw the eraser at her and she yelled at her.” Well, off I go, real mad. I get there and start yelling at the goddamn bimbo, “Who are you to be hitting her, motherfucker? I raise them and not even I hit ’em. You’re gonna see now,” I tell her, “I’m gonna go over to the Secretary of Public Education, the SEP, and I’m gonna call a patrol car,” and who knows what else I told her. And the teacher answers back real quick, “No, hang on, I’m sorry. I’ve been a teacher for thirty-something years, I’ll lose my job.” “Well, why then did you hit the girl?” I made a huge-ass stink about it. The teacher was beg-

Earning Respect by Fucking Shit Up

gin’ me, “Forgive me.” “No fucking way; ask the girl to forgive you, ’cause she’s the one you hit.” And so she asks Roxana to forgive her, “Forgive me, I swear it’ll never happen again.” And I told Roxana, “When she does that to you again, bust her shit up with whatever you have. Whatever you have, throw it at her.” After that she treated her real nice; she spoiled her, even. I say, if you wanna pull a kid out of the classroom, kick her out, fail her, fine. But you have no right to hit ’em. For example, Aarón is a real pain in the neck and they’re gonna fail him. Well, let them fail him, he’s an idiot, but they’re not gonna lay a finger on him. In August, Lidia “chica” starts school at Telesecundaria, the secondary school where they transmit the lessons through TVs. I pulled her out of school because she played a dirty trick on me; she cut class and snuck off to a friend’s house, real far. Look, you buy them things, you give ’em what you can, and then they come up with this. Thank God and La Santa Muerte I didn’t run into her over there. Beto told me, and well she never used to do that, so it got me real mad. She cut class with a girl who’s a drug addict—Amanta I think she’s called—and they told me El Costas was with them too. “Ah it’s not true, he wasn’t there,” she tells me, but he was. So I told Lidia “chica,” “You’re not going back to school, because there’s no trust now.” What if something happens to her, what then? She’d just started the first year of secondary school. I’d bought her everything for school, I spent my pennies. That’s when I told her, “You know what? You’re dancing with the nastiest woman around.” Now, in the Telesecundaria, she has to catch up. “Don’t be a good-for-nothing,” I told her. And she knows now, when she’s going back to school, the first sign of bullshit, she’s fucked; I’ll pull her out. I’m not gonna put up with her going to school and then suddenly showin’ up with a black eye. She’s been told, “Look, study, for your own sake, for tomorrow. Don’t be a jackass.” I’m gonna die one day and these girls are gonna be flappin’ in the wind, for real. What’s gonna happen to them if they don’t have anything to defend themselves with? They should see that.

ROXANA I’d just started secondary school, real green. A cousin of one of uncle Israel’s wives from back then was with me at the same school, and I’d talk to her. She tells me, “Guess what? That girl hates you.” A girl in the third year who was real big. “But why, if I don’t even know her? I just got here a week ago.” “Well I don’t know, but she says you rub her the wrong way.” She’d see me and send a kick my way, real nasty. I was feeling all sad when I came home. Back then I lived with my aunt Luz and

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my grandma. Luz sees me and she says, “What’s wrong?” “Nothin’,” I tell her. The next day I didn’t wanna go to school and she asks me, “You’re not going to school?” “No.” “Why, you idiot?” I tell her, “I don’t wanna go.” “What, did they do something to you?” I tell her, “No.” And I start crying and then I tell my aunt everything. “Ah, that motherfucker. I’m gonna pick you up tomorrow,” she tells me. The next day Luz comes by real pretty, with her black blouse, her platform shoes and her capri pants. “Which one is she?” she asks me. “Her,” I point, and without a word she goes up to her and says, “Hey, what’s your problem with my niece?” “No, blah blah blah,” the girl says to her and she starts telling her some story, I don’t remember what it was. I mean, real tacky. My aunt Luz tells her, “I’m comin’ tomorrow to bust your face fuckin’ shit up. You’ve been warned, asshole.” “Yeah? I’ll be waiting for you right here,” the girl says to her. That was it. The next day my aunt Luz shows up and all the girl’s friends are there, and I say to my aunt Luz, “No, Aunt, let’s just leave.” “No, I told her I was comin’, and here I am. You go home.” “No, no way.” “I told you to go home. Get going.” So I hid around there. And Luz goes up to her, “What did I tell you, motherfucker? Here I am, let’s dance,” and she takes off her backpack. But the girl’s mama had given her rings with pins on them. That lady never even talked to Luz, she just went straight to putting rings with pins on her girl’s hands. All her friends were holding hands and shouting, “Get her, bust her shit up!” and I push my way into the crowd. When I got close enough to see, my Aunt Luz was throwing her on top of a car and who knows how she flipped her, but she had her pinned there and pow! pow! really layin’ into her. Then I saw that this guy from Hortelanos was with the girl. “No way, fuck!” I thought, and I called Israel on the phone and told him to come. In the meantime they were beatin’ the crap out of each other. The girl’s mama was gonna push in with a shredded soda can when Israel shows up and he jumps on the bimbo and stops the fight. He pulls a gun on the girl’s dad, who’d just gotten there, or maybe he slapped the girl; I don’t know exactly what happened because at that point I couldn’t see ’em anymore.

LUZ When we were walking away, Israel says to me, “Let’s go this way, mana, down Tranvías.” It was a Tuesday, and I remember there was a market set up in the street. Israel grabs a chili pepper and he starts toasting it on a grill set up there. “Hold on a second, mana.” And he cuts the tip off and rubs it in all the scratches I had on my face and my arms, where

Earning Respect by Fucking Shit Up

that cabrona got me with her fingernails. It burned like hell, but I didn’t end up with a single scar.

You Can’t Shake a Bad Reputation MARIANA “You can’t shake a bad reputation,” that’s how the saying goes, right? Well that’s how it is. In Esperanza, Israel’s got a serious reputation. Twice, people trying to mug Troll have threatened him with Israel. Six Pack, as they call ’im. Once Troll was working his taxi and he took a couple of guys over to Esperanza. Those cabrones got out of the cab and one of them says to Troll, “I’m not gonna pay you. How do you like that? What are you gonna do about it?” I think it was like $150 pesos. And Troll tells him, “No, buddy, you have to pay me.” “Well I’m not gonna, and you better get lost cabrón, because I’m gonna call up Six Pack and he’s gonna come kill you.” And Troll tells him, “Oh yeah? Alright, call him, cabrón.” Troll gets out and he leans on the car, “We can wait for him right here, but you’re gonna pay me.” Another guy came over, a friend of the one who didn’t wanna pay, and he asks him, “What’s going on, güey?” Troll tells him, “You know what, cabrón? Tell your friend to pay me. It’s $150.” The other guy kept goin’ on and on, saying, “I’m gonna call up Six Pack right now and he’s gonna fuck your shit up.” He was gettin’ real heavy, but his friend kept looking and he asks Troll, “Haven’t I seen you at the altar? You are from the altar, aren’t you güey?” And Troll tells him, “Yeah, it belongs to my mother-in-law.” Then the first guy turns around and goes cold. And he pays him. But look how far things have gone when people who don’t even know Israel, or maybe they do know him, but either way, people are using him as a threat, and my poor brother doesn’t even know what’s going on. I tell him, “Ay Israel, your reputation is burned around here. You should definitely leave, find somewhere else.” I’ve walked the edge many times in my hood, Itzapalupa, too. Somebody’d hit my daughter Alicia. She comes home with her face all scratched up. “What happened to you?” “Ah, I got into a fight with who knows who from the Pumas.” The Pumas are a really heavy gang in the barrio. Turns out my daughter had some shit with a girl who was the cousin of one of the guys in the gang. That day, the boy from the Pumas stuck his foot out to trip Alicia so his cousin could start kicking her, and another girl jumped on top of her. When Ernesto, Alicia’s brother, heard about it, he asked her, “Who hit you?” And she told him, “Well Chucho

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tripped me.” Ernesto takes off, and I lock up inside my three grandkids, who were little. “Órale, let’s follow Ernesto.” It was Alicia, Inés, Yolis, and me, just the four of us running behind him. When we got there, he was asking everyone where Chucho lived. And this real cocky guy, El Loco comes out and says to my son, “What’s up with you?” And I tell him, “What’s up with you, motherfucker? You don’t mess with my son, güey.” I push him and he starts taking off his shirt. That was his mistake, because when his face was covered with his shirt, Yolis, who’s real short, lands one on him that knocks his mouth open. He starts shouting, “Back me up, back me up!” Everyone came running, the whole Pumas gang. You could hear how they came running, ’cause he started whistlin’ at me. Right there I thought, “N ow they’re going to go after Ernesto, the only man.” So I stand right in front of them, “What, motherfuckers? What are you looking for?” And one of them, El Kid, recognizes me and he stops them all, saying “No, no fuckin’ way, I’m not getting into it with the señora, güey.” Another one says to him, “Why not, fucker? Look, they already punched me.” “Who punched you?” “Her,” and he points at Yolis. El Kid tells him, “No güey, everyone back off. There’s no backup here, she’s Six Pack’s sister.” One of the other ones tells me after this, “No manita, what happened was I was trying to help your daughter up when she fell.” “Well just tell me where so-and-so lives.” “Well he’s the guy that sells sweaters on the corner.” We left the whole lot of ’em and started walking over to the corner where the boy who tripped Alicia lived. A señor comes out and he says to me, “How can I help you?” “Ah well look, this and this happened, and your son tripped my daughter,” and I don’t know what else. Ernesto goes, “Well we want your son to come out.” “Ah, are you sure it was my son?” “Yeah,” says Alicia. They bring the boy out and Ernesto says to him, “Alright, let me go a round with him, see if he’s really such a big man.” And the señor says, “No, young man. We aren’t trouble-makers, and we’d like to apologize in advance.” And the señor just turns around and bam! he sucker punches the son, and he says to him, “And especially not with women! You, sir, have sisters!” People respected us by then, on account of a problem with Israel in the barrio. One time, Israel was on the run and he was holed up in my house with Giovanna, his woman at the time. One day he asks me, “I’m gonna go out for a beer, if you let me, I bring Yolis.” “Sure, manito.” So they go, Yolis, her boyfriend, him and Giovanna, just the four of them. They were drinking on the sidewalk, and the Pumas were playing in the same street. Giovanna pulled out a huge bag and says, “I’m gonna

Earning Respect by Fucking Shit Up

take out Israel’s toy.” Yolis saw that she had the tape recorder and she thought that was the toy. But no, she pulls out the glock. Right then Israel started shouting. I was inside watching TV and I heard him and went running out. I saw him saying to the Pumas, “What? Motherfuckers!” And me, “What’s going on?” “These motherfuckers, I don’t know what,” says Israel. But the Pumas were still playing, they were horsing around, and Israel thought that they were fighting, and since Yolis was showing his toy to her boyfriend, he grabbed it and pointed the glock at everyone. They all went white, all those boys who normally thought they were so powerful. In the end, when it came down to the wire, they talked to him; who knows what they said. The point is everything ended with him taking them out to a field over there, and pow! pow! pow! he showed them his target skills. They were all delighted with him, and now it’s all, “Whatever you need, brother, you know we’re here for you.” Another time, Inés comes and says to me, “Alicia’s about to fight somebody! She’s already out on the corner!” I told Yolis, “¡Vamos!” and we went running out, Inés, Yolis and me. When we got there, Alicia was with a friend, ready to fight with another girl and her backup. “What’s going on?” I ask her. “No Mama, I’ve had it up to here.” The other girl had a lot of people with her, and I said, “Alright, bring it!” They said they were all worked up to get into it, to hit, knock out, kick whoever they could reach. So we made like a circle around them, and if they started kicking, we pulled ’em out. Alicia’s friend was handing it to the girl who started the fight, ’cause she’d knocked her to the ground and all the girls were shouting, “Give it to her! Give it to her!” but the girl wouldn’t get up. I mean, she was down for the count. I tell my daughter Inés who was standing behind the girl, “Enough, I can’t feel her anymore, get her up,” because she could feel the girl’s body going limp. My daughter grabs her and pulls her up by her face and she says, “We’re done, no? Enough.” Right then a girl who looked like a tranny comes out and she backhands my daughter. Ay, if only I hadn’t seen that. No’mbre, I get up and pow! I jab her with my elbow so hard it spins her head around. I took off my belt, this real big one I was wearing, and just by instinct I start laying into her, pow! pow! pow! “You motherfucker!” “But this isn’t my problem!” she says. “No, but you made it your problem, pendeja, you hit my daughter! She was just pulling them apart!” The fight ended there, but there was a ton of gossip afterwards. I heard two señoras came by to have words with me; I think the mama of one of the girls, and also El Víbora, the Snake, who’s a guy from one of the other gangs that have been in Iztapalupa forever. He was the papa

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of the girl who got beat down. They said they were gonna burn my house down for sticking my nose where it didn’t belong. Three days after, Israel comes by the house. Back then he looked like more of a thug, more like a bruiser. Well right then my head was working fast, and I asked him, “Will you come with me to the market?” I already knew where El Víbora lived. So we’re walking around there and a neighbor who’s a real gossip sees me, does a double take, and then keeps staring at Israel. I told Israel, “That’s right, manito, this is the street,” and I don’t know what all else. But I was setting up the whole scene. I said some stuff about a stationary shop and things like that. A lot of people were staring at my brother, like they were saying, “Ay, he looks tough, no?” Later the same day, I told Israel, “I’ll be right back.” “Sure.” I went out again to see a friend who lived in the same vecindad as La Víbora. When I got there, I saw the two señoras who went to my house after the fight. I walked past them and went up to say hello to my friend, “How are you, manita?” “Good.” I tell her, “Hey, this is where El Víbora lives, isn’t it?” And she says, “Yeah, why?” “Ay mana, because they said they were gonna burn my house down, that’s why I brought my brother.” “That was your brother? He looks like a serious thug, mana.” “He doesn’t just look like it, he is a real thug. He’s killed a lot of people, that’s why I brought him with me, ’cause before they come and burn my house down, it’s easier for us to burn theirs to the ground.” She says to me, “Ay no manita, your brother does look like a real badass.” “Yeah. Ok, I gotta go, I just came by to say hi.” “See you later.” That night, the two señoras came to my house, “No, it’s not true, how can you believe that? We don’t wanna do anything to you.” They were scared.

ISRAEL Mario? That guy’s all show, he’s not dangerous at all. If somebody does something to my family, I show up and fuck their shit up. But him? Nobody knows him, güey. Only the people who work in the business know him; nothin’ but businessmen, güey. Not like me, everybody knows me: businessmen, muggers, murderers, killers, and narcos. It’s because of me that everyone in my family gets respect. I’m the heaviest fuckin’ hitter. I don’t know if I’ll make it to fifty, but thank God, right now at thirty, I don’t start shit with nobody and nobody starts shit with me, because they know I’ll react and fuck their shit up. I’ll pull out a glock, I’ll pull out an AK, whatever I have on hand and that’s the end of the fuckin’ line. I can’t talk about what shit may or may not happen, but for the moment I’m staying here with my family, because I am respect.

Earning Respect by Fucking Shit Up

The SUV GREGORIA Alfredo went to a party with Paty; he had a couple beers and they came back. Patricia went to bed and he left, but he was real drunk by then, and some guy clobbers him and steals the SUV. There was a patrol car there. They saw when the guy knocked him to the ground. The cop goes over to Alfredo and when he saw he was ok—because Alfredo was shouting, “My SUV!”—the cop left him all bloody, with some boy he knew, and went off to follow the SUV. They found it with the carjacker inside and everything.

PATRICIA Who knows what that guy hit Alfredo with, because the doctors had to stitch him up inside and out; imagine how deep it went. It landed on his head and then it sort of scraped his ear right here, and then it kept going all the way to his shoulder. It was a real intense blow, with a 2x4 or something like that. The doctor says the guy was aiming to kill. It was real nasty. His shoulder swelled up like a bowling ball and he, his clothes, everything was all covered in blood. We asked him, “What happened to you?” “What?” “The SUV?” He’d just say, “What?” I mean, he didn’t know anything, I don’t know if it was on account of him being drunk, or because of the blow that guy nailed him with. They caught the guy like two blocks away, between Camelias and Magnolias, and the SUV wasn’t crashed or anything. The wound on Alfredo’s hand was because he wanted to punch the motherfucker, but since he couldn’t, he got furious and punched a wall. He wanted to see him on the ground, dig his eyes out, and rip off his head.

GREGORIA We couldn’t hold him back. He punched the wall with so much rage a bone tore through his skin and real quick I grabbed his hand and crack! I go and push it back in. It was like he was possessed; you wouldn’t have recognized him. All that with the carjacking had already happened, and we were at the court offices because they’d told us to come. Alfredo was shouting, “Motherfucker, I’m badder than he is! He snuck up on me, I’m gonna kill him! I’m gonna dig out his eyes, I’m gonna rip out his guts!”

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Right there in front of the judge, in front of everyone. I think they musta thought, “He really is furious,” because they didn’t say anything to us, not “be quiet,” nothing. Everyone backed up all the way to the corner. They really were scared of him; he was a demon.

PATRICIA What really made his blood boil is he knew the guy. He says some guys from La Cuarta told him, “If you want, we’ll go over there with you and you can fuck him up.” I told him, “What are you thinking?! Why do you think you can just go over there and fuck him up and that’s it? You go over there and you’re gonna end up in there with him. Let it go. It’ll be worse for him because of his priors and because you’ll keep going to make your statement.” Really, the cops did real good. Good thing they came through there right at that moment, because if they hadn’t, I think Alfredo would have killed that motherfucker. At least he didn’t find the guy face to face. When the cops brought him back, it was like a movie: we were all there in the street and the cops brought that güey over inside the squad car. Alfredo hulked out. He wanted to break the car window. We were like little flies, hanging on to him to stop him, and with a swat of his hand he knocked us aside. The devil was in him. Me, after all these years of living with him, I’d never seen him like that. Stubborn, furious. He wouldn’t hear reason; all he did was scream. “Why this motherfucker. . . . Why me, if he knows that I’ll tear him to fuckin’ pieces! I’m gonna kill him, he snuck up on me!” “Enough, Alfi! Calm down, son!” my mother-in-law kept saying.

GREGORIA “Enough Alfi. Calm down.” And he wouldn’t. We were at the DA’s office all night and all day Sunday. We went home for just a minute and then Patricia went back again. So there I am with Montze, Patricia’s sister, and El Pelos, Alfredo’s son, when they brought the boy out to testify. If you’da seen it. . . . I thought, “He’s gonna jump over the desk and kill him right now.” “Take him downstairs,” I say to El Pelos. We took him out to the street and Montze stayed upstairs. The boy was apologizing to her, because he knows her and she says to him, “You know me, don’t you cabrón?” “My respects to you, Señora.” “You’re gonna burn, motherfucker. You’re gonna rot in there.” “No Señora, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.” And Montze runs and pow! she nails him with a slap across the face.

Earning Respect by Fucking Shit Up

And everyone behind the DA’s desk starts shouting, “Get her outta here, get her outta here now!” and they get her out fast. It was a shitstorm anywhere you looked. I think Alfredo’s gonna take a few months to calm down, but underneath everything, he’s fine. And God willing, that boy will be on the inside for a good while, because he’s got a prior for murder. He musta killed somebody else like that.

For a Brother EDUARDO When my drug addiction was real bad, my mama made the decision, together with my brothers and sisters, to send me to rehab, and they took me to a clinic in Mexico State. I lasted about two and a half months, and then I ran away. I took a taxi from there to here, and to pay for it, well I was gonna sell a couple boxes of Kleenex that I stole from the guy who owned the rehab. I got out of the taxi, and I was walking around lookin’ to see who I could sell them to. When I crossed the Eje, I saw a señora with her big ole bags full of merch and all of a sudden this kid tries to mug her. I felt like a superhero right then, and I told him, “No güey, why do you wanna mug her?” Well the kid stabbed me for playing the superhero; he collapsed my lung and then he went running down the street. I don’t know if it was a knife, a switchblade, a boxcutter, an ice pick, I couldn’t tell. So I stopped a taxi and I got in and asked them to take me to the pharmacy where my mama lives. I felt my blood coming out, pssss, and you could hear the noise from my lung, prrrr, you could hear it collapsing. When I got to the pharmacy, I got out of the taxi and went in and they wouldn’t help me, they told me that it was a problem they couldn’t handle. I kept walking and I got to where Israel was, in the corner of the parking lot. There, I fell to the ground. My brothers Mario and Israel and my uncle Jorge come out, and they ask me, “What happened to you?” I tell them, “Somebody stabbed me right here on the corner.” I didn’t want them to go after whoever it’d been, I just wanted someone to pick me up and take me to the doctor. The only thing they did was hail a cab and tell me, “Get in and go to the hospital.” They sent me off alone. While I was going to the hospital, my brothers went with their gangs and found the guy, and one of them stabbed him back, who knows who. I’m in the hospital and they’re taking care of me, and as soon as I know it, I see the stretcher across from me, and the kid who stabbed me was in it. At that point the Judicial Po-

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lice showed up and they ask him what happened, and he says, “No, well somebody stabbed me.” “Who?” And he turns and points at me, saying I’d stabbed him! “What, motherfucker? Why did you stab him? You’re fucked now.” “No, it wasn’t me! I mean, he was the one who stabbed me!” “You’re fucked now! He already made his statement, and you’re goin’ to jail.” But I kept quiet, scared. That night, the same day, they took me up to another floor and once I was upstairs, I fell asleep. When I was out cold, someone like my uncle Jorge, but heavier, wakes me up and says, “Motherfucker, wake up.” I was surrounded by Judicial cops and I ask them, “What’s going on?” And they tell me, “You’re fucked now; he’s dead. The person you stabbed is dead.” Well it really shook me; I couldn’t sleep. Then sleep got the better of me and I blacked out. When I woke up the next day, my foot was handcuffed to the bed. When I tried to move, an elderly man who was next to me told me I couldn’t get up. I said to him, “But why? I mean, why do I have this?” And the señor told me that I’m under arrest for homicide, something I never did, something I didn’t even know who’d done it. “What’s up with that? Not me, I didn’t hurt anyone.” I mean, yes, I get high and I’m canijo, but no, güey. Kill someone like that? No. They took me to the DA’s office. I do my three days in the holding cells, which were not particularly pleasant, seeing as I was naked when I arrived—all I had was the hospital gown, just like that, no shoes, no other clothes. I felt how cold the walls were, and I turned around and saw a shitload of assholes staring at me. The good thing was one of them asked me, “Are you cold?” I told him, “For real? Yeah,” and he took off his boxers and gave them to me. A few days went by and I got out because there was no proof. When I’m on my way out, I call up my mama, “Mama, I’m getting out.” She says, “Wait right there, your uncle Jorge is coming to get you.” And I settle in to wait when a court official comes and takes me to the legislative doctor so he can examine my wounds. In front of me was the official and behind me was a guard from some prison. I turn around and I see that the prison transfer truck is there, and the first thing I think is, I’m fucked. I ask the official, “Tell me what’s coming, I mean, am I for real going to prison?” Tears in my eyes, weeping. The official turns around and he tells me, “Be quiet, be quiet, don’t say anything, hijo, be quiet.” When I go in to see the doctor, they examine me and when I get out, I tell him, “Tell me the truth, so I can know if I’m fucked.” He told me, “You’re gonna go home, just sign here and go.” I came back to life and signed and went outside to wait for my uncle. Once I’m outside, I stop for a second on that big boulevard over there, and suddenly somebody’s whistling at me. When I turn around, I see they’re calling me,

Earning Respect by Fucking Shit Up

and I go back. Someone yells at me, “You’re not out yet, get back in!” and they take me into the Delegation again. Without my mama knowing where I was, nothing. She only found out when she hired a lawyer who told her to call Locatel. When my mama called Locatel, she found out that I was still at the Delegation. The lawyer came in, she had some words with the DA—she really chewed him out—I mean, stuff like that, and she got me out. When I got out, I went into rehab. I did like four months in there, recovering. Then I shook it off, but even so, everyone was still looking for me, because they weren’t satisfied with my survival, “I am gonna kill that guy.” Wherever I went, somebody wanted to throw down the gauntlet, when I wasn’t the guy who did it. So once, when I went shopping with my mama, my brother Israel was walking towards Cactáceas with a friend of his. Back then there were these cars, Topaz model, and the Judicial Police would ride around in them. One of those came and arrested my brother, thinking he was me. They took him to the Delegation, they beat the shit out of him, and when they let him go, he comes and tells me, “Shit, güey, the one they’re looking for is you.” That’s when I realized, for the first time, that I had to be on my family’s side. Because even if I thought otherwise, my brothers really do have my back, güey, and I have to have theirs. They’ve taken care of me, for real; they’ve protected me. If I get into trouble, my brothers do react. But that’s not the reaction I want; I mean, I don’t want a reaction that leads to bad deeds, bad faith. I want a reaction where they’re sitting at the table and they tell me, “Carnal, it’s cool, I love you cabrón, I love you, güey, let’s eat,” and for my ma to be there, and Israel, Lidia, I mean everyone together. Why does it have to be that the family only gets together when there’s trouble? Why can’t we get together in a healthy way? My mentality is very different from theirs. Being in a rehabilitation group, listening, talking, it’s changed my way of being. My way now is peaceful, and theirs isn’t. Mine is showing up and seeing how we can fix things. “I don’t want problems,” “Let’s talk this out.” I mean, the war—for me?—it’s over. If we can come to an agreement and we talk it out, well that’s smooth, we can keep being homies and that’s that. And if it’s not possible, we’ll figure out how we handle it, but first you have to talk. But my brothers’ reaction is to show up, say nothing, and start shit. There was a time when I wanted to be rid of my brothers and sisters on account of the rage that I felt, because they wouldn’t pay attention to me. I wanted to join my brother Mario, because he would get together with the whole mob of kids from the block, on the corner of Tulipán and Orquídea. When I’d show up, he’d chase me away. He’d say, “Get lost! What are you doing here?” Many times he pushed me back in-

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side, kicked me till I went inside, when the only thing I wanted was to be there with them. So I began to fill up with rage because I’d started to see Mario as a father, I mean my oldest brother, but that’s not how things went. Now, truth is I’ve got a bone to pick with Mario because he gave me a nasty look in the street and he hit me, güey. That made me furious. Why, if he knows that when you get high you lose your will for anything, güey? You steal, you start violating, not violating people I mean but violating the law. If my brother knew that, why did he beat the crap outta me? I said, “Fuck me if I don’t get even, güey.” We can’t stomach each other these days; not him, not me. We see each other and it’s “What’s up?” “What’s up?” and that’s it. It’s not like before, when I’d see my brothers and I’d kiss them on the cheek and call them carnal. It’s cool, güey, ’cause it came natural to me, with both Mario and Israel. Now I don’t do that, because when I started seeing what kind of assholes my brothers are, I said, “Well, you can go fuck yourselves too.” Everyone’s on his own. There’s no brotherhood, not a single Sunday where we all get together, like everyone else. It’s real hard to live this way. For me, rehab has helped. I’ve had relapses, but now I reflect, now I feel fear and I know what it is to be human. It pisses me off when people take advantage of the weakest guy, because I remember how they treated me when I was bad. They humiliated me, they kicked me, they shamed me. I know too that when I was bad, I hurt and I did wrong, yes, and I had my consequences. After change came, I’ve made myself be respected, because they say that whether or not you’re respected depends on you. If you talk, you’re respecting yourself. If you calm down trouble, you’re respecting yourself, but if you have problems and you don’t do anything, you’re out of control. So now I want to have control, though like everything, there are times I lose it too. For example, if someone hits one of my kids, or swears at them, well I forget who I am, I forget I go to group, I forget God. When things like that happen, I go back to how I was before, but it’s because they’re touching something that hurts me.

LUZ Lalo had a lotta beef with a vice-head from around here. This little vicehead stole a bike from him. Every time Lalo saw him, he’d hit him hard. One day they dragged him across the street, and they covered him with paint; they beat him up and shaved off all his hair. They even shaved off his eyebrows. They ganged up on him: Lalo, the guys from the parking lot, and I think Israel too. Right then, Lidia came in and told my mama and she crossed the street and dragged the poor boy out of there. Lalo

Earning Respect by Fucking Shit Up

was real pissed that my mama’d found out, “Goddamn Lidia, that nosy motherfucker!” And I tell him, “Look, güey, don’t forget that you used to be just like him. I visited you in rehab, don’t be a jackass. Don’t you forget who you were and how you lived. Just like you got the shit kicked out of you, now he’s getting it kicked out of him, güey. You were as much an asshole as he is.”

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6 Jail

GREGORIA It was this short little señora, fat and real ugly. She starts reading my cards and she says, “What would you like to know?” I said, “Ay, about my children.” And she started to tell me, “You have a daughter who’s divorced, who left her husband; she’s real out of shape but she’s gonna be alright.” Mariana! Boom! And she continues, “There’s another woman, but she’s bad, she doesn’t even care about her children ’cause she likes to go get fucked up,” well that’s Lidia, and she keeps going, “You have a son who’s into vice.” Eduardo. Then she tells me, “You have another son here, right? But this one’s really lazy,” and all of ’em come out but Mario. I say, “Well, there’s one missing.” She grabs my hand and she asks me, “What’s his name?” “Mario Rosales.” “Here’s your son, guess what? Your son’s card shows jail.” I told him, “Hijo, I had my cards read and yours turned up with jail.” Back then, there was a guy right here on the corner, who Mario owed money to, he was one of those bruiser guys, and I said to my son, “Mario, stay away from that son of a bitch.” Two days later, I get home from work and he’s here drinking with him in his car. I ask Mario, “What time are you planning on finishing drinking?” And he says, “I’m gonna go for a rock&roll.” They finished off the bottle and they left. That was the night when everything happened.

Jail

MARIO It wasn’t my fault. I was drinking, but we were driving normal in the car, and that asshole came flyin’ by and cut me off. He came around like a fucker. I pulled over and he got ahead of me, just to cut me off again. Then I got pissed. We were shouting and he rammed me with his car. I caught up to him at the light and I got out and I told him, “Open up.” No? I kick in his window in one blow and pull him out of the car and start beating the shit out of him, “What’s up now, motherfucker?” The other friends of his ran off and the two guys who were with me chased after ’em, but they didn’t catch ’em. I stayed there with him and broke his fuckin’ face in. Well, the cops showed up, and that asshole gets the bright idea to shout, “He’s kidnapping me!” That was enough to fuck me over. Turns out they were an acting group with Televisa. That güey went on a bunch of TV shows playing the victim, “I hope you never have to go through this.” And some redheaded güey he was with said, “I hope those jerks never get out.” We were in the papers and everything. I said, “I’m fucked now, with all the support they’re getting.” They accused us of kidnapping, battery, grand theft auto, and carrying weapons. The police even laid into me with some psychological torture when they locked me in. They’d come by every hour, “Tell us names.” “Whose names?” And they beat me and beat me and beat me. “I got into it with that fucker on my own.” They told me, “We gonna come back and beat the shit out of you again! You better tell us some names, fucker!” Since the guy was from the TV station, they were real happy to go hard on me. In the end, I went to jail for pure bullshit. The problems I’ve had with the authorities, it hasn’t been when I’ve been running around like a thug. Nothing ever happened to me then. Thanks to God and my Flaca, I always made it out fine. It was when I wasn’t doing jack shit that they fucked me over. On the inside, life is fucked up in every sense of the word. It’s like in the street; gangs get together. There’re the guys who sell wine, the ones who sell blow, the ones who sell dope, the ones who sell weed, and on and on. You pay some scratch and you pick what you wanna sell. You get three guard shifts, and after the third one you have to hand over the money from what you sold. If they find out you made a deal and didn’t tell them, or you didn’t give them the money, they fuck you up, get the money from you, and they might even kill you. When a vice-head doesn’t pay his debt, the interest starts running day after day, and then if he still doesn’t pay, they start to beat the shit out of him. Sometimes you get sent to what they call the Module, and you only get outta there when you give them scratch. Everything is scratch. You have to make money because you

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fuckin’ have to, whether you’re shining shoes or in the big leagues, selling drugs, vice, everything. Everyone knows who’s a murderer, who’s a rapist, who sells blow, who sells booze. From the top down, it’s an open secret. You have to have people watching out for you. When I got in, they wanted to beat the crap outta me. There was this asshole from Esperanza, he wanted some scratch, he wanted a car, so he tried to fuck me up. But the friendship you have in there matters a whole lot. I talked to my boys and they started shit, they backed me up. In the end, thank God, I got out without owing anything. The smallest thing would’ve had me in for twenty-five fucking years. When everything goes wrong, we have the famous “checkbooks,” as we call them. That’s what they call the guys you give some scratch to, so they’ll kill some cabrón or take the fall for whatever. They’re already in for so many years, they don’t give a damn. You talk to them, “I’m gonna help you out, man. If they send you in for punishment, I’m gonna send you food and I’ll take care of your family.” So when there’s trouble and they catch you, you go up in front of a council with a bunch of people and say, “No, that’s not mine; these señores brought me here but it’s not mine.” And then the checkbook says, “He doesn’t have anything to do with it; those are my things.” So the council lets you go, and they fuck the other guy over. You know they’re gonna beat him up good, but they won’t open a new hearing on him.

GREGORIA The guy who accused Mario was from a music band, I don’t remember what it was called, but they were big back then. His family was well situated. They brought lawyers, and everybody went, the dad, the mama, the grandma, the wife, the mother-in-law, a lot of real elegant people, my respects. They wanted to throw their weight around and they pushed hard to nail Mario. They asked for sixty years; forty for kidnapping, ten for grand larceny, five for assault and battery, and some more for having a weapon. All he did was defend himself, but that güey and those women who were in the other car said he was trying to kidnap them. Mario gave his statement, “We weren’t gonna kidnap anybody, you were starting shit and we just defended ourselves.” But it was his word against theirs. He was a strong guy, and my son’s statement was worthless. With the grand larceny, it was because when all the guys who were with Mario got out of his car, that low-down piece of shit Paco, who was with them, took the guy’s car. Then he brought it and left it here. Someone told me, and I stopped a cop I knew and told him, “Go check out that car over there and report it stolen.” Later the owners came to pick it up, and they

Jail

fixed the broken door and everything. I mean they got the car back real fast. Paco’s dad told me in good faith, “My son should go confess.” And I told him, “If your son confesses, my son’s fucked.” Because a lot of people knew Paco and knew he didn’t give a shit about anything. I told him, “You know what? Better for him to take off. Send your son far away and forget about mine.” Alone he’d do better, because if there were a bunch of people implicated, they could accuse them of organized crime. Plus, when Paco took the car, he picked up a girl from Alcatráz who was underage, and from there they could accuse them of being perverts too. I was sitting at the altar and a woman from around the corner sees me and she says, “Ay Goyita, I’m not a devotee but I am someone who likes to read a lot, and I saw a recipe that can get your son outta jail.” She tells me I have to go to the cemetery and pray for my son between the forgotten graves. The next day I was supposed to go to the jail to see Mario, but I didn’t go. I went instead to the cemetery to ask for him back. I prayed, “Ay Santísima Muerte, help me, let all the witnesses say things that favor my son.” What helped Mario was, first of all, that God and La Santa Muerte were with him, and second, that the other guys said a lot of bullshit, you know, the statement’s really important. You always have to say the same thing. It was a real big police office with these real nice black leather armchairs. From the very beginning, the judge didn’t like the güey because he was sitting real rude, all slouched in his chair. At a certain point they even told him, “Please, sit up right.” Then when he started to make his statement, I don’t know what they asked him but the first time he said he’d gone from Cuauhtémoc to Tlalpan in ten minutes, and the second time he said it took him I don’t know how long round trip; he started changing his story. The judge was a real old man, and thin, real pretty, a Jorge Negrete type. Normally the judges never get into it, but that day he started to see all that bullshit and he said to the man taking the statement, “Hang on, move aside.” The judge sits down, and he starts taking aim, “Alright, and what happened to the car?” And the guy says, “I got the car back.” And he shows the papers. “Let’s see,” and he takes them. He says, “Who turned it over to you?” The guy says, “So-and-so, my relative.” The judge himself started in on the questioning, and the güey like a jackass starts spouting bullshit, that it happened at ten at night, and then no, that it was eleven, and he ran two blocks to the subway and he went in, and then he said no, that wasn’t true, he ran half a block and turned the corner: a bunch of real dumb shit. Mario went to prison in October and he got out in March. He didn’t have any priors or anything, but they still threw six months at my son while he went through the whole process. When Mario got out, he

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looked up the guy’s address and everything, because he wanted to kill him. I told him, “What are you gonna do that for, hijo? You’re out already; look at how many years you were in for.” But he was real pissed about everything the other guy had made up. Now, years have gone by and all that’s calmed down.

LIDIA One day some friends of Israel’s came by; they’d stolen some stuff from the Sinsa people, this brand of plates and crystal glasses. I don’t know if he was involved or not. But the point is one of his gang shows up with the phone of one of the guys from the company, and my brother tells him, “What do you want that for, güey? It’s no use to you. Give it back and ask for a reward.” Shortly after the phone rings and that boy answers it. It was the owner of the phone calling. He asked to give it back to him, that it was no good to them. “Ah, sure, I’ll give it back to you and you give me a reward.” “How much?” “Give me 1,000.” “Where should I meet you?” “Over there in Tranvías.” “I’ll go with you, güey,” says my brother, “you hand it over to him and we’ll come right back.” They were real confident that they were just gonna hand over the phone and get the reward. But the cops were there waiting for them on every corner, and boom! they were all over ’em. The other boy took off and got away. Israel says he doesn’t know where they took him to first. They tied his hands up and blindfolded him. He just heard them say, “Walk, walk straight and don’t crouch down.” They made him walk and he says he felt himself run into some rods, like steel rods, that they were in his path and he kept feeling them crack into his head. On top of that, they slapped him around a lot. They beat him up real bad. And they said to him, “Tell me who that was!” “No, well I don’t know who it was.” After that he went to the prison. I think he was just in there for three months, while they proved he hadn’t done it. N ot long after he was released, his headaches started. “Ay, ay, ay,” he’d let loose these horrible screams, “I’m gonna die, I have worms in my head and I’m gonna die.” ’Cause he thought in jail he’d picked up that disease from pork meat, cysticercosis. We took him to the doctor, and they did an x-ray on him. It wasn’t cysticercosis. He had a fractured skull from all the beatings.

GREGORIA Jail sucks. You have no idea what your eyes see in there. The way they treat visitors is awful, because the prison guards are stuck-up assholes.

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They pull down women’s underwear and make them do squats to see if they’re smuggling something in. They haven’t done it to me, thank God. I get there, I pull out my twenty pesos, and I give it to them. “Sure Señora, right this way, what do you have with you?” “Ay, I have a couple Santa Muerte scapulars.” They let me in because I pay them off. Any prison you go into is the same. And the huge stamps they put on you. You better be real careful they don’t rub off, ’cause if they do, they won’t let you out. Yeah, it’s intense to go in and visit them, but I go all the time, because people in there have it real fucking bad. Many people get killed inside the prison. The last guy from around here to get killed was a guy from Alcatráz. They showed up in his cell and ice-picked him, boom! boom! boom! A hundred ice-pick hits. Those cells are locked with padlocks and everything. How’s it possible for a prisoner to get into a cell that’s not his? Somebody has to let him in. Who’s opening the cells? Well, the same prison guards let them get away with all that bullshit, because that’s how they make their money. They take it to their boss, and he takes it to his boss, and him to his. In the cells, the prisoners mug each other. You jump me and I jump that guy and he jumps somebody else and he jumps somebody else. There’s no way to avoid it. It’s a chain; everyone gets into it. I know guys who went in as good people and came out as real nasty kidnappers. If you’re ambitious and you see you can extort by phone, so to speak, from inside, you start placing calls from your cell phones on the inside, and some asshole on the outside gets kidnapped. They say, “Motherfucker, deposit this much in my account, or I’ll kill your fucking family.” You see that, and you get into it too, to get your cut. You’re already on the inside, what do you have to lose? The blackest day of my life was the last time I went to see Israel. I left at seven in the morning, I grabbed a taxi, I got there, and I got in line for the front entrance at like eight. I waited there till nine, ten, eleven, twelve, one, two, three, four, and at five in the afternoon they let me go up the stairs. When I got to Israel, they were already about to go back in. He just ran over, I gave him his bags, and I left. Those nine hours standing there; they were horrible. It hurts you so much, you suffer so much.

MARIO The second time I went to jail was because some guys paid off a buncha cops to pull me over. The güeyes were selling cosmetics, and my bisnes is delivering the merchandise and collecting the cash. But unfortunately there’re a lot of assholes who pull bullshit to avoid paying up. You give

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them credit for fifteen days, sometimes more, depending on the quantity. They don’t pay interest, just what they owe, but then they cross the line. They’d never pay me. The excuse was sales were low, but then they didn’t even have the merchandise anymore. They were pocketing the cash, that was the problem. Finally I’d had it, “Stop fucking around! It was supposed to be fifteen days and it’s been three months! Don’t be an asshole, güey!” They got pissed and they wanted to beat me up, but I was the one beatin’ them up. A few days later Leonel calls me, another guy who went with me to collect. He says to me, “What’s up, I’m over here on this street with so-and-so.” He was the one who set me up. Right after I hung up, three cops show up and drag me into their car. From the minute they got me in, they started wailing on me. They had me in handcuffs and a thickass blindfold. They were shouting at me and asking me if I was with the Zetas or who knows what gang, and I told them, “I don’t know, I don’t give a fuck.” Then I hear another, the one who set me up, they ask him, “Is this the guy?” He says, “Yeah.” I say, “You son of a bitch!” And they ask me, “You know his voice?” I tell them, “Well yeah, I heard him.” After that they went even harder on me. Later, who knows where they stuck me. They took off the handcuffs and the blindfold, and started taking photos of me, and a video. I couldn’t see anything because of the flash. Then they moved me to another room where the only thing I could see was a seat, like from a car, and a big bottle of water. “Crouch down and close your eyes.” One guy gets up on my legs, another one on my stomach, and another one blocks off my nose with a goddamn rag, grabbing my head and pushing it against the floor, so I had to breathe through my mouth. And they grab the water and the start to pour it into my mouth. At the very least, there were four of those bastards there. I tried to get out from under them, but they were on me real tight, and they landed blow after blow on me. “We’re gonna fuck your shit up! You think you’re real hot shit because you’re from Esperanza!” and boom! beating the crap out of me. They never let me see them. After a while, they started to loosen up and this guy with an accent from the North says to me, “We’re gonna fuck your shit up good, there’s a shitload of us.” And I get the bright idea of saying, “Well sure, but I don’t see you,” and boom! they start wailing on me again. Why did I have to start talking? I thought. Now it’s funny, but at the time I was all, “What a jackass I am.” They beat me all over my body, from the neck down. Only at the end, one of them missed and split my nose open in one punch. It was a day and a half that I was desaparecido. Everyone was looking for me: Israel, my woman, my ma, Luz, Mar, everyone. They looked everywhere for me and they couldn’t find me.

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When they took me to the delegation, I was real beat up. They accused me of extortion, and they planted a gun on me, ’cause I wasn’t carrying one. This doctor shows up, real old, the guy, and he examines me, “Alright son, stand up.” I was full of lesions, my ass, my legs were black, I had a black eye, I was real fucked up. I mean, those jackasses really went too far. And the doctor says, “He’s fine.” I said, “Oh sure, güey.” They must’ve given him some scratch, the dogs. Then the Federales took me to give my statement and they told me, “Say this.” Well, the people at the delegation asked me, “Do you want to make a statement?” “No, fuck no,” and the Federales standing there. Later when the Federales left, I told the guy who was there, “Where do I go from here?” “Well from here you either go home or you go to jail.” I said, “I want you to bring me a doctor, and I want to give my statement.” “But you already gave your statement.” “No, fuck no,” and I pulled down my pants and I told them, “For real, I’m gonna say you did this to me.” “Fuckin’ hell, güey, what happened to you?!” they ask me. “Ah, well those fuckers who brought me here beat me bad. If you don’t bring me a doctor and my lawyer, I’m gonna start shit.” They let me call home and sent for another doctor. He examined me and took note of my lesions. “Alright, son, stand up.” He even told those guys in the delegation, real pissed, “Help him.” He saw the bruises and he said, “Those motherfuckers, that’s fucked up.” Then my lawyer came, El Güero. That guy’s real young, but he’s good. We made my statement. Lawyers tell you what you have to say, since they start preparing the process beforehand. The first thing you say is what goes to the trial, they make a file on you and that’s where the judge either fucks you over or he doesn’t. You can’t be changing and changing your statements. That’s why right from the beginning you should always have a lawyer. And then from the delegation, they take you to the prison. And the process goes on while you’re on the inside. They call you to sign papers for the file, they show you pieces of paper and they say, “Do you agree with this guy’s statement?” and all that bullshit. Then they call you to tell you, “You know what? You have a hearing on such and such a day,” and that’s how they do the whole thing, with you in jail. Right when I got to prison I made some connections, and the guys inside even helped me. They saw how messed up I was. There was a guy, I don’t remember his name, but I’d give him some cash for some medicine, and he’d smuggle it in for me. I helped them too. I’d say, “Bring paper, bring soap, let’s clean this joint, so we can have a nice clean spot in here.” And I’d tell them, “Look sharp guys, don’t let them get the jump on you.” I got some food for us, and we ate more or less well. I left those boys alright, for real. Later they moved me from intake to COC

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(Centro de Observación y Clasificación), and then they sent me to the area for repeat offenders. There’s a lot of poverty in there. The cells are built to hold for five people, but they stick twenty, thirty, even forty assholes in a 10x15 ft cell. There were like twenty of us in my cell. We had three bunks on one wall, another one over the toilet, on the right side there were two, and three in the back. Over the door in the entrance, there was a bunk that an inmate had someone make with metal tubes all soldered together. You could take it apart and put it right back together. Hence, there were ten bunks in all, but like another seven cabrones slept on the floor and two more in the bathroom. And then there’re what they call the “little ducks.” When they can’t fit on the floor anymore, they grab a belt or some other little rope, and they loop themselves onto the bars. And with just that holding them up, they sleep on their feet. It’s ugly, ugly. I bought my bunk. The bathroom was always clean, because the grinders I was with were real clean guys. They got up real early to clean the bathroom. Only the chosen few of us could use the cell’s bathroom. All the others would go out in the morning to piss out back, where there was a drum of water and a gutter. Getting’ sick on the inside is real bad. If you get the flu, even just a little bit, it’ll knock you down one hundred percent. There’s no medicine to treat even a cough. Then there are some cabrones who get these like pimples all over their bodies, and inside there’s a worm, the cysticercos. It comes from pork. There are some guys who’d charge you five, ten pesos, and they’d cut it open, swish! The worm would come out, and a shitload of blood. Then they’d cure it with alcohol. People got it from eating the pork hocks the guys from the Rancho, gave them; the Rancho is where they make the food in jail. Goddamn crap the guys in the Rancho give people to choke down. It’s real dirty, it reeks. Pure rotten shit. The gang eats it, ’cause there were guys who didn’t get visitors, they didn’t make anythin’ or they were from another state and well, who’s gonna go see them? They had it real rough. You’d help them out when you could: buy them a little bread, or, it sounds bad, but if you had some food leftover from your plate, you’d give it to them. I swear, you’d give them even a piece of picked-over chicken and they’d thank you like you’d handed ’em a dish from a fancy restaurant. The guards bleed money outta you for everything. You give them a hundred pesos every shift so they’ll let you outta the building to the patio to do something, because if you don’t, for real, you never get outside and they’re always fuckin’ on you. When they see some guy can’t pay, they start with the whole cell block, “If you guys don’t pay, I’m gonna have you locked in here all day, fuckers.” What can the gang

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do? Well you pay the hundred pesos so that they don’t have you locked up inside the cell all day long. If you get into a fight, they charge you to not send you to fuck off in solitary. They charge you for roll call. At six in the morning, at nine, at noon, at three in the afternoon, and at eight at night, they have to check off their roll of inmates. The guys who pay them off spend all day in their rooms or selling vice, doin’ their thing, since they don’t have to come down to sign at the booth and wait in the huge lines. They just mark you down as present. There’re a lot of kids who don’t have enough for the roll call, and if they miss one, it’s a beating and off you go to solitary. They charge you too if you don’t want to do cleaning, the fajina grind, as they call it in there. The cheapest deal costs you like fifteen hundred for four months. You just pay it and then you don’t do shit. But if you don’t pay, it’s four months you have to clean every day, morning, afternoon, and night. They have you scrub the bathrooms with a folded-up towel and scrape everything out with your hand, squatting down, with all the piss right there. It’s an enormous pain in the ass. If you want to wear white, it’s another stack of cash. All the inmates wear beige, but if you’re wearing white, it just shows you have cash, ’cause you’re paying to wear white clothes. To go down and see visitors in white clothes, they charge you fifteen pesos, but if you go down wearing beige, it’s just five. Sometimes they’ll start with their bullshit, “No, you can’t go down with those pants on,” or with a t-shirt on, or a hat, and they charge you. Or you go wearing beige and they tell you, “You’re not going past here with those pants, because they’re green.” But it’s a kind of beige that sort of green, but it is beige, and the bastards wanna charge you for that too. There was this one who whenever I went down for visitation, he’d say to me, “Ten bucks for the hat.” “No,” and I’d go back in, I’d shove it down my pants, and I’d come back out. Right from the entrance, they start asking for five, ten pesos from your family just to let ’em in. That’s how they make their money. When those guys leave you can see their pockets bulging with cash. Then they also charge you to go into the cabin. They make a little tent with blankets, and they put a little foam mattress in there, and they put sheets on it. To spend the whole day in there, it’s a hundred bucks. They sell you condoms, or there’s also a guy who goes by, “Get your Viagra! Viagra here!” It’s not for the guy who can’t get it up, it’s for the guy who wants it up more. You can go to the steam room, you can go to the gym, there’s a little market, there must be like thirty stands where they sell seafood, tacos, tortas, fruit, fried chicken. There’s even a pharmacy, it’s a stand full of medicine. Any business you wanna open to make some cash, the guards charge you for it. And then a lotta guys work to buy

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ten pesos worth of paint thinner and they go huff it. They get together all the dishes from the cell block, they wash clothes for the other guys; they help out, so to speak, whoever’s selling in the store, or they wash plates for the guy who makes tortas. They get five, ten little pesos, and then they go buy weed or paint thinner. That gets them through the day. N ow the big thing with the guards is they have four inmates who beat us up like they were guards. The guards have them on payroll, and they go and they look through your stuff. If you hit one of them, the guards beat the crap outta you and they send you to solitary. They give those jackasses power. That’s why they run around feeling real safe, the fuckers. Pullin’ their shit. And then they even put beige Security patches on their hats, or the guards loan them a turned-off walkie talkie. Fuckin’ brown-noses! There they are in beige, and they think they’re prison guards, the jackasses. During the ten months I was in jail, many were killed with ice picks. They buried a pickaxe in one guy’s head. He was like twenty years old. And then, right outside my room, they rubbed another one out, ended him with a single blow. Guys get killed ’cause they owe vice, or ’cause they come in from another prison where they went too far. For example, one time this guy snitched on a bunch of guys who were selling vice. They think moving him to a different prison is gonna keep him outta trouble. But no, ’cause people talk on cell phones. They call from one prison to the other, and as soon as those guys get to the new jail, they don’t even make it fifteen days. The same gang kills them, the patron’s guys. There are cameras all through El Kilometro. That’s what they call this hallway that goes all the way around the slammer; it must be like two and a half meters wide. Well, that’s where you go for a walk, and that’s where the entrances to all the rooms are. But there are parts where the cameras can’t reach, and that’s the spot the gang takes advantage of. They put on hoodies. When you see two, three guys with their hoods up, watch out! ’Cause they’re about to pull some shit. Said and done, man. You just watch how they start throwing iron around. They grab guys and they put the pick in ’em. Then they throw off their clothes and lose themselves in the middle of everyone in the same beige uniform. Wherever you go, you see hoodies full of blood that got ditched. Guys’ll make knives outta anything, outta beef bones. They file down metal rebar to a blade, they wrap a rag around it, and that’s the handle for those huge-ass swords. They fuck you up with whatever they’ve got. Even a rock can send an asshole flying. There’s almost never a mutiny, but when it comes to that, they really do fuck the shit out of the guards.

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But then rage starts bubbling and all pile on the first little corpse who gets out front. The best thing is to go into your room, or get far away from it, because whoever’s around is gonna get grabbed. It helps little if you say, “No, it wasn’t me.” “I don’t give a fuck. You were there, and you’re gonna pay, güey.” That’s how they throw it at you, those dogs. Even if it wasn’t you, they have to pin it on somebody.

GREGORIA I was standing there with him, and suddenly this guy comes running out. Mario says to me, “Get over here, Ma!” We let one go by, and another one comes out right behind him and pow! pow! pow! he starts kicking him and beating him and then he takes off running. Then the prison guards run in, “Back off, back off!” and they take him away on a stretcher. That poor boy died. I never stopped going to see my Mario in jail. I’d bring him a lot of food. Alba would go Saturdays and Sundays, and I’d go Tuesdays and Thursdays. Luz and I would make the food. Rice, soup, spaghetti, beans, stews, tortillas, sweet bread, rolls, soda, napkins, paper, we’d even bring him water. There were real huge-ass bags. We’d go together, Checo, Lupe, Mariana, Luz, Enrique, and Troll: all of us loaded up with food. My plan was for Mario to help the other inmates out. So he’d say, “Ay, my mama brought me food, let’s eat. Here, make yourself a little sandwich.” And someone would come up with his bread and ask him, “Your mama didn’t bring any tortillas?” And Mario’d say, “Yeah. Do you want cheese too?” “No, I’m good with just tortillas.” I thought, for example, if you went to see your inmate and you were like me, you wanted to get your son through this, so whatever you brought for your son would go on the table, and Mario’d have something to eat too. Whatever they bring one guy, they’d all get, and they split the homecooked food up between all of them. When we’d invite some guy or another to have a taco, you could feel the joy he ate it with. The day that I brought a plate of migas, the guy who owned the store, a real strong guy, had told Mario: “Tell your Ma to send me some migas.” Well I sent them to him. Mario says that he ate them like we’d given him a vuelve a la vida, a seafood cocktail, something real nice. I’d tell Mario, “Don’t drink the water.” Because a while back I was going to see a nephew of mine who was in the N orte prison. He did eight years in jail. When he got out, he came to see me and he wrapped his arms around me, “How are you, hijo?” “Good,” he tells me. But he didn’t look good; he was real skinny, I thought he musta had AIDS.

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“What’s wrong? Go see a doctor.” “We already went to see so-and-so, Aunt.” It turns out he was sick from drinking the dirty water in jail. A virus got into his lung and fucked him up, and he up and died, right after he got outta jail. There sure are a lot of inmates who nobody goes to see, they have no money, they have no choice: they drink the water. That’s why we’d all go loaded up with food and water for Mario. It’s a big expense, tell you the truth, but it helps a lot.

MARIO Mama always told me, “Whatever I bring, share it around.” That’s how I got Pajarito, Birdy, the boy who helped me out. When I met him, he was in real bad shape. It’d been two months since his family had gone to see him. He was helping some other güey, but that guy started to cross the line with him. He wasn’t paying him. I asked the top guy in the cell, the guy they call Mama, mother. “What’s up, pass Pajarito on to me so he can help me out. I’ll do right by him, I’ll give him some cash.” After that, he worked only for me. You should’ve seen how he’d been dressed, all grimy, with his sneakers in pieces. My mama started bringing him clothes; we had her bring a new pair of sneakers. I bought him a t-shirt and a pair of pants from a good brand on the inside; I paid ten for the t-shirt and twenty for the beige pants. “Alright my Pajarito, here you go, güey.” And that son of a bitch put his back into it. He’d come down with even hair gel and cologne, that Pajarito. He loved to dance, but he was a terrible dancer. He’d dance, supposedly cumbia, but real messed up. We’d be there in the cell and someone’d put on Gloria Trevi. He has a wife and kids, but he always whips out these gestures, you just can’t believe them. Plus, the way he talked, “Ay sí, ay sí,” with his voice way up high. And we’d flirt with him, get him going. But he was a good boy, for real, he kept my shit real nice. When visitation was over, he’d go with me to drop my mama and the others off at the entrance. I’d tell him, “There’s the food, güey, heat it up for us.” And he’d heat it up and he’d serve the food, and we’d invite everybody. Before Pajarito started eating with me, he was buying those two-peso gorditas from the Rancho. But later they said to him, “You don’t eat Rancho food anymore? You think you’re too good for it, fucker?” “No, the thing is my patron and his family are keepin’ me real nice.” A bunch of guys were pissed at him ’cause they were jealous, but I’d tell ’em, “No, güeyes, he helps me out, that’s why I give him his tacos.” Truth is, my mama’s food helped me out a lot in getting guys to watch out for me. On account of my mama and my sisters, I was alright, thank God.

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GREGORIA His bail was thirty thousand pesos, but they take off a percentage and in the end they discounted it to four thousand. But you also had to bring a guarantor, somebody who promised to be responsible for him. I brought the papers from my house, papers that say I pay land taxes, water rights, telephone, electricity. With those papers I exercised my rights, and with the blessing of God and La Santa Muerte, I got him out. But the other two who were in there with him weren’t gonna get out because nobody in their families had the paperwork to prove that they’d stay with ’em. So I used my papers for them too; they made copies and all three got out on my papers. And Pajarito was able to get out because this señor gave him a letter as his employer, certifying he was aware Pajarito’d been arrested for robbery and that he’d been in jail for x amount of time, but that he was gonna take responsibility for making sure he didn’t miss work and he was going to pay him five hundred pesos a week. He was lucky, but there are so many boys in there who can’t get out because they can’t get that guarantor letter.

MARIO When you have a hearing, they call you at five, six in the morning. The guard tells you, “I can send you right now, or you can give me some scratch and I’ll send for you at nine or ten, güey.” You give him ten bucks and he lets you sleep another three hours, and then at ten you go see the judge. The guys who don’t pay, they get ’em up early, take them out of the cells, bring them to the guard house and then make ’em stand there ’til ten. Then you go down to the tunnel that goes to the courtroom, and you line up on the righthand wall. There’re like ten guards there, and they ask you, “Whaddya want sonny? VIP, or you wanna line up with the monsters?” You hand over five bucks and they don’t even check you with the metal detector. They don’t take your shoelaces or your belt. They don’t take anything. After that, the guards come down and take care of us. They’re working protection, those guys, in a special area. And the guys who don’t pay, they go through this hallway that’s like 10 ft by 4 ft, and full to the fuckin’ rafters: some guys waiting for sentencing, others waiting to sign, others waiting for notifications, everyone all squashed in there. They just tell you, “Courtroom N umber Whatever.” But it’s like a labyrinth, you go up, you go down, left, right. They have you there all damn day: “Wait until this hearing is over, and then we’ll give you your notification.”

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Just gettin’ there is a bitch; the tunnel’s awful. Most of it doesn’t have any lights and there’re no windows so you don’t escape. It’s all totally closed off. You see some stairs, you go down some others, you go around and around in one tunnel and then another one, then you go up like two levels and you go back down again. In that space, you find these spiral staircases. Everybody knows them because there’s no light, and you get jumped there. You go down them feelin’ your way, stair by stair, grabbing the wall, ’cause you can’t see jack shit until you’re almost in the last tunnel, where Courtrooms 50-whatever to 60 are. That’s where you start seeing a little light, but it’s far off, all the way at the entrance to the courtrooms. You have to walk; it depends on the number of the courtroom you’re going to. I was in the last one. The problem is they take a lot of guys: from the Oriente prison, from the Norte prison, the Sur, the Golden Cages, the Santa Martha, and they also bring in inmates from the women’s jail, to appear before the judge. Well just imagine the loose dog–bullshit going on down there. Mugging and more mugging. The gang’ll take your sneakers, they’ll go through your pockets to see if you’ve got any scratch. Let’s say you have twenty, thirty pesos. Even though on the outside that’s not much, inside, that’s a good hunk of cash. Outside you spend that on a juice, no problem, but on the inside, thirty pesos is thirty pesos. Even the guys who hafta be in cuffs pass off some cash to the guards, and the guards take off their cuffs and let them go mugging. You have to walk strong, I mean get your jackal look on. If somebody gives me a nasty look, I’ll give him a nastier one. And then later they wanna start boxing, and people beat the crap outta each other. When shit starts to go down, you hafta get into it. The guards are the worst rats, and nobody does anything to clean that up. I remember when they showed videos of the prison on TV, of how the guards were asking for money for visitations, how they extort the inmates. All hell broke loose. Outside the jails people were standing with banners and signs, “Don’t give money,” “Don’t pay roll.” “Prison is part of the government, there is no charge, everything is free,” and all that shit. But even though those posters were there, we all were fucked over, because they came every day to collect payment for the roll call. You couldn’t go against those guys, because they had you there inside. The whole thing lasted a couple a days, and then after that, you didn’t hear anything about it anymore. On the inside, everything was the same. Collecting and collecting. While I was in there, my mama would get together with El Güero to see how the case was comin’ along, so she’d know what I had to do and have an idea of how long they were thinkin’ of throwing me in there for. I think she spent like 200,000 pesos on the lawyer. She got the money

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together with the support of the whole family, plus the bisnes I was doing from inside the slammer. I had to make some calls to send guys to collect the money I was owed. If I hadn’t, I’d still be in there now. The lawyer charges his hourly rate, and he also charges for paperwork, copies of files—stuff like that they take care of. Sometimes you can slip something to a judge to soften him up, but sometimes you can’t, because a lotta guys won’t take bribes. Our judge was an asshole. Every month he’d send for us to come talk with him, just to tell us, “In this courtroom, no money changes hands. In this court, what’s going to set you free is the evidence you bring in.” On the one hand, that’s good, but on the other hand, I know that my accuser gave some cash to the Public Defense Ministry to keep fucking me over, so they were dead set against me, and they gave it to me good. That’s why they sentenced me to three years. I found out about it through the family of the other asshole who’d been with me. Since the guys from the barrio know ’em, they found out those guys’d been running around bragging that they’d paid off the DA. Then I’d go to the hearings and there they were, the fuckers. Sometimes I’d see that guy from far off, and he’d laugh. I just thought, “Alright, all this just because you wanted to beat my ass and I gave you one, two, three caresses, ’cause you went too far.” When I got out on bail, those güeyes didn’t wanna show up to any hearings. The lawyer told me, “You know what? We’re going to exhaust every possible resource to find them, so the judge can see that one of you has no problem with it, and he can see something’s wrong on the other side.” Goddamn jackasses, I got fucked over and they weren’t even going to work. They weren’t selling anymore because they went into hiding. They knew they fucked up, that they’d pulled some serious bullshit. They didn’t even go with the cop to the hearings. He went to the hearings by himself, with his tail between his legs. They’re scared I’ll do something to them. But if I did something to them now, I’d be fuckin’ myself over. Now what I want is for the judge to see there’s no trouble with me. I want him to see I’m not hiding, fuck no, he doesn’t have to sentence me. But for these two or three months while they finish up the process, I’m gonna try to make sure someone always goes with me when I go to sign, ’cause I know how that guy reacts. God forbid he do anything, but who knows. I tell myself to keep calm, everybody gets what’s comin’ to him. Like the gang says, “Every church gets its festival in the end.” One day those bastards are gonna be celebrating with their saints. One of them is already dead. That sucks for his family, but he didn’t think about mine. They went too far, and they even planted a gun on me. I’m not that much of an asshole, but at this point, I’m glad that they got fucked, ’cause they know I didn’t do a damn thing.

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Not too long ago I ran into one of the guards from the prison. That guy never did anything to me, for real. I saw him from far off, and I went over. I said, “What’s up mano? How are you?” “No, hang on man, don’t cross the line. I’m here with my family.” I told him, “Calm down, man, don’t get bent outta shape. I just came over to say hi, you never did anything to me.” “Let me know if there’s anything I can do for you,” and he gave me his number. Little fucker. Being inside, where those guys are all cops, isn’t the same as being out here in the street where we’re even. I’ve never called him. He’s one of the top dogs in there. But his ass was quaking hard.

GREGORIA We started going to Santa Martha Women’s Prison because we were going to see Paulina’s daughter, Paulina who lives here on the corner. I also started going to see a girl they arrested, one of the pickpockets from Alcatráz. I would go with Checo and Lupe. Checo performed rosaries in there. He did them real nice. Later they wouldn’t let him anymore, since some of them are Catholic, others follow La Muerte, and others are Jehovah’s Witnesses. The prisoners themselves got up in arms. The director told Checo she couldn’t allow them anymore ’cause the floozies inside got pissed and were going to accuse her. But Checo was close with some of the girls inside, and he kept going to see them. He’d go and bring them candy, food, milk, and clothes for their kids. Because you see kids are running around in there, up to who knows how old. Woman’s pregnant when she goes in, and there they’re born and there they’re raised. You see little ones running around playing, others in their mothers’ arms. At a certain age, they have to leave, and if they have no other family, they get turned over to the DIF. They take ’em away overnight. And if you’re in for ten, twenty, thirty years, when are you gonna see your baby again? Probably never. When I hear how they’re treated, how shocking it is, how painful. The same beat-downs the men get, the women get too. At night, they go into their rooms and they rob them. And also, just like over in the men’s prison, they extort the prisoners and they have to pay money to get out of cleaning, out of the roll call they do every day at all hours, a ton of bullshit things. You see them cry. And then after they go through all of that, when they finally get out, the same women go right back in. Like it’s calling them. They become cabronas, they get used to it, and then they always wanna be in jail. They don’t give a shit about leaving; they get into some bullshit and they go right back in. Lord, it’s real sad

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to see all that. You walk out of there and you say, “How is it possible for all that to exist?” All the women have girlfriends. If they don’t, they get the shit beat out of them until they do. You see them going around holding hands and kissing. There are women who look like men with their jackets, their buzz-cuts, their boots. I remember when we went to see Karina. We saw she had hickies on her neck and I asked her, “Did you get a visitor, manita?” And she says to me, “N o, I have a girlfriend on the inside now. There’s my woman over there.” She said it to me real nice and proper. Inside, they live with their girlfriends and they make their living doing errands, bringing things; but they’re happy, they get used to it. I understand it, after everything they’ve suffered. A lot of them don’t have three pesos for a taco. They get beaten. They get sold vice. They get extorted, and when they don’t have the money to pay, they get punched. There’re some women who’ve been in there twelve, eighteen, thirty years, with no family, no husband, and they say, “Well fuck it, I’m gonna see what I can pull together in here.” When you’re faced with loneliness, any embrace is good. It feels good, because they need it. That’s how I see it. All alone in there at night, I imagine they say, “I love you a lot, look, let’s make a nice life together, we’ll support each other. I’ll work, you do this.” It’s a world that motivates them and throws them together. Some people say, “Ay that’s gross, goddamn pig women.” I’ve said it too. Men are so beautiful, how are you gonna run around with tortilla women [lesbians]? But being more humane, you say, “Honestly, what else do they have? They’re alone like dogs in there, they need to be embraced, they need to hear someone say I love you.” May God take care of them. If they’re loved by women, what are you going to do. Let them love them, let them take care of them. Really. Only God knows what goes on with the poor girls in those places. Once I was talking to Lupe she tells me, “I wanna tell you something, but I don’t want you to tell Checo.” She told me a señora who was in for twenty-five years asked Checo for a favor. Checo asks her, “What do you want?” “Well, I just want you to help me, because this guy did me wrong, he’s gotta pay. I want you to kidnap him and ask for 400,000 pesos. He’s got a lotta money. Bring me the money and I’ll cut you in.” I went to see Checo and I told him, “Look Checo, don’t get mad; Lupe told me. But I’m gonna tell you something: you’re going down the wrong path. What the fuck is up with this woman? You give her your friendship and now she wants you to do this. Don’t get sucked into a war. And if something happens to you? If you don’t hit your mark, if they arrest you or if that woman screws you? You’ll be fucked.” “You’re right, Ma,” he said, and he stopped going to visit the women in the jail.

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7 Calling Down the Saints

The Altar GREGORIA This damn world is on its head wherever you look! This whole generation is full of vice-headed kids. That’s why you have to call down all the saints. I don’t read cards, I don’t throw chamalongo shells, none of that. I’m not a witch, and I’m not a Catholic, but I am a believer and I’m grateful to God, because he loves me a lot. Here, there’s just faith. I’m not one of those people who say, “Ay, I don’t believe in anything.” We have to have faith in something, we have to love something: the Church, a different religion, whatever you need. In my altar I pray to La Flaquita, the Skinny Lady, for my whole family, for the whole world. I ask her to help us. It’s a matter of faith. It’s not about miracles or hexes. It’s a little altar, because there are some that’re bigger. Over in Xilocatepec there’s a La Santa Muerte statue eighty feet tall, and in Progreso there are others that’re much bigger. There’s even a church to La Santa Muerte there. My children? Mario is a follower of La Santa Muerte, but he’s also a devotee of the Virgin of Juquila. Luz runs sort of hot and cold, but she has her own altar. Israel’s definitely a follower of the Lord of Chalma, and The Virgin of San Juan, but he respects La Santa Muerte. Alfredo doesn’t believe in anything, but he walks a straight path, as much as he can. Mariana follows La Santita. She never misses the rosary the fifteenth of the month, and she’s got an altar in her house. Lidia and Lalo have

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their little Muerte statues too. So everybody’s made their own path to where they wanna go. As long as it’s a good path and it brings them along, it’s lovely, because we all believe in something and everyone respects each other’s beliefs. I just want them to believe in something, have faith in something, because it’s very important for your heart to be full of happiness, full of faith. We get together and everyone prays to whoever they want, but always for something good. Just like I pray for everybody, they pray for everybody; I mean, we all pray for each other in the whichever religion we follow. So then we all feel it, and we all move on up.

MARIO When I landed in jail, supposedly for kidnapping, I said to La Santa Muerte, “If you get me out of here, for real, I’m gonna buy a real huge Muerte statue.” I was cleared, no charges, nothin’. And I had that idea in my head, so I talked to my homeboys, the ones who work with me. We went to pull a few jobs, you know the kind I mean, and we made a promise there, between all of us. So we bought it. The day we took it home, everyone was saying, “You crazy bastards!” “Too bad, ’cause it’s what I believe in,” I told them. My mama had it inside, next to her door, and people would walk by and cross themselves, and sometimes she’d bring it out when she was cleaning, and people would light a candle and pray. So my mama got the idea of making a little niche outside. I told her, “You’re crazy.” “You can fuck right off,” she told me. Well shit! People started coming in groups of ten, twenty at a time. This one guy Manolo would come, and he’d get people together and perform a rosary. After that, my mama suffered through a shitload of stupid shit from people with no respect. One of my aunts lives two streets over, and she’d walk by shouting things about Christ, just to mess with my mama, just to get her goat. One time my mama told her son, “Tell your mama to calm down. Do I have to go over to your house screaming, ‘Goddamn penitent whores,’ or what?” After that, things started to calm down. The Evangelists gave her shit too, but my mama told them to get lost. You know how she is. And then the gang started takin’ care of her, and well, they wouldn’t let any jackasses around here start spoutin’ shit. These days, a lot of people know my mama—people from the gang who believe in La Madrina [La Santa Muerte] somethin’ serious—they come ask for her blessing, they go to the rosaries. There are some of ’em who’ll see her around somewhere and say hi to her like they know her. And well my mama answers ’em, so as not to be rude, “How are you,

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hijo?” But for real, she doesn’t know who the fuck they are. She’ll ask you, “Who’s that?” “Shit, well you were the one saying hi to him, you were basically gonna give him a hug, Ma.” “No, it’s ok, son, he must be a follower of La Madrina too.”

DON ROBERT Mario came and put it here. It was dressed in white. When people came by, they’d see it and say, “Who’s getting married?” Then they’d come closer and say, “Ah, well it’s La Santa Muerte.” People realized it was here, and they started leaving candles and flowers. In the end, they filled this whole space up with candles and we couldn’t leave the apartment. That’s when the idea came to me, “Let’s put it outside.” We thought about it for a long time, sometimes thinking yes, sometimes thinking no, but in the end, we made up our minds. We made the altar, brought it out, and started performing rosaries. Once we put it out, people came out of the woodwork to bring out their Santa Muertes. Everyone had one, but in secret, shit! Before then, it was a closed-off sect. The very first time we did the rosary, a lot of people lined up to come by and touch it. We saw that a lot of people came by and they understood, our faith in La Santa Muerte, was the same as having faith in the Virgin of Guadalupe or San Judas. But I never thought it was going to get as big as it did. Really, it was difficult to believe this could reach such a size. Now there are thousands of street-side altars to La Santa all over Mexico, and a lotta people perform the rosary to her every month.

LUZ I’ve known La Santa Muerte forever. I grew up with her. My mama had a tiny little altar. I never went to pray, to ask for anything, and my mama never made me go. But as I got older, on my own I started talking to her, asking her to protect me when I went out. There was always some idiot girl or another who’d say that I was evil, and not to hang out with me. But never that many. I really liked seeing how the altar was growing, ’cause you have no idea how much work my mama put into it. Man! The fights she got into, the humiliations. Some of them even wanted to get signatures together to take it down. They said that La Santa was a witch, or that it was her fault that some guy or another died, any time there was a death in the area. First of all, it was people who didn’t know

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anything about La Santa, ignorant folks, and second of all, people who have no respect. They go around looking for someone to blame ’cause really, around here there’s always been death. Muggings, shootings. It’s not new. I imagine my mama must’ve suffered a lot from that. She’d perform the rosaries on the fifteenth of every month, and it’s a lot of work: buying everything you need to make the dresses, changing them out, organizing everything. It’s a headache, but she gets excited and she enjoys it a lot. That’s why I’m happy for her. I say she’s earned it.

EDUARDO They say, “Faith works wonders,” and I see that in my home. It fills me with pleasure, with joy, seeing people who come in on their knees, or with babies in their arms, or people of advanced age. They might come here to fulfill a vow, or to ask for healing, or maybe to pray for things to go well in their business, even if it’s drugs or evil things or whatever. But most of the people who come to the altar do it out of gratefulness. A lot of people come from other neighborhoods. You can see them from the corner, singing, cheering, and you realize that joy is coming, enthusiasm, gratefulness: faith is coming. So then they stop in front of the altar with tears running down their faces and they say, “Flaquita, here I am, thank you.”

GREGORIA Once, El Calavera who gives the mass over there in Chiquimeca City came to see me. That kid is real good with politics, communications, all that. He gives interviews to the press about La Santa, asking for people to leave her followers in peace. So he’s talking to me, and he tells me what he wants is for people to see we’re supporting La Santa Muerte. I ask him, “Alright, and what are you supporting her with?” “With faith.” “But the thing is, faith is born inside us,” I told him. So then he tells me he wants the people from the altars to go to a press conference. You know how everyone’s always trying to make a jackass outta me, and he tells me, “No, well you’re very important in this barrio.” I told him, “I’m the top fuckin’ dog here, but Progreso is where the best altars are! Alright, tell me, what do you want me to say?” “I want you to ask the press, the media, the clergy and all those fuckers to conduct a search for all those goddamn rapist priests who are screwin’ the kids.” Him,

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he wanted to knock down that priest with the glasses who shows up on all the TV shows on channel 40 and channel 52, I don’t remember his name, but he’s on all the channels and all the media. I told him, “Look, I don’t get involved in that bullshit, and I’m not about to insult anybody. You don’t know how much weight that güey has, and you want to try to knock him down.” La Santa Muerte is one thing, but the clergy is another, and the whole goddamn world you bring down on top of you is a whole ’nother thing. So I tell him, “Not me, mano. You go have your press conference tomorrow and if all of you wanna go to the press conference, go ahead. I don’t put myself out there for bullshit. The altars stand on their own. There’s no need for the media. If God wants them to, they’ll stand, and if not, not. And they’re even less likely to stand with all this bullshit, because we’re gonna have the whole world at our throats.” Then the people from the other altars said, “N o, me neither,” and “Count me out,” and “That’s fucked up.” He called me and said, “I’m gonna cancel the press conference.” I told him, “Cancel it. Send us a press conference to talk about coherent things, nice things, where we can say that we have an altar and we aren’t evil or satanic, just devotees of Death, and also believers in God.” They say every morning that guy goes out to the street with a bucket and bouquets and he wants to bless everybody, the whole street. Come on! He’s a jackass. He says to me, “We’re going to defend La Muerte.” I told him, “You’re not gonna defend shit, mano. What you’re after is publicity.” Everything I have, God sent it to me. I’m not into all that crap about, “Ay, I have a website.” Fuck, come on! I say, “I don’t have anything, and I don’t pay anything, and I don’t know what the internet is.” I have no need for that. I’d rather people come out of their faith, not out of the idiocy of wanting to be on TV. When we dress the statue, people stare and say “Ahhh, it looks so nice.” We take care of all the details, because it doesn’t hurt us to spend money. I tell Robert, “Give me money for this, give me some for that, give me some for dinner, give me some to dress the statue, give me some for the rosaries, for the bouquets, for, for . . . .” And he gives it to me. He never tells me, “Ay, but you’ve already spent so much. Enough already.” He gives it to me because it doesn’t hurt him either to spend money for the altar to look nice. We don’t think about how much we’re spending on a hat, an umbrella, whatever. You take off one adornment and you put on another. You might ask why I make these little Santa Muertes. I give them away, so they can go to other houses and help other people. When it’s for Her, nothing hurts me. I’ve lived through so many things at the altar. I thank God for everything he’s given me, because there are people who are worse off. People with a lot of problems come here, and I tell them, “It’s alright, have faith in Her.”

Calling Down the Saints

MARIO I brought the statue and my mama got right fuckin’ to it. She started sellin’ candles, and she built the altar up. I give my thanks to God, that one way or another, without meaning to, I gave a living to Don Robert and her. The altar brings in good cash in sales, in everything. When I was in jail for the second time, the altar brought in enough to go see me, to give me some scratch. There’ll definitely be someone to keep the altar goin’ if my mama dies. I think it’d be best for Luz and Enrique to do it, but if they couldn’t, I’d take that shit on. I’d keep it, because it’d be more logical for me to do it since I gave it to her. But to leave it to Eduardo, or Israel, or Lidia? Never, güey. They won’t respect it, and then Eduardo will be running around pulling his bullshit, and Israel smoking weed with the whole knot of assholes there, and Lidia getting fucked up with her girlfriends, bringin’ assholes into the house. We wouldn’t leave it to Don Robert’s family either. He’s been watching over it, but at the end of the day, I gave the altar to my mama. Come on! I hope my mama’s with us many years more, but if something ever were to happen, for real, the person to take it over is Luz. I don’t know if they’d agree, because Eduardo goes way too far into the vices, and Israel has his bizarre side, and Lidia would love to have a business like that. But it seems to me, I swear, that just like it’s been enough to keep up Don Robert and my ma, it would be enough to keep us all up.

LUZ A lot of the time people think it’s like, I’ll put up an altar and it’ll go well for me. Not true. It takes a lot of luck and a shitload of effort to achieve what mama’s achieved. Me, who’s always been with her, I’ve seen her, and I know how much pressure it is. I don’t know what would happen if our mother died. Right now we’re so divided; the minute she isn’t here everything will go to shit. Who knows how ambition comes out in you, but I wouldn’t have the personality to take over the altar. If it was down to me to take charge of it, I’d take care of it, but I’m definitely not studying so I can sell candles all my life.

GREGORIA Thanks to God, I have my little room, but it’s a lie to say my kids could keep this house for their whole lives. In a few years, a goddamn earth-

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quake might come, and this piece of shit will fall apart. Who knows what’s going to happen in the future, because I’m not going to be able to bear that many years. But look at the injustice of it: before, what you had lasted your whole life, for your children, for your grandchildren. Not anymore. Now everything has an expiration date.

The Church LUZ We went to some talk with the Father from a church of the Virgin of Guadalupe. First, he was sayin’ that when the Jehovah’s Witnesses come to our house, we should bring them inside and talk to them. We should change their religion, because they’re lost lambs. I told him, “How do you think somebody’s gonna have time to bring everybody into their house? Honestly, I have things to do. I can’t be taking the time to say, “Right this way, come on in! Look, why don’t you change your religion?” Plus, I don’t want to change anybody, because I don’t want anybody to change me. I want them to respect me. I’m not gonna tell people, “You’re a bad daughter, you’re not gonna enter the kingdom of the Lord, you should change.” Then he asked us if we were devotees of any saint, and Enrique tells him, “San Juditas.” And he says, “And what makes you a devotee?” “Because I believe in him, I pray to him, I light him a candle and I go visit him.” “Well I’m going to tell you: you aren’t a devotee of his.” “But why?” my boy [husband] asks. “Do you bear his life and his work?” “No, well, no I don’t.” “Then you aren’t a devotee, because in order to be a devotee you have to be just like the saint is.” But he was pointing at us. I get pissed when people point. He said, “And what’s more, if you aren’t a devotee to any saint, well I feel so sorry for you.” But an older lady, who you could see was the kind who really did go to Church, she told him he wasn’t anybody to go around feeling sorry for people, because he’s not God. That father was high-fucking-class, a high-up position in the Church, but real damn effeminate. Then he started a talk that went on for like two and a half hours. He told us the biggest sin was not being married, and I told him, “Well for me, the biggest sin is to be married and cheat on your husband. It’s a bigger sin to have no respect than to have no papers.” He also asked us how it was possible for us to go see San Juditas on the twenty-eighth, that before we went to see San Juditas we had to go see God. I told him, “That’s also the Church’s fault. How do you want God to be first, if right

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in the entrance to the Church you have the stands set up that sell candles, and San Juditas like a business of the Church?” He didn’t answer. I wouldn’t let that guy get the better of me. That’s why faith is running out, because they give you fuckin’ talks telling you that you have to give this much cash for this, that much cash for the other thing. In the Church, there’s a lot of arrogance. I left real sick of it. When I went to baptize my daughter, they asked me for the original birth certificate and a photocopy. I brought them, but I didn’t go pick them up the same day. I went back like fifteen days later to look for ’em, and the woman asks me, “When did you baptize her?” I tell her, “I don’t remember which day, in June.” And she says to me, “In here, any documents that aren’t retrieved immediately go into the trash.” “How are you going to throw a new original birth certificate in the trash?” “Well you can think whatever you want, but we don’t have your certificate here.” The old farts were there singing, the ones who do the prenuptial talks, and the Father. Well I told her in front of all of them, “You can shove my certificate up your ass, goddamn asshole lady! Goddamn rat of the Church!” How could they throw my daughter’s birth certificate away? Either she didn’t wanna look for it, or she threw it out, but she didn’t give it back to me. And Enrique was hiding in the doorway saying, “No, no, I’m not with you.” I baptized Karla more than anything because, what if she gets married one day. Then she’ll have her baptism, her presentation, and then next is her communion, but I’m not forcing her to do anything. My kids don’t know how to pray, they don’t even know the Our Father. I’m gonna teach them. I tell my God, “Diosito, I’m thrilled they’re in your hands. Take care of them and may what you want come through.” But I’m not such a believer anymore, that’s why I don’t bring them in that much.

GREGORIA Before, I was a real nice believer. I lived with Mario, my kids’ father, and he was a real delightful drunk, the motherfucker. Well we had to baptize one of my kids and the day before, he shows up dead drunk, vomiting out bullshit, “Guess what, I know where we’re gonna go baptize the kid.” “Where?” “Over at the San Salvador Church. I know the old father over there, I’ve been drinking with him.” “With who?” “With the father from San Salvador. And guess what? When I left, they were on the phone calling up some whores to bring back to their apartment.” And I said, “You don’t say.” But I thought, “This gossiping drunk asshole, he’s fooling me.” The next day we go to San Salvador Church to arrange

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the baptism real quick. We walk into the church and my husband says to me, “That’s the old father right there.” He was giving the sermon, and when it was over, he went over to Mario and he said hello, real pretty, “Yeah, we kept going and we brought the whores back to the apartment.” He gets shitfaced in some cantina and leaves with some whores, and the next day he stands there and gives the sermon, spouting off all that claptrap, all that rot. After that, I never got near a priest. I felt so much sadness, it really hurt me a lot. I felt awful letting go of so much faith. From then on, the priests can go fuck themselves! I love my God, but I’m not Catholic because being Catholic has its rules; you have to go confess every who knows how often! You have to be there for the rosaries, for the Mass. You have to be right there lickin’ the priest’s balls. I thank all the saints, but you’re not gonna see me going to listen to a Mass. It’s not in me to go, because it’s pure bullshit. It’s “Get up! Sit down!” Is this an aerobics class or what? Or hold hands with whatever bastard’s sitting next to you, who you don’t even know. For real, it’s not in me to hold anybody’s hand; I don’t like it. I walk by a church and if the door’s open, I go in—it doesn’t matter what religion it is, I don’t care. I go in and I say, “Ay my God, thank you for my children, thank you for loving me so much and taking care of me. You are the one God for everybody,” and I leave. I’m never going to pull away from God. He’s all-powerful for me. After God comes my Skinny Lady and after her come a lotta other things. When I was a little girl, I remember my mama had a Santa Muerte and she’d pray there in front of it. I’d watch her but I only knew that she was called Santa Muerte. I never knew what she was for, who she was, what you asked her for; when you’re that little, you can’t ask stuff like that. A bunch of years went by before I started asking her. Then we moved into this vecindad. At that point I had my own Santa Muerte. It was a little slip of paper with her dressed in pink. It was the first one I had. I’d pray the Novena to her. Back then it was real hard to find Novenas. You had to keep them hidden, because prayers to La Santa Muerte were a sin. When the vecindades collapsed, I set out my altar in the street, and the people from the Baptist Church came and looked at me funny, but they never said anything. They were very respectful. They said they weren’t gonna get involved in whether we believed or not, that we could believe in whatever we wanted, because their goal was to help us and build us a room to live in. They asked us to go to a Mass at their church only once, on the day they turned the houses over to us, as a way of thanking them. We all went. I remember they gave us a little spoon and a little glass of wine and a piece of bread, but we were supposed to wait until they’d say to eat it. Well, since we didn’t know any better, we just ate it.

Calling Down the Saints

I go to see my God in the church, but if Lupita [Guadalupe] or any other of my saints are there, I go take care of my debts with them too. Last year, not the whole family, but most of us, went to San Juan de los Lagos to give thanks to the Virgin. I told her, “You’re so lovely!” When we got back, we went to the Basilica of Guadalupe to give thanks to the Virgin of Guadalupe, and then I went to see San Juditas. I went to see all those badass saints, because when some problem comes up, I want all of them to get together and get me out of it. I don’t have anything like that where I’d say, “Ay no, I don’t believe in that.” I believe in everything; in the living, in the dead, Santería, Palo Monte, I like it all. People say this cult is very tied in to the narcotraffickers, to illicit things. I say, “Sure, sometimes. And what’s wrong with that? Who does it affect?” So you sell coke and you have a Santa Muerte; well that’s your faith, but in your mind you know that sooner or later you’re going to land in jail or someone’s gonna straight up put a bullet in you and you’ll die. You know it, and you wanna take that risk, that’s something else; but that doesn’t make La Santa Muerte bad. Plus, the ones who’ve come to believe in La Santa Muerte, well it’s because they’ve wanted to, not because someone’s told them, “Ay look, you have to. . . .” No, no, no. I say when we die, that’s the motherfuckin’ end. No hell, no paradise. Once we’re dead, we don’t know squat. The Bible says what it says, but nobody really knows if it’s true. But God loves us so fucking much. If he didn’t love us, he’d already have written us off with a bunch of punishment, for being such assholes. Because we don’t even remember him. We go to sleep and we don’t give a fuck. You only remember God when everything’s up to here, “Ay Diosito, help me.” It’s the opposite: God helps us, he takes care of us, he takes care of our kids. And when we die and we die with so many sins, God’s gonna say, “Well come on over here with me,” even if we’ve been worse than bad. Hell is what we live through here; after death there is no hell. The ones who behave bad here are worse off than us; what kind of peace can those people have? Their whole life is sped up because of all the bullshit they do. They kill somebody and then they have to keep watchin’ over their shoulder so no one kills them, or their family. They have to go around hiding their kids, moving them around, always checking on how they are, making sure they don’t go out. For example, with Paco: what shit hasn’t he pulled? He went around filling up his little jar until it broke into pieces. They arrested him when they already had a whole list of what he’d done. Everything came out, “You killed so-and-so and you’ve been charging ten thousand pesos to kill people. You did this, you did that.” They gave him a hundred years in jail. You know what he’s suffered? He was a badass, but in jail there

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are badasses who’ll mistreat him. N ow his mama sells drugs and she doesn’t go see her son anymore because he’s real far away, in another state. She has two sons, and both of them are prisoners. They just call her on the phone, and she just sends them money. Can you imagine how hard it is for her to have her son in there for a hundred years? And how hard for him? That boy’s suffering. You think that’s a good life? You want more hell than that? But it’s the one you went looking for, the one you earn for yourself. Those people in jail, I think they suffer so much that God is able to see it all, and even so, God takes care of them, because God is big, God is beautiful. We all have a destiny. God tells us, “Your candle can only burn for so long,” and we can only go so far, whether we want more or we want less. How many people say, “I want to die, I’m sick of this disease, or I have such asshole kids,” but they don’t die. They jump, they poison themselves and everything, but they don’t die until it’s their time to die. When it’s your time, it’s your time, even if you pray to La Santita, to San Juditas, to the Virgin of Guadalupe. When it’s our turn, whether it’s with the whole celestial court or the whole spiritual court, well fuck, it’s our turn. There’re no bribes there, just faith. A lotta people think that just ’cause you’re a devotee of La Santa Muerte, you don’t have trouble. People have said to me, “Ay Goyita, but not you, you’re with the queen, nothing bad happens to you; you have no problems because you have La Muerte.” But I’m fuckin’ up to here with problems. But problems are one thing, and faith is another. When I have my problems, I light my candles and I make it through. When you have faith, come what may, in the end you’ll be triumphant.

For Good and for Evil GREGORIA You get into magic for good or for evil. If you want to get into the evil stuff, well, we’ll see how that goes for you. But when it blows back in your face, don’t go crying.

ISRAEL You know why some people say that La Muerte is evil? ’Cause those people are afraid of life. But life means you’re gonna die, you have to die, no matter what. It’s black and white, it’s good and evil, however you

Calling Down the Saints

wanna look at it. If it’s good for a lot of people, it’s evil for others. It’s as simple and as complicated as people make it. They’re covering up one thing with another. A lot of people pray because they know that La Santa Muerte is gonna hear them more, because she’s the one who comes for us. And people say, “Give me a chance, toss me a few more years, give me a truce.” But either way, she’s gonna take you. No way out of it. Why? Because it’s written. You can bring her a bouquet of flowers every day or whatever, but either way you’re gonna dance in the fuckin’ grave. Now alright, if there’s a bullet with your name on it, something like that, you can postpone that ticket, you tell her, “Give me a chance and I promise I’ll bring you something,” but that’s you giving a bribe, like when the cops grab you, “Give me a chance, it’s fine, a little scratch, a little gift.” You say, “Look, I promise I’ll go see you, I’ll give you a present, whatever,” and in that moment you’re making a pact with her. If you don’t come through, you’re fucked; she’ll take you because she’s gonna take you, or she’ll take someone in your family. When someone asks me, “Do you believe in La Santa Muerte?” I say, “Yeah.” “Why do you believe?” Well ’cause I’ve read, I’ve cultivated myself. I know the history of La Santa Muerte, I know its meaning. There are people who come by, for real, who don’t even know what’s up. They tell you, “No, well I believe because my neighbor told me La Santa Muerte works miracles.” Lots of folks follow the voice of the people, but in reality few know what it is, as culture. So then a lot of people come, and they pray asking why they fell, or twisted their foot, or their hand, or they say, “Ay, help me, because things are going bad with my husband.” None of that. You have to know what to ask for. You’re not praying to Santa Claus, you’re praying to La Muerte, to Death. If you ask for something, it’s a pact. I didn’t drink it down that much. I know that La Santa Muerte is death, and she’ll carry you right the fuck off. I do believe in her, but I only pray to her when something really bad happens: an accident, an illness, a shooting, something where I know I might die. That’s when I say to her, “Santísima Muerte, I never ask you for anything, but I’m askin’ now: help me out, ’cause I might get killed and I don’t want to, so give me a chance and get me outta here.” I never forget about her, but I’m not always going to see her, because there are times I don’t need her. La Muerte is La Muerte, and God is God. God isn’t going to go asking La Muerte, “Let him live,” and La Muerte isn’t gonna be telling God, “Let me kill him.” You think God would let that happen and say, “Sure, kill him”? She’s the one who takes you away, and he’s the one who brings you in. One does one thing, and the other, the other. It’s better for everyone to take care of their own shit. So I always pray to Diosito for life and health, and in the moment when I know it’s life or death, then

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I pray to La Santa Muerte. N obody’s immortal like Highlander, catch my drift? If I were Highlander, fuck! I wouldn’t believe in anybody . . . watch out! Boom boom boom! But nobody’s Highlander, güey, we’re all mortal. N obody’s spared. That’s the hustle! I’m a Chalma man, a San Juan man, I live facing forward. “God of mine, Beautiful Virgin, take real good care of me, I’ll go all the way out there to see you”; that’s faith. But guess what? Death is right on our heels. For real. Even on the holy path, death’s taken two pilgrims: “wham blam thank you ma’am!” They’ve gotten mowed down. N obody escapes her. I believe in both, in God and La Muerte, but the boss goes in front and the Skinny Lady comes behind. If I knew the day it was my turn to die, it’d be real nice. I’d go to a swimming pool, to the bar to throw back a few drinks. I’d let her come by and not find me, let her say, “Shit, I came for Israel, he was supposed to be here, but he’s off getting drunk at the bar.” But the kicker is you don’t know when it’s your turn, güey.

MARIO When you pray to La Muerte, you can offer manzanita, candy, mariachis, and you can also offer her a lollypop, a cigarette. It might depend on how big the thing you’re asking for is, but don’t offer things you can’t give her. In jail, about fifty percent of the prisoners have one. She’s taken a little more seriously in there. She’s treated with a lotta respect, because she’s the protector of a lotta people. People paint her on the walls of their cells, they have their little altars, they get tattoos of her. If you make fun of her, people’ll go after you hard, but I mean real hard. Some guys draw blood for her; they have cats sent inside for sacrifices, stupid shit like that. I had a homeboy who’d start shit with anybody, and he’d wash his Santa Muertes with the blood of the guys he busted up. It’s like Santería where people also offer some really intense shit. One of my boys who’s into that shit told me there are times, so to speak, that the heavy gangs, the narcotraffickers and those motherfuckers, they even go so far as to offer a death. They offer up some guy, for example, some guy who’s a real killer in the neighborhood, and they say, “I’m gonna bring you the skeleton of this killer.” And then, they say, they show up, they axe him, they take the flesh off the skeleton, and they take him to the Santero priest or priestess. That really is some heavy shit, it’s primitive. Imagine, they probably show up and say hi to the güey, “What’s up carnal?” and boom! they kill the motherfucker. They’re satanic narcos; they kill people like that as an offering to ask for protection and money. But those people are

Calling Down the Saints

already used to doing that normally. I can’t see myself destroying some guy. Maybe I could, but he’d have to have done something really fucked up to me, I don’t know, hurt someone in my family or something. Right now if you ask me if I’d do it, I don’t think so, but in an extreme situation, I might. We all have our limits, but then sometimes we cross them. But just like that, just to fucking do it? No. Everybody has their own beliefs; some do this, some do that, but I’ve never hurt anybody to make an offering to my Santa Muerte. What I’ve promised her is mariachis. Once when I’d done some cool bisnes, well I bought a case of Martell cognac and there I was, getting drunk with her and the mariachis. I pray to La Santa when I’m runnin’ around pullin’ shit that could get me locked up or killed. I tell her, “I’m gonna be bad; watch my back real good. Let this business go well. If something does happen to me, and I hope it doesn’t, take me fast, don’t let me suffer.” And La Santa always protects me. Whenever something’s gonna go down, for example, I never go out. Somehow, she keeps me out of trouble. For example, sometimes my family cries and begs me, “Stay, please.” And I say, “OK, I’ll stay.” And the next day or that night someone calls and tells me, “Güey, major shit went down.” “Ah, fuck!” And that always happens; the Skinny Lady takes care of me. Or sometimes my mama will tell me, “Don’t leave your house at all today; don’t even come over here.” And then later I get a call and I hear somethin’ happened. When they killed my homeboy Frijol, it was Saturday, and I was gonna to go out. But something told me, bing! I stayed in on a Saturday, ah cabrón, I never do that. I got a call at one in the morning. “What’s up cabrón, why aren’t you here? We’re getting into some shit with Alejandro.” And then at like two I get another call, “You know what, güey? They just snuffed Frijol.” And I react, “Thank you, Skinny Lady.” In my head, I feel she’s warned me. I also go every year to visit the Virgin of Juquila. I pray to her for my family, my children, to help me get ahead, to give me patience. She protects you too, but not the way the Skinny Lady does. The way you ask for things changes a bit. I go see the Virgin to thank her ’cause things have gone well for me in the time since I last went, and I bring candy, little clothes, or I buy food and I give it to the people who come by. I ask her to protect me, for things to go well. I pray to her for my health, my work, for the family not to get sick. Before you get there, like ten, fifteen minutes away, there’s a chapel where they have a Virgin of Juquila made outta black clay, and well you make little shapes out of the clay, a car, or a house, whatever you’re thinking of asking her for, and you put it on the base next to some little peso bills they sell there that are for asking for money. When I asked her for my car, she gave it to me, and when I

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went back the year after, I thanked her. A whole lotta people go there, and you see crosses everywhere, even hangin’ from the trees. I brought her a cross too once to thank her for the favors she did for me. It takes us like four hours driving to get up there, but truth is it’s worth it, ’cause bein’ up there gives you this sense of peace, you feel real fuckin’ relaxed.

EDUARDO I believe in God, and I’m also a strong believer of San Juditas, of Santería, of the Christ of Chalma, and San Juan de los Lagos. At the end of the day, in your heart there’s gonna be a little bit of faith for each of the holy images you have. Look how crazy things are: my mama used to go and light her candle for her Flaquita, and she’d send me to Church on Sundays; I mean, two really different things. She didn’t go to Church, but she’d send me. I started to believe in La Santa Muerte the most when I was stabbed in the lung. Back then I was wearing her image around my neck, but I wasn’t that convinced. When I was stabbed, they took me to the hospital, and I started feeling afraid, knowing I wasn’t there because I wanted to be, but because something had happened to me. That was the fear of debating between life and death inside me, of feeling what’d happened. At that point, I started to look at everyone and think, “And if I die, then what?” Everything and nothing at the same time starts going through your mind. That day, that exact moment was when I said, “Lovely Skinny Lady, help me out, lend a hand.” And I was fine; even the doctor told me, “You’re lucky, because just a little bit farther and you wouldn’t live to tell the tale.” I felt it was La Flaquita who protected me, “Lovely Flaquita, thank you, I’m grateful.” Moreover, when I was accused of homicide, something real weird happened. I got to the hospital, they took off all my clothes, and they wrapped them up with my Muerte chain that my grandmother had given me. I don’t know where they took them, but some time went by and they started looking for the clothes I was wearing that day. If they’d found my clothes, they could have rubbed the other person’s blood on them, and they would have had stronger proof for the accusations they made against me. I’m convinced to this day that La Santa pulled her disappearing act there, because none of it ever showed up again: not my sneakers, my pants, my t-shirt, my chain; nobody picked them up, they didn’t turn them over to my mama; I mean, nobody. La Santa is the way you believe her to be. If you believe in a punishing Santa Muerte, well, you got that idea into your head on your own. So

Calling Down the Saints

if a time comes when something bad happens to you, or someone does something bad to you, you turn to her so she’ll punish them. Sometimes you say to her, “Flaquita, I’m praying to you so that you’ll make him cross my path, because he killed my brother.” Things like that. There are some images of La Santa that from the moment you see them, you know they’re meant for evil; instead of calming pain, anguish, rancor, they exacerbate it. They even scare me a little, and I say, “Well in the name of God, Flaquita, all your images are you, but this one I really don’t like.” The people who carry those ones, you can see evil in their faces. Some people use her images like that, but a lot of people use them for good, for the benefit of their family or themselves, for their business or for illnesses. You have to be careful what you ask for, because you’re gonna get it. When you get something and you don’t reciprocate, you start going downhill. I was talking to someone who told me, “Watch out, güey, careful what you ask God for, because he’s gonna give it to you.” And I said, “Why? You’ve got it backwards, that’s cool.” But he told me, “No güey, because when he sends you something, you’re not gonna know how to handle it.” The trouble isn’t in him granting you something, it’s that you aren’t prepared to handle that gift. That’s why I say, “Jeez Diosito, I’m just asking you to let me live, for real, I’m not asking for riches, because I’m a real jackass, I don’t know how to handle a wad of cash. Just give me health, give me life, let me see my family doing well,” that’s it. Or for example, in Santería they give you a bill. If you promised something to Yemayá and you don’t pay up, she’ll collect by taking your own life, or a loved one’s life. That’s why you have to be careful what you pray for.

LUZ At night I always cross myself and I pray, “Give me light and clarity, now I’m going to sleep, take care of me.” My order is Diosito, my Santísima Muerte, my Virgin, my saints, and my little angels; every day I ask them for the same thing. I do believe in La Santa, but I feel like I’m real skeptical. I always say what has to happen will happen. I believe in destiny a whole fuckin’ lot. When it’s your turn, it’s your turn. But for example, I always say to God, “I don’t ask you for much, I’m good with what I have, but I am asking for you not to send us any illnesses or accidents.” I think he doesn’t send illnesses to punish us. I think it’s real nice that he doesn’t punish you, but he does make you understand things. He made me understand that I was an asshole because I wanted to kill my

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son before he was born. He gave me a lesson, because Quique didn’t have any apparent reason to get that sick, and there was a time when he was always sick. I suffered real bad. So then I said, “I know you’re not punishing me, but you are making me see I was wrong.” Santería is real. I have lived through many things that proved to me it’s real. When I got pregnant with Karla, they told me it was gonna be a boy. I didn’t want a boy, I wanted a girl, but I said, “Well fuck, it’ll be a boy.” Every time we went to see the doctor, he said it’s a boy, it’s a boy. I was like seven months along and we went to see Ricardo, Enrique’s godfather in Santería. He says to me, “How are you, girlie?” “I’m good, Godfather.” And he says to me, “You’re gonna have a girl.” “No, Godfather, it’s a boy.” Well he answers me, “No, mi’jita, it’s a girl, and what’s more, when she’s born, she’s gonna have a birthmark right back here.” I thought, “How the hell does he know.” I mean, I didn’t believe in anything. I went into labor and Karla was born: a girl. There was no mix-up, because she was the only baby born that day. I cried like a crazy woman when I found out she was a girl. And then when they gave her to me, and we looked at her, she had a goddamn huge-ass birthmark. Also, one time Ricardo had told Enrique he had to make him a priest (Santero in Santería) because if he didn’t, he was gonna go to jail. A few days after I gave birth, my mama comes by and she tells me, “Enrique was just arrested, they took him to the prison.” He’d been accused of mugging, ’cause he and his brother were standing next to their trucks on a corner and this goddamn bimbo comes by with the cops and she says, “He’s the one that mugged me. He’s changed clothes because he was wearing camo pants and a beige shirt.” “No way, we’ve been right here.” The cop tells them, “It’s cool boys, get in the back, we’ll straighten all this out in a minute.” And the two of them go off to the Norte prison. They got out in a month because they never found anything on ’em. Right after he got out, he went and became a priest, and from then on, everything’s started goin’ well for us.

GREGORIA We always go to the cemetery because it’s La Santa Muerte’s house. There are altars, there are churches, anything you want, but that’s her house there. We bring flowers and we put them on the graves of the muertitos. I clean one tomb, you clean another. And then later I sit down on a tomb and I pray, “Santísima Muerte, take care of my kids for me, take care of everyone who goes to the altars. Don’t let anything happen to them, aid them, listen to the people. I’ve come to pray to you, Santa Muerte,

Calling Down the Saints

because this is your house; help them.” You pray, you give thanks, and then you go pay your tribute to the tomb. Whichever muertito you come across, you pick him. You have to pick tombs that are forgotten, ones people don’t go to see anymore. You give them your little flower and you pray. If you can manage to see the name, you say, “Ah, you’re so-and-so.” And if not, you say, “Muertito who lies here, be with me, you’re among the forgotten; take care of all of us, and Our Father who’s in Heaven and Ave Maria” and blah blah blah. And at the end, we sit down. We look at everything, all nice and pretty. The air under the trees, the sun that burns our skin, and when we leave, we go single file, Indian style, and we give every tomb a coin, or we bring candles and we leave them there, or we light incense. We ask La Flaquita to help us leave behind whatever bad we’re bearing. We cleanse ourselves, and we come home. One day, I went with Montze, Checo, Lupe, and also some fat guy we brought with us. While we were there, the Norteños came by. We told them, “Come on over here.” All six of them come over and ask us, “Which one’s your tomb?” “All the ones you see with flowers on them.” And the Montze asked them for a song. I asked too, and there they were, the Norteños playing for our dead. We were sitting, me with my soda and my cigarette, until they finished playing. In the cemetery, people also go to do works of Santería; for example, sometimes it’s necessary to bury a bull’s tongue. You open it up and you stick all kinds of things inside—glass, pica pica, palm butter, pins, and you put in the photos of so-and-so and what’s-his-name. Then the tongue is closed back up and stitched together again. You put it on a plate wrapped in rice and you tie ribbons with bells on them to it. That’s what you offer a saint to ask them to make whoever get out of someone’s life. They bury it and they say, “I haven’t done them any harm; let them get out of my life and stop saying such nasty things about me, let them leave me in peace.” That’s it. Since Montze works with Santería, she goes to the cemetery a lot to leave a tongue there. They say once she went and there were a lot of federal agents there. They arrested her and the people with her, and the cops got a good amount of cash outta them to not take them to jail. After that, Montze and her Santera come to me real often asking a favor, “We have to go work a tongue, come on.” “Let’s go.” And there we are, “Fuck, don’t let them see us!” But we’ve never been arrested. Once, Montze, the Santera and I went; we’d already buried everything, but I don’t know exactly how it happened. Suddenly the cops show up and I see a tomb and I throw the tongue inside. They ask us, “Why are you here?” And the Santera says, “To leave this food here for my muertito.” And they pulled out flashlights and they started lighting up the graves, but they didn’t see anything.

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I’m not a Santera, but I believe in my saints. I mean, I have them because that comes natural to me. For example, when Karla gets sick on me, I say “Ay San Lazarito, let Karla get better,” or when Luz gave birth, I told him, “Ay San Lazarito, take care of my Luz for me, let everything go well.” And then when everything goes well, I go to the bakery and I buy his pastries and I put them on the saint’s little plate, “Here you go.” I make him promises and I bring him peanuts. That comes natural to me, it’s not because someone’s telling me to do it. With Santería, you spend a lot of money. If I tell a Santero I want him to come to my house to cure my little saints for me, he’s gonna tell me, “Ay, for this saint, we’re gonna have to kill a lamb, and this one a peacock, and for that one we’ll have to kill three black hens, go buy that for me.” I give my little saints their water and their wine, but if I get wrapped up in that I have to pray to this saint on Monday, at x in the morning, and another at night, and put the candle here, and sprinkle wine on him, and give him this thing and that thing. Ah, and on Tuesday, it’s Saint so-and-so. I have to buy him fruit, flowers, and a cake. And then on Wednesday it’s the other one and on and on like that the whole week. And then when it’s Obbatalá’s festival, you have to buy your three cakes, a bunch of flowers, pray a shitload of time and light his little candle. And you can’t forget Elegguá’s guavas, with honey and then put who knows what on them. Who can do all that! It’s a lot. No, I already told my Shangó and my Elegguá, I told all the little saints, “I love you a lot, but I’m not gonna kill animals for you and do all of that.” I have my little saint statues, when I go up there, I clean them, they grant me what I ask for. What more can I want? Checo got involved in Palo Monte because he likes it. It caught his eye and he went to go study. When he finds a little scrap of skeleton in the cemetery, he brings it home and keeps it in his house. For the people who follow El Palo Monte, dead man’s bones are worth their weight in gold. They work a lot with that, they take them into their houses, and they keep them up. They give them food, coffee, little cakes. Checo absolutely has to have his muerto, his dead man. I also have three we found in a cemetery once. One of them is upstairs, it’s called Chava, and the other’s Salvador, and the one downstairs is called Luis. I give them a lot of bread, a tostada, a little steak, a bite of fish, and everything dries out and it turns into something like jerky. I give them their tequila, and more than anything, water, so they don’t get thirsty. But you fulfill your duty more than anything in accordance with what you believe. I tell them to take care of us, and I give them their little candles, their light. Still, I’m gonna tell you something: Checo is a real badass, his godfather is too, and my Flaquita is a real heavy hitter, but my faith is more badass

Calling Down the Saints

than all of them. My faith is so big, I pull in all the good things. Checo might be really good, but if I don’t have faith in Checo, he can’t do shit for me. The godfather is a real badass, but if I say, “This guy’s an asshole,” he won’t help me at all. That’s what I think. Maybe not everybody thinks like I do, but for me, faith is something really big. With faith, we get ahead in everything. If we don’t have faith, we don’t do anything.

LIDIA All due respect to religion and the little saints, but those assholes who show up saying they’re sons of Ochún, they’re sons of Yemayá, fuck them! I’m the daughter of Gregoria Rosales, and my mama is a real bad motherfucker too!

MARIANA I got into Palo Monte when I started feelin’ bad. I even wanted to die. One day we went to a drum circle. This señor, who supposedly had a being come into him, knelt down on the ground, and then the people walked in front of him and greeted him with their shoulders. He told me himself, “They want you to die.” I thought, “He’s a real jackass, how can he think I’m gonna die?” Real incredulous I thought, “Ay no, it’s not true, I’ll die when God wants me to.” I mean, I believe good and evil exist, I’ve always believed in that. That’s why I like to have my cards read, because when someone reads your cards, they tell you what to do to prevent something from happening, or to cure yourself. But when that happened, I said, “No, nobody’s gonna do anything to me.” I put instead the blame on the menopause. Back then, I’d started seeing Troll, and his feet were real messed up. They looked like monster feet, all swollen and purple. Lidia said he had feet like blood sausages. We were dating; we’d go out walking and sit together and kiss in some park. Me, a real romantic, sitting there horny as hell, and he says, “My feet hurt.” “Let’s see, put them on my lap.” He put his stinkin’ foot on my lap, and I rubbed it hard. He told me, “Ay hija, that feels real nice.” And yeah, the swelling started to go down a little. I told him, “It’s because you don’t exercise, you drink a lot of alcohol. All of that’s adding up and blocking off your veins. Have you gone to the doctor?” I thought, “They’re gonna cut the feet off this one.” They looked real nasty. Then I started feeling even worse. I went to see my mama, I leaned back against the wall, sitting in her chair, and I told her, “Ay Mama, I feel

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worse and worse every day. I don’t even want to get up anymore, I don’t want to live.” I was ready to kick the bucket, because it’s overwhelming to feel a lack of well-being you can’t even explain. I went to the doctor, and they had me do blood tests. They even checked out my hormones, and I was fine. The doctor told me, “Ay honey, what you’re feeling is menopause, I think you’re having some really brusque changes.” After that we went to have Troll’s cards read, and they told him someone had put a hex on his legs, and what they wanted was for him to end up disabled, and they told me that someone was working on me too. That’s when Checo intervened, and he told us that Troll’s old girlfriend and her mama had put a hex on him, because they wanted to see him in a wheelchair, and alcoholic. They didn’t do anything to me specifically; more like I already had something, but there I went all fancy, massaging his foot, and while I was rubbing it, I started to get worse. Then Checo started to cure us.

After Slaughtering a Goat in a Palo Monte Sacrifice CHECO, LUZ, and LIDIA CHECO: Who knows what goddamn enemies Mar has out there, but they really are hexing you real nasty. LIDIA: It must be some roadside bitch who’s pissed her man left her. CHECO: We’d already pulled you up, and just now the muertito’s putting his mark on you again. Don’t let yourself fall into it, because if you let yourself fall into it, you won’t get out. LIDIA: It’s that bitch, Mar, I told you. Let me scratch her fuckin’ face off. CHECO: We have to give you good firmness, so you can be real cabrona. You’re gonna be fine. LIDIA: No, truth is, the best thing is to go break her fuckin’ face in and smear all her goddamn chest blood there. CHECO: I said no. LIDIA: Seriously, we have to fuck that motherfucker up so she stops fuckin’ around! I told my sister already. LUZ: Will it come out? Who is it, Checo? CHECO: Yes, it’ll come out, but I’m not gonna tell you who it is, I’m just gonna cure you. LIDIA: How do you want me to attack her, then? CHECO: No, we’re not gonna attack, we’re just gonna cure. LIDIA: I don’t give a rat’s ass; I already know who she is. I wanna go to Iztapalupa. Wherever I find her, I’m gonna beat the fuck outta her.

Calling Down the Saints

CHECO: Look, why can’t we say who it is? Because you’re people to be reckoned with. So then you go, and you bust her shit up, and for what? Instead of me putting a stop to this, and doing good for you, and giving you stability, I could end up getting you in trouble, and making you start shit. It’s better for us to attack this the way we did last time, with the characteristics that come out when we throw the shells. If it comes out that it’s a person like this and like that, we’ll make a paper and smear it and load up the cock-a-doodle-doo and we’ll go drop it off later. On their own, on their own they’ll fall, without you having to go looking for problems. LIDIA: Ay, but sometimes Diosito can’t do it and you have to give him a hand. That’s what I’m here for, you see if I’m not. CHECO: We’re going to give you firmness, Mar. We’re going to give you some little bitter baths that absolutely have to have corpse-scarer, witch-pounder, bitter broom, marigolds, and all that shit and we’re gonna give you some candies too with ceiba-tree essence, orange blossom, and road-opener so all of it can open up in you, and you can get rid of all of it. Once we’ve done that, we’re gonna make rogations on your head and we’re gonna buy a little dove so it can fly and open all the roads for you, give you stability, and for all of this to fly away. We’re gonna go to the cemetery. We’ll bring the cock-a-doodle-doo we clean you with, and we’ll offer the blood that runs out of the rooster. For what? To turn her work back on her, and for that cock-a-doodle-doo to bring her illness, bring her accidents. Or bring her death, fuck! You’re gonna see how the person who did it is gonna start losing her health. And she can go see a thousand doctors, but they’re never gonna find anything, because this work, it’s not from science, it’s from spells, it’s from witchcraft. How many times do you see people who go to a shitload of doctors and they can’t find anything wrong? But they go to the curandero or the brujo and he makes them better. Because it’s a hex they have on them, and what we work with here is the dead. There are two kinds of dead: good dead, who open roads for you, those are the ones we work with, and dark dead. What do the dark dead do? The dark dead eat away your life, and they pull at you and pull at you, until they take you away. We’re gonna do all this for you, and we’re gonna give you stability. You’ll see how things are gonna go differently for you. It’s what you need.

MARIO When I was in jail the second time, my mama made a promise that if I got out, she’d offer a goat to Elegguá. I don’t know if that’s what made

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the difference. Truth is, I don’t really go in for Santería that much, I stay on the margins, but they did it with a lot of faith, and I thank them for what they did. When I got out, they killed the goat. Checo cleansed me with it and then sscchhhk! they cut off its head, singing a song that I didn’t understand really well. It went something like “Little goat you gonn’ die, little goat you gonn’ die.” When I saw the poor animal bleeding, I swear I felt real bad. It’s their religion, so they’re used to it, but me, I don’t like that. I’ve done a lot of really intense shit, but I can’t kill an animal. I can probably kill some asshole, because I say, “Ay, he went too fucking far!” But an innocent little animal . . . it sounds stuck up, güey, but for real, no. Like that story where the wife comes home real happy because it’s their ten-year anniversary, and she says to her husband, “My love, it’s our ten-year anniversary, let’s slaughter the pig.” And the güey answers, “How is it the pig’s fault? Let’s slaughter your sister, she’s the one who introduced us.” Fuck yeah.

Pilgrimage ISRAEL One homeboy one day said, “Let’s all go to Chalma to see the Lord and give our thanks.” And the whole gang said, “Let’s go, fuck it,” and we went. We went without anything, acapella, güey, with hailstones falling and everyone on empty stomachs. We were the most lacra guys, the hardest, the most feared. That’s how we got started with the pilgrimages, the peres. In the beginning we didn’t know shit, but we started realizing that the kids in the towns on the road to Chalma are lacking a lot. So we said, “Jeez, next year we’re gonna bring toys for them.” Whatever we had we’d pool together to bring to them, or there was somebody who’d say, “I’ll put up the scratch. Here, you go buy them.” More and more people started goin’ and we started appointing guys to do security, to wear vests. Those of us who wear vests are the kids who started with the pere. Just because you come up and say, “I’ll put on a vest,” that doesn’t mean you can be security. You earn your place as security. We who wear the vests know what the deal is. This year, we made the regulation that vests eat last, so we can give priority to the pilgrims. I think it’s good, because it’s like we’re the police; I mean, the guests eat first, and then the organizers. For me, going to Chalma or San Juan is for giving thanks. Every year I make it through, whether it’s a lot or a little, even if it’s just enough to buy beans, I go see the Virgin [of San Juan de Los Lagos] or the Lord of

Calling Down the Saints

Chalma. Plus, it’s time I have to be with my friends: a vacation where I can be with the whole raza, all the lacras, the whole mafia. It’s the only time in the whole year where I can just fuck around. I enjoy it a whole fuckin’ lot, because it’s different. It’s three, four days we sleep peaceful; I can be there lying down with the whole gang, smokin’ a joint, shootin’ the shit ’til dawn. You can be there and suddenly boom! someone throws an orange at you and we all laugh, we all pile on top of whoever it was! It’s a cool time, a time we don’t know if we’ll live to see the next year or not. We all go walking up the mountain with a little joint, but there’s no sex, no casinos; it’s somethin’ else. What Mario does is different. When he goes on a pilgrimage with his boys, they always go over to Acapulco; they pick up whores. It’s a cool ride, but they’re just making an excuse to go to the beach with their friends and get fucked up. That’s a different thing. They aren’t exactly goin’ the way we do, united, with no problems. On the pere we all eat from the same pot. Even if there’s someone on the pere I don’t like, it’s a time when I forget about everything. In the groups, we never fight. We’re on the sacred path, and Diosito will punish you if you’re fighting. For me, at that time, we’re all equal. There are no friends or enemies—we’re pilgrims, we’re brothers. Still, there’s always someone who’ll say, “I’m bringing my glock.” The gang [Xochitlán] who do it differently from us have already killed a few people on the walk. About eight years ago, they gored a guy with a bull’s horn in the forest on the road to Chalma. That’s why I bring my glock, my knife; for real. If someone steps to you, you show them the glock and that’s the end of that.

LIDIA I would pray to the Lord of Chalma, but I wasn’t a devotee of his. I’d say, “Take care of me, watch over my family,” and that’s it. The person who got me into the peres was Mónica. She’d already been walking there for three years, and one day she told me, “Let’s go to Chalma, it’s real cool.” I liked the atmosphere. A lot of guys and girls would go, and kids, whole families. People bring crosses: little ones, big ones, all sizes. And they bring images of San Juditas, the Lord of Poison, the Lord of Chalma. It’s a real nice thing to walk praying the Rosary, singing praise. When you go through the forest, you can even hear the echo of the hymns. That’s when you pray and say, “Thank you, my God, for letting me come, ’cause today I’m here and I’ve come to pray for my brother, for everything to go well for him, and for things to go better in his life.” Everyone goes with a different idea in their head. Their faith is what their heart tells them.

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El Chato was the one who led the pere. He was the one who guided all of us. He didn’t shout, he didn’t scold, he just pulled you along and talked to you. He’d say, “You know what, sister? You’re wrong in this,” or “You know what, brother? That’s not done,” or “Look brother, have respect.” There really was more communication when he was there. He always explained why to us, and everybody followed him; there were no problems, no fights, no envy, fewer drugs. If he saw a problem or something, he was the one who’d find a solution, but always for good. When we got to the rest stops would give us the chance to goof around, but at a certain time he’d pick up his megaphone and he’d say, “Brothers and sisters, please, it’s time to sleep.” He was real great. Later, he changed a lot ’cause he got into drugs and he was going around real bad, lost. He beat his wife a lot; she even ended up crippled from a bullet he put in her leg. They say he put a bullet in his head or hung himself afterwards, I don’t really know. The gang back then was heavier than now, but you couldn’t tell. They respected the people who went more. They were real badasses, but in the pere it was something else, real different. They acted like brothers; they did a 360° in those days. Most of the people who’d go when I started walking aren’t there anymore; just two or three are left. Chiste, Sombra, and Pacha have passed away. They were vests in the pere, and with them it was super cool, ’cause they hung out with the people a lot, they brought food, they’d talk with you. When they saw somebody gettin’ tired, they’d go back and give ’em support so they could make the pilgrimage. Or when one sister was tired, they’d say, “Flag down a truck,” and they’d put her in one of the support trucks that had our backpacks in them. Or they’d go with her, taking care of her. They were also the ones who’d give the providence; they’d hand out t-shirts, hats, badges. The pere starts on the corner in Alcatráz. There’s a Mass, and when it’s over we give thanks. First, you walk around the streets and you stop at the places where some pilgrims have died, where there’s a niche or a little altar. You go by to ask the brothers who’ve stayed behind to accompany us on our path, go with us, get us there good and bring us back good. You say, “Güey, I’ll be back in a bit, just keep an eye out for me, ok?” Then we pray again at the starting point, where they line us up to start the walk towards Chalma. We go single file, Indian style. The vests take care of you, sayin’, “Keep to the right, sister, don’t get out of line, stay in single file.” Or they tell you, “There’s a car coming. Be careful sister, don’t fall.” You always hear the voices of the ones takin’ care of us. They have their flashlights, their vests, their flags, and they scoot you over to the wall where there aren’t any cars so the cars can pass by freely.

Calling Down the Saints

The providence is brought by a family who wants to, and who can afford to. So then at the rest stops you get some chow. They don’t give out delicacies, but they’ll give you a taco, coffee, tortillas, a stew, a sandwich, beans, chicken. And whatever they give you tastes like heaven. Between the road and the rests, it takes us like four days. The path is real tiring, but that tiredness doesn’t hit you ‘til the way back. Your legs always hurt a little, they swell up, but it’s not like you’re saying, “Ay, I can’t stand up.” I think that because you go with faith, you have what you’re praying for in mind. For me, those days are like freedom. I do what I want without anybody telling me anything. If I want to, I drink, if I want to, I smoke, if I want to, I sleep. I’d always go with Israel, and he’d always watch out for me. For example, sometimes I’d hang back waiting for my friends who’d gotten tired; well, when he couldn’t see me anymore, he’d run around like crazy, and he’d start, “My carnala, where’s my carnala?” He’d send Tavo, Pelos, or Victor or whoever to go look for me. Sometimes he’d let fly these real loud whistles, and from the back I’d tell him, “Alright, I’m here!” And he’d tell me, “Well come where I can see you. Don’t get lost on me.” He’d say, “My sister is here. Wherever I am, my sister is.” I felt super safe. I’d think, “I’m with my brother.” When you were with Israel, truth is, nobody suffered. He kept us real well taken care of, real nice like “Alright güey, cover them over here and pull it over there, you go here, and you all over here.” And whether you wanted to or not, well everyone always did what he said, because everybody’d go see him, “This guy over here isn’t listening and he’s walking over there selling stuff.” They always had him up front, and he was like the one who calmed everyone down. I remember one pilgrimage where from the minute we left, there was trouble. Back then El Chango was captaining the pere. Then there was brother Parca, Israel, a bunch of guys who’d been together from the beginning; you could say the ones who had the best control over the people at the time to keep everybody peaceful. Well before we even got to the Arco, people started shouting, “Some cabrón’s fallen over!” and they pulled us all off to the side. It was frijol from Tulipán, who’d fallen into a ravine and everybody was real scared ’cause he fell into a nest of snakes. They got him out. Then a truck came up to where we were, and they told us there was a guy lying on the side of the road a kilometer back, but they didn’t know if he was from the pilgrimage or some town nearby. We never found out, because nobody wanted to go back. At another point, we were all sitting down and Israel left us ’cause he went to go see if the food was ready. Well somebody came up to me and told me Israel was arguing with some guy, and it looked like they were gonna beat the crap out of each other. I went running over where he was and

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they told me, “let them at it, don’t get close, manita, they’re gonna have a clean fight.” “Okay.” I just stood there and all I could see was how they started punching each other; they gave each other a good beating. I didn’t ask him anything, ’cause he was real mad that whole day. Later we got to Xalatlaco. That day it rained; there was a huge storm. Some kids had come on the pilgrimage with no tent, no sweaters or anything; they were just huffing paint thinner the whole time, and since the start of the pere they hadn’t wanted to eat anything. When it started pouring, we went into these chicken coops ’cause we couldn’t find a single hotel room; they were all full. Somebody loaned the kids a tent, sayin’, “Here, take this, get in here at least. I just don’t have any blankets or anything.” But they were so fucked up, I think they curled up into little balls and fell asleep. The next day the vests got us up for breakfast. We were lined up movin’ forward when someone came to see Israel, pulled him over and told him, “Fuck, you know what? Those kids died.” And Israel, “What?” I saw from far off how his face changed, and I said, “What happened?” “Nothing, nothing. I’ll be right back. Later he came back and told us, “There’s just been an accident.” “What happened?” “One of the kids stayed behind; Sombra’s son.” That’s when word started spreading that the boy’d died in the tent, and they were seeing if the other kid could be saved, because he was real bad. They yelled at us real fuckin’ bad, asking how it was possible, we were brothers in pilgrimage. Why didn’t we lend them a hand? They yelled at the women as much as the men, because later there were also some girls, goddamn vice-heads, who showed up all fucked up. Then the police came and started asking who’d brought the boy, who was in charge of the pilgrimage, to see who was gonna answer for the boy’s death. El Rojo, who was still a Federal Agent, was the one who fixed the whole thing. He told us, “Walk, keep walking.” And he told my brother Israel, “You know what? Take them all with you, and I’ll see you in Chalma. I’ll stay here to deal with this, I’ll make some calls and we’ll give some bribes,” and we left. Once we got there, we found out the kid died of hypothermia, and the other one was real bad in the hospital.

EDUARDO I used to go on the pilgrimages a lot, because I’d get together with all the guys from Alcatráz and back then, well, that was the thing. A lot of times I went with my faith up high to pray, but sometimes I’d turn around and I’d look at the pilgrimage and I’d see guys who were just goofing around. I mean they weren’t going with that faith, they weren’t going with that

Calling Down the Saints

joy. You can goof around and have faith, but there are times you can tell they’re pure thugs. Instead of letting the pilgrimage follow its path, moving with faith, with devotion; the love gets lost, the essence of faith gets lost because people are distorting it from behind. It’s really annoying for those of us who go with faith, who are going to hand over our problems to the Lord of Chalma or the Virgin of San Juan and thank them.

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GREGORIA (on the phone) “Uh huh, hang on, lemme see if I can find it. I’ve got it right here. Okay, what else? Alright, tell me. How’re we gonna settle this? Yeah, I’ll figure out what to tell ’em. Beg your pardon?”

MARIANA, LIDIA, and MARIO (moments later) LIDIA: Mama got into a taxi, alone. I’m telling you, she took a taxi over there. How could she? MARIANA: Israel’s working. Should we call him? LIDIA: My mama’s gonna get pissed if we call Israel and get him goin’ crazy over this, too. MARIANA: Well I am going crazy over it. Don’t even have a car or a motorcycle or anything to follow her. LIDIA: But it’s someone we know. Somebody she trusted betrayed her. MARIANA: It could be anybody, sister. How many people come around here knowing all our names? It could be any nut job. LIDIA: I heard him tell my mama, “I’m a kidnapper, I’m a rapist, I’m a murderer: me, I don’t give a crap about anything. So you, what do you want? You want me to start killing her? I’ve got your Karla right here.” He started tellin’ her everybody’s names. I don’t know how much he wanted, but my mama was goin’ crazy, “No, no, hang on a minute

Extortion

señor, all I can give you is a hundred thousand pesos. I don’t have any more than that. Whoever told you my accounts were full was lying; I don’t even have bank accounts.” Mama walked away so I wouldn’t hear any more, but I could still kinda hear him tell her they have photos of all of us women, they even have photos of the girl, and if she didn’t want to lose her beloved Karla then she shouldn’t get stupid. They knew how to get under her skin with the girl—that’s why, like I said, she went goddamn crazy, Sister. MARIO: [coming] What, güey? What’s going on? MARIANA: Somebody called my mama on the phone and they’re extorting her. She already gave them some money, but then they told her they wanted more, or they were gonna kill Karla, Luz, the baby. And Mama left, on her own. She got into a taxi and she hasn’t come back. MARIO: Those are goddamn worthless güeyes; they’re animals. They’re calling from inside the prison. No, no, no. I’m gonna lay it out real clear for you: otherwise, they could’ve grabbed my mama somewhere out there and pulled her in, easy. Then they would’ve had us by the balls, but they didn’t, because those jackasses are behind bars. Listen! Nobody leaves here, alright?

LIDIA We were taking Luz’s kids to the doctor, ’cause back then they had real bad bronchitis and they got sick all the time. We were about to get in the taxi when somebody called my mama from some licenciado’s office. Don Robert started yelling for her; we went back inside, and my mama grabbed the phone. That’s when the whole fuckin’ thing started. I saw her face drop. I said, “What happened, what’s wrong at home?” I imagined it had something to do with one of my brothers, something like that. My sister Mariana shows up in a taxi, she says hello and sees my mama won’t let go of the phone. “What’s up, what’s going on? What’s wrong? Who’s she talking to?” Right then whoever it was started telling my mama they had my older sister, they were gonna rape her and they were gonna kill her, they were gonna do all kinds of horrible things to her, and they knew where Luz lived too and they were going to send her beloved granddaughter Karla back to her in pieces if she didn’t go deposit the money. They were saying lots of things to her. But she didn’t wanna tell us anything. She couldn’t even talk, ’cause she was on the phone with that guy. We only knew what was happening ’cause I put my ear up to the phone and she let me hear. What little I can remember is this: it’s like I’m still kinda blocking it out, but I remember when we

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were in the house, my mama told us to shut up, real harsh. Luz and I were telling her, “Mama, calm down. Turn off that phone. Hang up.” And then she said, “Shut up; they’re going to kill la negra.” And my sister told her, “Mama, I’m right here. They’re lying! Look at me, I’m la negra!” They fucked with her head so much that she was totally out of it, she was in shock. “They’ve got Diana, they’ve got Roxana . . . .” And we were all shouting at her, “We’re right here!” And she said, “No, no, no, shut up, shut up. They’re going after my girls; can’t you see they have my girls already?” Real out of it, my mama was. Everything was chaos. All of a sudden, she went with you and Mariana towards the Eje. I don’t know what I went off to do, but when I came back, you and Mariana were here already, really freaked out because you didn’t even know what had happened. I remember I asked you, “Where’s my mama?” “She took off running. She got into a taxi and she left,” that’s what you told me. And my sister said, “She gave us the slip, manita. She got away from us and she started running.” “How could you let my mama go by herself?! What the fuck?!” Hours went by and we didn’t know where she was. We didn’t know if something had happened to her, we didn’t even know if she was alive.

MARIANA She took a real long time to come back, and when she did, she was still on the phone. They told her they needed another twenty-five, but she had to deposit it under someone else’s name this time. My mama started to go get the money from Elvis, the guy at the store. She asked him to loan it to her while she was still on the phone with the blackmailers, “Yes, I’m getting it now, I’m getting it now.” She left again, but right then Montze and one of Montze’s friends showed up—some fat girl, I don’t remember her name—and we all went after Mama. I wasn’t gonna let her get away from me, not for anything. My mama went to get another taxi on the Eje. She gets into the car and she says, “Get out of here.” And Montze tells her, “We’re not gonna leave you. Everybody get in,” and we all got in. “The thing is, I’m being followed,” my mama says to her. But by then they were writing notes to each other, passing the paper back and forth. Montze writes, “This is coming from inside the jail,” and my mama writes again that it isn’t. “I’m alone. I’m on my way to deposit the money,” my mama says into the phone, and the idiot answers her, “Alright, something.” Montze writes, “See how it is comin’ from inside the jail? How else could they not realize we’ve gotten into the car with you?” There were four of us in the taxi, and behind us we had one of Israel’s

Extortion

friends following with a machine gun. Mario and Israel were following in their trucks with a bunch of cabrones too, and more machine guns. When we got to Elektra, where she was supposed to deposit the money, my mama was gonna go in, but Israel blocked her off. “Mama, give me the phone.” “Stop fucking around, I’m gonna go deposit it.” Israel says to her again, “Give me the phone.” “I said no! Move, they’re going to kill Mariana!” Right then Israel grabs his gun and he starts loading the chamber, chhhk! chhhk! and he puts the gun up to his head, “Mama, I’m gonna kill myself if you don’t give me the phone.” My mama was paralyzed. “Calm down, calm down! I’m gonna put my son on the phone,” she says to the guy and she tosses the phone to Israel. They start talking to each other, “Yeah, pendejo, we’re waiting for you right here,” and I don’t know what else Israel told him. And then they tried to get into his head with psychology too, ’cause they even told ’im, “I have your sister Mariana here.” But Israel yelled at him, “Oh yeah, jackass? My sister is standing right next to me. I have all my sisters here, pendejo. Come here and start shit whenever you want.” “Well I’m gonna kill her.” “Well go on, kill her.” While they were talking, we got my mama into the Elektra, and Mario told her, “This is all coming from inside a prison. Nobody’s gonna kill you; they’re not gonna do anything to you, Mama.” And it was like right at that moment my mama snapped out of it. And Montze asked her, “How much did you leave for them?” “Twenty-five thousand pesos.” “Where did you leave it?” “Here.” They’d sent her back to the same Elektra. Montze went and talked to the manager fast, and he went and asked the cashier if my mama had come by before to leave twenty-five thousand pesos in the name of whoever. The girl started lookin’ through her files and she said, “Yes, and the money hasn’t been claimed yet.” So they gave the money back to my mama.

LIDIA We were all real freaked out by my mama’s reaction, ’cause she was really out of it. It was intense. Honestly, it was horrible because it all happened in a couple a minutes and then suddenly, she disappeared. You look at her, so strong, so whole, with her feet on the ground, and you say, “How could she believe that deception, if she was right there looking at all of us?” Only God knows why all of us siblings were there that day. It was really weird. Mario sometimes comes by in the morning, or me in the afternoon, Lalo at night, Israel at noon—I mean, we’re never all together. Just at reunions, and even then, somebody’s always missing. That day, outta nowhere, Mario shows up, then Israel, then Mariana. I was

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there, Luz was there, Alfredo and Lalo—we were all there. And she was so outta it she didn’t even realize. She didn’t even know who was who. When we were all back in the house again, all these trucks and cars pulled up. At first I thought, “My god, they’ve come for us,” ’cause you never know with people. But it was the backup my brothers’d called in; they were there to watch out for us. Some of them came on account of Mario, others for Israel. Imagine it: the whole street full of people, and every one armed. All the roofs of all the vecindades had snipers on ’em. In every vecindad, at every gate, at every door, there were armed cabrones. I felt trapped, like “Ay, what the fuck?” ’Cause you couldn’t leave. Nobody could, not even to go to the store, ’cause of what’d just happened. It was real intense pressure. I felt hounded. There was a while afterwards where every time I’d fall asleep, all of a sudden I’d wake up with my eyes fulla tears and the pillow all wet. And Adán kept askin’ me, “What’s wrong?” “I dreamed I was being dragged into a car,” or that they had my mama, or that they were dragging Diana [her daughter] into a car and they were calling me on the phone. I dreamed all of that. In the family, we never bring it up. I think all of us were as damaged by it as she was, freaked out. Nobody wants to talk about it. We’ve all wanted to stick it in a bag somewhere and leave it, because a psychological gut-shot as intense as that takes a long time to get over. Later, they tried to do it again. Somebody called Don Robert and told him, “We have your daughter,” and I don’t know what all else. And he could hear a girl screaming, “Help me, help me, they dragged me into a car.” But this time everybody was wise to it; they hung up and started makin’ calls. Don Robert called his daughters and my mama called hers. Trouble was, they couldn’t get a hold of me, but like my mama says, “I knew you were fine, and we didn’t pay any more attention to the call.” But they tried to do it to her again after that. She got a call, and someone said, “Guess what? We have your daughter.” Supposedly the daughter was shouting, “Mama, Mama, help me,” and my mama told them, “Guess what? You can go fuck yourself, ’cause I don’t have any children, I’m a mule,” and bam! she hung up. She knew the game by then. Still, my mama was messed up over that for a long time. She’d go downtown and everything’d scare her. She’d walk down the street looking over her shoulder, until little by little she started gettin’ her confidence back. It was bad; I mean, real bad. They knew right where to hit her. If they’d told her that they were gonna kill Don Robert, for example, she would’ve said “You can drag him right off to hell.” ’Cause I know my mama: she knows how to talk back. But they knew just how to get to her, ’cause back then she was always telling everybody, “Ay, my granddaughter Karla this,” and “my granddaughter Karla that.”

Extortion

LUZ They knew where I lived, they knew my little girl’s name [Karla], they knew a million things that nobody knew except the people who went into her home. They knew what my mama was wearing that day. That asshole told her on the phone, “You’re wearing a black dress right now; you better save that dress for your kids’ funerals, ’cause I’m gonna kill every one of them.” How the fuck did they know she was wearing a black dress? Who was watching her right then? We couldn’t imagine anybody in the family, anybody so close to us, could do that. Putting the pieces together, we think it must’ve been Cristina, Mario’s ex, with her new boyfriend Andres, and even my mama’s own grandson, Victor. First of all because they knew everything about us. Plus, things between my mama and Cristina had ended badly; she’d kicked her out of the house ’cause when she was still living with Mama, she switched the electric bill into her name. Think about it: the house’s in my mama’s name, and one day the bill comes addressed to Cristina. Well, things soured between them, they got into it, and my mama kicked her out. We suspect that in her rage, she pulled this bullshit: who else? Plus, her new boyfriend was in the Oriente prison, and we knew he was running extortion from the inside. And her son Victor was there in the house when it happened. He went inside with his grandma to eat and all that shit, but even then he never put his phone down for a second, kept sending text after text. When the call came in and everything started, he came out to see what was up and he just watched and watched. So everything was pointing back to them, but in the end, who knows. You know the kind of riffraff my mama knows. She goes to the jails a lot, and even if she doesn’t have money, she helps people. Like eight days went by, and then an acquaintance told her, “Yeah Ma, the call came from the Oriente prison.” Said it’d been Andrés with some other guy from Veracruz. And then after that, Cristina and Esther got into a fight. Esther was Lalo’s wife, Aarón’s mama. She and Cristina were real close friends; they lived together and they’d go to the prison together, but one day they started fighting ’cause Cristina owed Esther money. Y’know what they say, “When comadres get into it, the truth comes out and it’s fuckin’ legit.” Well Esther told my mama, “Y’know what? For real, here’s how that shit was: Andrés was the one who planned it all, but it was the Veracruz guy who called you. Victor was giving the signs and Cristina was the one who was gonna pick up the cash.” It all came out: who it’d been, what jail the call came from, who gave the information, who’d called her, and who was giving the orders, “Look, say this, say that.” Now Victor works here in Camelias; he’s a butcher. I never talked

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to him again. Even now if I see him, I shoot that dog a nasty look; I stare daggers at him. How was he gonna touch my daughter, that fuckin’ asshole? I hate him. People like that are cynical: no scruples, cold blood.

PATRICIA My mother-in-law really loved Cristina. She kept living with her for a long time when Mario was already living with Alba in the vecindad across the street. One day Mario went to her house and told her, “You know what? Get out of here,” but my mother-in-law protected her one hundred percent. She told Mario, “You get out of here; she’s staying. Where are you gonna have her go with your kids? You get out.” Cristina was in jail once. When they notified my mother-in-law she’d been arrested, she cried and cried. She went up to the house and told me to go with her because they had arrested Cristina. It turns out that Cristina had started seeing a boy in the jail. So then one time when she went over there, this girl Marisol told her to hold on to a blanket for her, and Cristina held onto it. When they pulled out her things to go through them for security, a river of pills fell out; drug pills. Twenty-eight of them; that’s why they arrested her. She said, “No, Marisol gave them to me.” Well they arrested them both and both of them were locked up. When she got there, my mother-in-law was crying and crying; she kept saying, “What am I gonna do?” She says she went to the cemetery with a photo of Cristina and she told La Santita Muerte, “Ay Santita, tell me something: what are her kids gonna do? Help her.” So then she brought in a lawyer. Cristina was up for twenty-eight years because it’s a federal crime; you do one year per pill, but the lawyer went to bat for her and she was cleared in six months. She got out because she didn’t have anything to do with those pills; they proved that the one who was bringing them in was the other girl. While that was happening, my mother-inlaw stayed at home to take care of the kids. My mother-in-law helped Cristina with everything, and in the end, she got her out of jail. And now look how she repays her.

MARIANA When we found out who it’d been, we were furious. How could Cristina repay her like that? They say your own blood pays you back the worst. She lent you a hand, gave you food to eat, supported you, got you outta jail, and you go and pull some barbaric shit like that. How’m I gonna

Extortion

bite the hand of the person who’s fed me? Fuck that! My brothers for sure would’ve gotten revenge if it weren’t for my mama giving the order to leave her alone. “Don’t go over there anymore; leave them to God.” You think, after everything they’ve done to her, how could she suddenly say, “No, leave them alone”? It’s a miracle she didn’t have a heart attack. When you’re in a situation like that, your first instinct is to say, “I’m gonna kill her.” But then you think about it and you say, “Alright, then you’d turn into the same thing she is.” I think Mama wanted to keep from being the same as her.

ENRIQUE (LUZ’S HUSBAND) What Cristina did was bad, but I understand why Mario kept his cool. His son was involved in that. Whatever they do, they’re never gonna stop being your kids. Same with me. If the same bullshit happened with me, I’d have to stand with my son, even if the one affected was my mama. But it’s intense shit. I pulled a really, really bad hex outta my books, to kill the people who did it. Once we knew the names of who’d extorted her, the hex was quote unquote simple. You cut limes in half. On butcher paper, you write the name of the person and you fold it in half. You put that red stuff on the name, that stuff that’s like Guinea peppercorns. You can’t touch it, you can’t smell it, you can’t pick it up with your fingers, and what’s more, if you throw it at someone, they’ll die right there on the spot. Why? Because they’re powerful powders; you hafta know how to handle them. Anyway, you close it up with fifty straight pins make a cross over the whole lime. Put all that in a dark container with a lid. I put some vinegar in there too, and some coffee, and some urine before I put the lime in. You close everything up and drop it into the river. The minute the container hits the river, that’s when it immediately starts to take effect. I went to throw it into the dirty river in Naucalpan; I think it’s called the Remedios river. The moment I dropped it and it fell into the filthy water, it was like I’d fired a cannon; it even splashed us. Didn’t splash us a lot, ’cause we were on a bridge like forty-five feet above the water, maybe a little less. But the minute I tossed it over, the water let out this intense boom, since it had so much tension in it. Two or three days later, I started hearin’ talk about how Andrés’d been sent to a different jail; they’d stabbed him and nailed him with who knows how many chips there on the inside. They found out he was extorting, that he’d been paying off the director of the Oriente prison, and to wash his hands of it, the director sent him to the Santa Marta

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prison. The hex worked. Cristina too, she had a falling out with her best friend, Esther, who confirmed it’d been her. Plus, she’s sick. Her legs are all fucked up with spider veins. She’s screwed now, too. Little things like that, they make you say, well, from all the hexes that I did and other Santeros did, it really did work, ’cause there really was a lot of damage done.

GREGORIA Not long afterward, Renato came by and I told him what’d happened, and we asked him to do a hex. When we did it, I watched everything that brujo witch-man did. He prays over here, he says some words, he throws them, he puts out the papers and he covers them with black salt. Anyway, all that hullaballoo was so she would go away. Renato started smoking a cigar and then he goes and turns around this way and he starts with his brouhaha. I see how the smoke comes out, by God, I swear on the Virgin, he sucks on it like this: ssshhhhhh (like sucking in). And it seems like the smoke vanished like this, “fuuuuuuu.” He ate it up. Then Renato says, “Now you can sleep easy,” and not tiniest bit of smoke came out. I said, “Ay, let ’em drown, let ’em get emphysema. Ay Diosito, you know I’m not bad. I know this is bad, I understand it. Don’t think I’m playing the fool, Lord, but you know that this is about justice, because what they did hurt me. It’s nothing more than justice. If you want them to die, well, let them die. Santa Muerte, if they’re gonna die, let them die.” But Renato says, “I’m not asking for justice, I’m asking for vengeance. I want them to die.” Well, he’s pure voodoo. But for me it’s more for them to leave our path, or at least mine and Luz’s. Eight days ago I went to the cemetery to leave the black hex there under a gloomy tomb. I sat down there with my Coke and my cigarette, and Chequito was throwing flowers all over the cemetery. Well we bought a bunch of flowers, we untied them, we grabbed ’em, took some out, put some others in. For who? Well who knows, but I filled that cemetery with flowers. I stood up there and I prayed to the dead. I thanked La Santa Muerte and asked her to watch over us, not to leave us unprotected, to take our enemies away. That day suddenly you could feel the wind blowing, shhh shhhh, and then you turn around and that tree was moving like this, sssssss. It made me think the black hex was for good, ’cause doing harm is for idiots. With the black stuff I just want my enemies to leave me alone, whoever wants to do me harm. I light a black candle for them, and God be with them. But I don’t want them to die, I just want ’em to leave my path. When you get into black hexes, that’s God’s will. As long as God doesn’t want me to, I’m not gonna die. I

Extortion

might fall and everything, but I’ll get back up. I’m not gonna forget that phone call. I still have a knot right here, stuck in me. I’m never gonna forget that güey’s voice. Fuckin’ curse after curse. But we’re on our way forward, puttin’ our backs into it. There’s nothing else to do but give it our all. I was born with a destiny, and I have to see it through.

MARIANA Half a year after the extortion, my grandma Alicia had that señora, Cristina, and the kids over to her house. My mama didn’t have a problem with the kids visiting their great-grandma, but she was up in arms that she’d have Cristina over. My mama went in there, saying how could she let that bitch into her house, knowing what she’d done to her daughter. But my grandma snapped back at my mama, real rude. She told her she didn’t give a fuck what’d happened, that it was her house and she could have whoever she fuckin’ wanted over. After that little speech, my mama left. I understand my grandma’s getting up in years, but how’s she gonna welcome in someone who’s done so much harm to her daughter? How’s she gonna open her doors to her, and even say she doesn’t care what happened? Since then, I’ve noticed my mama’s stayed totally away from my grandma. It’s like the umbilical cord got cut: foom! My whole life, my mama’s been real close to my grandma. She’d tell me, “Take this, give it to your grandma.” My mama and my grandma were real close, real united. But now they don’t spend time with each other anymore, even though they live right next to each other. I mean, they see each other, but my mama’s drawn the line with my grandma.

MARIO I’ve never confronted Cristina. I keep everything inside. I keep calm. Imagine, if my kids realize I’ve done something to their goddamn mother, something’s gonna turn on me. She’s their mother, at the end of the day. I hafta be real careful with that. It’s a fact it was her: everything fits perfect, even the goddamn lover fits perfect. Only thing is, I’m not sure where he is right now. He didn’t even know me, and he was set to kill me for the shit I had with Cristina. From what the gang’s told me, he’s not a real ballsy güey, but he’s one of those guys who if they see you distracted’ll clock you when you’re not lookin’. What if one day he decides to do something to me? He could be standing right next to me and I’d have no idea. That’s how far those traitorous fuckers go. But let God

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give me life and health, and I’ll take that fucker on, for sure. For real, I’m gonna get dirty for whatever idiot ideas that jackass Cristina’s put in his head. But then, with time, that kind of asshole doesn’t usually last long, ’cause they run around with no control. They’re running over here, over there, and one way or another, they always fall.

Note This chapter was first published in 2017 under the same name in a slightly different form in Anthropology and Humanism 42(2): 210–20. DOI: 10.1111/anhu.12181.

9 Cancer

MARIANA “You most likely have cancer.” That’s how the doctor said it. Luz turned around to look at me and I turned to look at her; both of us were about to cry. Right then, my mama starts staring at us and she says, “What, you’re gonna cry now?” I tell her, “Ay, Mama, the thing is . . . ” and Luz, “The thing is the doctor is saying you have cancer.” And my mama says, “What are you gonna start crying for, pendejas? Let’s go all in, let them operate on me. Cancer or not, we’re gonna go all in and don’t you cry.”

LUZ We didn’t know anything about cancer. What were we gonna know? We’d never had anyone with cancer around here. I get home, I go on the internet, and I start looking up “lung cancer.” Hell, it’s the most invasive one, ’cause it gets into a bunch of organs. It said a certain percent die from the cancer, and another percent die from the operation, ’cause it’s real risky. I told my mama, “I do think it’s cancer, ’cause you can see the tumor and the doctor who’s seeing you’s a real good doctor. But we should still get some more opinions.” I always think that you shouldn’t just jump into an operation. We went to see Dr. Ruíz, and my mama told him, “Ay doctor, guess what? They told me I have cancer.” “You don’t say,” said the doctor. We told him everything they’d done, and he

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told us, “Go have this test done, and bring me the results.” Done and done. He saw us right away and he told us, “Yes, you have cancer. Can I tell you something? Go back and have them operate, but do it right away, have them operate quickly. You couldn’t be in better hands than at the Centro Médico. Go back over there.” Obviously, there’re risks and everything, but he thought the best thing would be to operate ’cause it wasn’t spread all over, it was encapsulated. Then we went to see another doctor who I go to, he’s a homeopath, and he said the same thing: the best thing was to operate. I said, “Alright then, all three of them agree.” I mean, I feel like it’s a really delicate thing. It’s your body and your health, they might be wrong. But once everybody said yes, well, then operate.

GREGORIA They did a blood test on me, they stuck a camera in me and they did a resonance scan. The day they stuck that fuckin’ camera in me, they laid me down on the bed like a queen, and a doctor comes in, and another doctor and another doctor; all full of doctors. I said, “Ay madre.” Then an old guy was gonna blindfold me, and I said to the doctor, “Don’t blindfold me, please. It scares me to not see.” He says, “Alright, don’t blindfold her.” “Ay doctor, thank you.” I closed my eyes and I remember my hands were at my sides and I felt when they grabbed me, real soft. I thought, “Ay, it must be the señoritas that are here.” “Lower her head, easy, there, there.” “Are you going to put the camera in her?” I heard someone ask. Well they stuck it in me through my nose; I didn’t know it was through the nose. I thought they were gonna put the camera in my mouth. “Ay, motherfucker, these bastards are gonna drown me. How am I gonna breathe?” And they start stickin’ it in me. “Breathe, open your mouth, left, right, up, down, up.” “Let’s see . . . easy, easy, we’re going to bother you one more time, we’re gonna put the brush in.” “Ay, well put it in!” Psss! Alright, they put it in. “And now we’re gonna put in the water tube.” “Well put it in,” I thought. And there I was, and I felt them put it in. “Ay Diosito, help me!” But I didn’t move, I knew I wasn’t supposed to move. And then, “Hurry, hurry! The anesthesia is wearing off, hurry!” “Señora, we’re gonna start taking the rotten parts out.” They put in the camera strip to see, then they put the brush in to scrape over my lungs, and then after the brush they put another tube with water in, to wash me. At the end, they took all three out and they told me, “Stand up.” “Yes, doctor.” “We’ve finished.” Then the doctor says to me, “Señora, you are so brave. There are people who can’t bear this.”

Cancer

The resonance imaging was another thing. I said, “What the fuck is this?” Never in my life had I been through anything like that. My first operation, my first tests. Everything for the first time. They told me the day I had to come, accompanied by a family member. Well there I was in my robe, they put in some IVs. Ay! That, I really didn’t like. You could hear like an echo and they told me, “Breathe in,” and I breathe in. “Breathe out,” and I breathe out.” Easy señora, easy. You’re going to feel very warm in a moment, but don’t move.” But you hear the echo and you feel like they’re lighting you on fire from top to bottom, hot, hot. “Ay goddamn!” “How do you feel, alright?” “Yes.” “You feel alright, you’re not dizzy?” “No, no. I’m fine.” “Ah good, we’re going to put you back in just a little bit.” “OK.” And it was the same thing. Three times they stuck me in there. Then at the end they pulled me out, “Do you feel alright?” “Yes.” “Can you get dressed?” “Yes.” I went and put on my clothes. “Who’s here with you?” “My daughter’s waiting outside.” “What’s her name?” “Mariana.” And I heard them calling, “Mariana!” And that was it. “You can take your mama home, carefully.” “It went well,” they said, “she didn’t get dizzy or anything.” “OK, thank you.” And Mar brought me home. And that was it. The day I went to the Centro Médico to see the surgeon was the twentieth of May. I got there and I went in to see Doctor Rodríguez. He says, “You’re coming from Dr. so-and-so?” “Well yes I am, Doctor.” “Let’s see, let me see. And you’ve already had tests done?” “Yes, I’ve already done the resonance imaging.” “Guess what? These studies are no good, they’re very bad. No, señora, you need many more studies still, these aren’t well done. But look, if I send you back, they’re going to do one now and then in three months they’ll get around to the other one. They take a long time.” No, well there you go, I thought, it’s gone to shit! “Here’s what we’re going to do: you’re going to have yourself admitted to the hospital. Come in on the twenty-second of May. I will do all of your studies, and then I’ll operate on you.” “Really, Doctor?” “Really.” So I go on the twenty-second of May, and there are no beds available. It was real early. Luz and Mar went with me. The whole day we were there, until it was night already, and when they were closing the hospital, I had to leave because there was no bed. I say to myself, “Well I’ll come back tomorrow.” The next day I was there the whole damn day again, “No señora, there are no beds.” Right then a little señorita came down and she says, “Hey, the señora was here yesterday and now she’s back again.” “Yes, but there are no beds.” And she says to her, “Have you seen who sent her here?” “No, who?” “Dr. Rodríguez.” “Oh shit! Dr. Rodríguez? Bring her in, quick, quick! Put her in any ward. Bring her in, I don’t want any trouble with that doc.” And they go and grab me a

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wheelchair and whoosh! upstairs I go. They put me in the ward where they have ladies with tumors in their heads. That was something else, but I don’t remember what it’s called. Some two hours went by before Dr. Rodríguez showed up with like six other doctors. “Good afternoon, Señora.” “Ay, Doctor, here I am.” “No, no, send her to me, quick. This isn’t the right place.” When we got there, the doctor was waiting for me. “Alright then, this will be your bed, and we’re going to do your studies now.” He did all of my studies and then he comes one day and he says to me, “You know what? Tomorrow we’re going to operate. Someone will take you upstairs shortly to start getting you ready.” “Oh fuck!” A señora who knew me came in and told me, “We’re going to take you upstairs now.” I didn’t even remember her, but they took me upstairs and she says to me, “Who’s that outside?” “All of my children are out there.” “Let me see, let me get them in.” So they brought them in. On one side was the operating room, and on the other side were my kids. “I’ll leave you here for a moment, señora.” And I sat down with all of them. Ay, when I remember that moment my heart hurts.

LUZ A nurse came and told us, “It’s time to say goodbye now because we’re gonna to take her in.” Because once they take somebody in, they don’t let you see her until the next day when she comes out. I told her, “Give it all you’ve got, I love you so much.” And she told me, “Ay come on, shit! I’m not gonna die.” “No, it’s not ’cause you’re gonna die but give it all you’ve got.” I felt awful when they took her away, but she was very calm. And they took her into surgery. Then some hours later, shit! A nurse comes out and asks us, “Are you Señora Gregoria’s family members?” “Yes.” “I’m gonna to let you come into the Surgery Ward.” There we went, and the cops tried to block us off. Well we started running and we made it in. And they brought her out to us. I was crying real hard, my mama was at the end of her rope. That’s when she exploded, when she couldn’t handle the pressure anymore.

ISRAEL She told me she was afraid, and she started to cry, and I told her I couldn’t help her anymore, that from the operating room door on out, she had to give it her all, because I couldn’t go in to help her. I just told

Cancer

her, “I’m going to be waiting for you right here outside until you come out.” So they let me walk with her right up to the door, and that’s where I stayed. They let me wait right outside the goddamn operating room.

GREGORIA They put some little tubes in me and told me, “Look, this one we’re putting in is for the medication; that’s where we’re going to put everything in, and here is where we’re going to do the bloodwork.” After the operation, they moved me to the hospital room. Who knows when I must have gotten out? That I don’t remember. They say that after I came out of surgery, everyone came in to see me, but I was still all full of tubes, and it was horrible to see me like that: a monstrous thing, all deformed. They said, “Don’t let Luz go in, don’t let Luz go in.” But Luz said, “I’m going in.” And she came in and she went out crying. Híjole! There I was until all the anesthesia wore off. One day the doctor asks me, “How do you feel?” I told him, “Good.” “That’s wonderful, you’re doing very well. Show me your chest tube.” I said, “Ay, I don’t have a chest tube.” “No?” “No, Doctor, I don’t have one in.” “That can’t be! Really?” “I don’t have a chest tube.” “Well then señora, your body has been very hard at work! You were supposed to have a tube in for several months, Señora. It seems to me it’d be best for you to go home, then.” That day Don Robert came to pick me up, with Israel, Mariana, El Troll, everyone came for me. When I got home, I cried and thanked the Virgin, “Ay madrecita, thank you for loving me so much; I really did come back!” All of that, well it’s like it makes you stronger. I spent two or three days in pajamas. Mariana and Luz took care of me. Then I told them, “give me my clothes, fuck! I can shower on my own.” And I went in to shower alone. They just helped me put on my pants and my little blouse. I said, “I don’t wanna be in bed, it makes me feel worse.” And so I began to get up. I didn’t do anything, but I felt real nice. That’s where my life started up again.

LUZ When she got out of the operating room, Mario went in to see her and he told me not to go in. “What, why not?” “You won’t be able to handle it,” he told me. I didn’t go in until the next day, and even then she looked terrible. She was staring at me strapped down. They tied her to the bed to put in the chest tube, because she kept moving. She wanted to pull it

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out, and she kept telling us it hurt. She told us to take it out of her. Shit! It makes you feel awful. She couldn’t go to the bathroom. I think from the embarrassment of somebody having to clean her, or somebody seeing her. She was all swollen; she looked terrible. And on account of the anesthesia, she was delirious, she’d tell you incoherent things. She said that Jacobo Zabludovsky had been next to her, this guy on the news. I told her, “Shit, come on.” It scared me a whole fuckin’ lot, what she was saying. She told me, “Hey, hija, Karla came to see me yesterday.” And me, “No, Mama, Karla can’t come in here.” I mean, she was real fucked up. Later I asked her, “Hey Mama, why did you say that Karla came to see you?” She says, “I swear to god Karla came to see me.” “No, Mama.” “Yes, that I can remember, real clearly. I remember I saw her.” I think it was on account of how much she was thinking about Karla and Karla was thinking about her. My girl’d be going to sleep and she’d ask, “And my grandma? Is she ok?” Karla’s real rude to my mama, and the two of them fight and don’t talk to each other, they’re exactly the same, but for Karla, it was really intense for her grandma to be in the hospital and she couldn’t go see her. There’s a real awful photo at home that says, “Don’t get pissed or you’ll end up like this,” and now Karla tells my mama, “Hey Grandma, that’s what you looked like when you came back from the doctor,” because she really did look bad, real knocked around. And my mama tells her, “Oh yeah, hussy? Yeah?” “Yeah, Grandma, but I don’t want you to get old.” They push each other’s buttons, both of ’em.

GREGORIA I went to see Dr. Ruíz and he says to me, “Ay, come on in, Mama. How are you?” I tell him, “Good, how are you?” “Well I’m good and I thank God that you’re alive.” “Ay really, Doctor?” “Yes, Señora. What you had could’ve been fatal.” I feel awful. “Really, Doctor?” “Really. You had a real nasty disease. With the lungs, either you die from the cancer, or you die in surgery, there’s no other way out. It’s a disease with no salvation, Señora.” Luz, who gets along real well with the doctor, says to him, “Ay yes, Doctor, I thought my mama was gonna die. Guess what? I went online and that’s what it said.” “Yes,” says the doctor, “But think about this, now: you don’t have two lungs anymore. It’s incredible that you can be walking on the street without a lung. And look how good you look. It’s a miracle. That’s why I’m gonna go to church to thank God.” Because he’s one of those Catholic doctors. He’d go to Mass every Sunday with his family. “Ay, yes, Doctor, you go give thanks.” Goddamn doctor, he looks at you, he tells you, he explains everything, all the diseases. What

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eminence. He told me, “You have to teach yourself to live with pain, because you’ll be in pain your whole life.” He says when they opened me up, they had to break a little bone to be able to take the tumors out, and that they took that little piece out of me. Plus, they had to break around the nerves in the lungs, which they say is a really hard thing. So then there are two little loose bits that for my whole life they’re gonna be separate. There are other parts of your body that do grow back together, but in a lung, that doesn’t happen. It can move around on me at any time, and it’ll hurt. The last time I went to see him, I brought the analyses, and he told me I was ready to go in for chemo. I bought myself a thin little robe, which has to be cotton, and some shoes, and I took off all my earrings, my rings, everything. There I was for the chemo, but I get up and I tell Mariana, “I’m very scared, let’s leave. I can’t handle it, I’m leaving.” I didn’t know what a chemo was, but I’ve seen people all fucked up from it. I’ve had a lot of friends with cancer here, even young people, and they’ve died. So that whole experience made me think, “I can’t handle it.” “Hold on, Mama,” Mariana says to me. When I got to the chemo doctor, he looks at my papers and asks me, “Sixteen sessions of chemo?” “Yes, doctor.” “Let me see.” And he grabs my papers and starts looking at them, looking, looking, and I thought, “Ay, he’s gonna admit me to the hospital again.” And I told Mariana, “I’m shaking right down to my chichis, I’m so scared.” “No, Mama, nothing’s gonna happen to you. You can handle it.” “No, hija.” And the doctor says to me, “You know what? You’re going to have to go back to your surgeon. Who is he?” I tell him, “Dr. Rodríguez.” “You’re going to go back to see him. You don’t need any chemo, Señora, you’re fine.” “Ay,” I tell the doctor, “thank God!” He says, “Yes, thank God, because this is a miracle. I don’t know what it is, but you have a mission in this life.” “What? I don’t have a mission; I don’t believe that.” “Yes,” he says, “I know it. I’ve been sitting here fifteen years, Señora, and this is the first time someone with what you have has come to me and not needed chemotherapy.” Ay, I felt my heart in my throat, I wanted to shriek and shriek. We left there so happy. They assigned me another surgeon, and I went to see him. He says, “No, no, you have to do a CAT scan,” that goddamn scanning machine. Well I did the CAT scan, I went back to the doctor, and he tells me, “No, you’ve come back to me, you have to do the chemo,” he says. “It’s all well and good that Dr. Rodríguez has eminence, but that doesn’t mean you don’t have cancer.” Well fuck! So I made an appointment again and I went back to the chemo doctor. And so there he was with two other doctors, and they start talking to each other. They already had all my

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papers, and I showed them the new CAT scan, and they tell me, “You don’t need chemo, you don’t need it.” And right then they sent me back to the surgeon. And well I’ve been going back and forth, and things have been kinda fucked up with the goddamn doctors who don’t agree with the diagnosis. I’m very grateful for how I was treated at the Centro Médico. Right around the corner from my house there’s a girl, she’s thirty years old. Poor thing, she got cancer. First, they admitted her there. She was interned and they were treating her, who knows how, but there she was. Her mama says she didn’t agree with what they were doing to her daughter, and well she went and took her out. She had to sign a release form. So then she put her into the Xochimilco hospital, and they admitted her there too. A few days went by and the father shows up, he’s separated from the mother, and he tells her, “Fuck this! It’d be better for her to go to a private hospital.” Well they took her out of the Xochimilco hospital and from there they brought her to a private hospital. He paid for a consultation, and they attended her. “You know what? There’s nothing left to do. Your cancer has spread; the medicine you need is very expensive, but if you want to you can pay for it.” They did the math and well no, where would they get that kind of money from? So they took her out of the hospital again and they brought her back to Xochimilco and the Centro Médico hospital, but they wouldn’t take her back in. Now they say the girl is at home, and you can hear these horrible screams. The poor girl can’t take it anymore. The worst thing they did was pull her out of those hospitals where she was admitted.

MARIANA My mama’s real quick to go to the hospital. If she feels bad, right away she’ll try to go to the doctor. She brought me in to the hospital just a little while ago. I didn’t feel bad or anything, she just sent me in. I get a lot of the cholesterol stuff, and then I start feeling kinda bad, that’s why she tells me, “Go get your studies done,” but I’m terrified of hospitals. It’s like, “Ay no, don’t start talking to me about doctors.” One day I told my daughters, “I’m not feeling so good,” and I call her, and I tell her, “I feel kinda bad.” “Have them take you to the doctor.” “Yes, Mama.” But then later, “Ay, stop fuckin’ nagging me. Better just let me lie down.” And El Troll, “We’re going to the doctor.” “No, I’m not going, I’ll be alright.” And I go and lie down. Suddenly I hear my mama’s voice coming in the door, “Alright, where’s my daughter?” I’m all, “Ay!” and I get up as fast as I fuckin’ can. And so

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she asks me, “Did you go to the doctor?” “N o,” I tell her, “I haven’t gone.” “You motherfucker! Get dressed.” Right then Troll came in, and my mama says to him, “What the fuck, why haven’t you taken my daughter to the doctor?” And we go to the doctor. My blood pressure was as high as it can get, and the doctor told me that I could’ve even had a heart attack. That’s why now when I feel bad, I go to the doctor, ’cause I say, “Why does she need to come by here, all scared?” What a stubborn old woman I am. Not like my mama, who gets checkups constantly. Just now she wanted to go get a checkup. They didn’t want to give her an appointment because it wasn’t time yet, and she told them, “You’re going to give me an appointment, because I feel bad.” “But your next appointment isn’t until next year.” “I don’t give a fuck. I want my checkup. I’m gonna go to the director right now and tell him you’re refusing to attend to me.” She didn’t feel bad, not at all, she just wanted them to check. I think with all the pressure she’s under, she must say, “I’d better get checked out before I get something else, as if it were nerves that started this whole thing.” Dr. Flores saw her. She was the one my mama wanted to see, the first doctor we met. And they did her blood tests, and checked her blood pressure, they took an x-ray. A whole week, I was going in there with her. Well so we were coming back with the studies and the doctor says to her, “You’re fine, but if you like, you can keep coming back.” “The thing is, the other doctor doesn’t want me to come back until next year.” “Don’t you worry, Señora. You can keep coming to see me.” And so she’s been making appointments with the doctor. The thing is, everywhere, they’ve told her since she had cancer, it could come back at any time. She must be thinking, “Ay no, I’m not gonna let that happen. I better let them do studies on me before something else shows up.”

LIDIA I almost didn’t know about mama’s cancer. Nobody would tell me ’cause of Adán. So I wouldn’t have problems with him, to keep him from coming around and starting trouble at the house or going out and trying to beat up my brothers. Plus, he was running around lookin’ to fight ’cause he wanted to punch Checo. He said Checo wanted to get with me and he liked me. There’s never been any kind of personal interest, but since Adán was so jealous, he saw things that weren’t there. For that I couldn’t go to the hospital, because one of the people who was there the longest was Checo. He stayed, in the morning, in the afternoon, at night. I mean, for me to go see my mama, Checo would’ve had to give me the visitor’s pass. So it was better not to visit her.

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MARIANA We were all there, around the clock, except for Lidia. She never even went to the hospital. She said, “Ay, I don’t have any money.” How much can it possibly cost? Two pesos, four pesos if you take the metro. She’s always been like that: if she needs you, she’ll go see you, and if not, not. That’s how she is. But I think at the end of the day, everything falls apart sooner or later. Poor thing, ’cause loneliness is real awful. How sad to latch onto the idea that you don’t need anybody, ’cause at the heart of things, we all need each other. Now maybe that she’s quote unquote a little young, fine, but in a minute when she’s old and alone, she’s gonna need something, even if it’s just my mama’s arms around her. But my mama being like she is, she’s gonna tell her to take a flying fuck at the moon. My mama gets mad at her and I tell her, “Ay Mama, don’t listen to her anymore. God be with her.” Mario on the other hand was there the whole time, because he’d gotten outta jail by then. While he was in jail, my mama didn’t wanna tell him anything. She just worried about him gettin’ out. It was all: appointment at the Centro Médico, then the next day, go see Mario, and then an appointment at the Centro Medico and then time to go see Mario. That’s how we were, running around between appointments and trying to get Mario out.

MARIO She just walked in and told me, “I have cancer and I’m goin’ balls to the wall.” That’s how she dropped the bomb when I was in jail. “I don’t want you to cry,” she tells me. And me, I just sat there like a jackass. She dropped it like she was just chattin’, like she was gonna tell me, “Oh, here’s some soup.” After she left, I went up to my bed in the bunks. I couldn’t sleep. I just kept thinking and thinking, “Shit! My ma has cancer! And if something happens . . . ?” Sitting there locked up, unable to do anything, not even go with her to appointments or be there asking her how she felt. And if I end up in here for a few years without my ma, shit! She’s my ma. It’s thanks to her that we’ve all survived a bunch of shit, I thought. And then later they told me she was gonna have an operation. I swear I thought something awful was gonna happen. That goddamn illness is really fuckin’ bad. But look, today she’s real solid. She’s still yelling at all of us. Not even that nasty illness could change her. Shiiiiit! My mama is real chingona. Any one of us would love to have that kind of character and strength. I respect her and I love her a whole fuckin’ lot.

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When they operated on her, I stayed to take care of her that night. She looked real bad with all that shit they put in her. It’s a really fucked up image, seeing her all full of tubes, with the oxygen in her nose, sedated. I love my brothers and sisters a lot, but we all have our limits, and Lalo went too far. It really pissed me off when a friend of mine told me, “Guess what? Your brother came by to ask me for some scratch ’cause he didn’t have enough for your ma’s studies, and he showed me a photo of her.” Plus at some point Luz told me that Lalo had showed Desiré a photo of my mama like that, in the bed, with all those machines. You just don’t do that. I got real pissed and I told my ma, “What the hell’s up with that güey, Ma?” Come on! How are you gonna make money off your mama’s awful illness? I don’t know what was going through my brother’s head.

LUZ I suffered a lot with that stuff with my mama. One day I saw her, and she was fine, and the next day she has a cough, and then suddenly she has cancer, shit! With her, I taught myself to live for today, and let tomorrow go fuck itself. With my mama I understood there is no future. You’re here right now, and fuck! Tomorrow you’re gone.

GREGORIA I never thought I was gonna get cancer. Yeah, I smoked a whole lot. Don Robert would buy me my cigarette packs and I’d smoke ’em up, delicious. When they told me I had cancer, I didn’t rush into anything, I said “Cancer? Fuck that.” I thought, “Well it doesn’t matter, I’m gonna pay the bill for the cigarettes.” That’s when I saw how great God is, because it wasn’t my turn to die. If God had sent for me, I would’ve died, but my little candle hasn’t burned out just yet. I ask him a lot, “Take care of me.” He left me here real fuckin’ nice. He didn’t leave me to make people feel sorry for me. That’s another one of the favors I asked him for. Who didn’t I call down! I talked to all the saints, the Colombian ones, the French ones, Italian ones, I didn’t even know them, but I talked to them all, hell yes. I said, “All the forces in the world, let them come together and help me.” ’Cause when you’re on your way into the operation, you say, “And what’s gonna happen to me here?” It’s intense. But it wasn’t my time, thanks be to God and La Santa Muerte; they take good care of me. I asked her to come with me into the operation, and everywhere I go. I

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remember I was sitting on the bed and I felt her tugging on my hospital gown. “Ay, Flaquita, here you are, at my side.” I always told her, “Ay, don’t leave me, Flaquita, stay here with me. I’m so scared.” But I never saw her, never. Never in my life have I seen her; I haven’t even dreamed her, nothing. I feel her. And I say, “No güey, I think it’s real great it wasn’t my time to die.” I’m happy, and now I give it even more of my all than I did before.

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LUZ My mama says the night Israel came here, he was real hopeless, just standing there like this, leaning against the wall. She told him, “Get out! Get fucking lost, ’cause flyin’ the coop will do you good!” He pulled out his phone and called Azucena and told her, “Grab the kids and your clothes, we’re leaving.” And they left, right after he was on TV for the shit that went down outside the bar Apocalipsis. They showed a photo of him from the day that guy got killed. They were already pinnin’ it on him. Plus they were fingering them in the disappearance of the ten guys who were kidnapped from the bar Sunrise. One thing supposedly led to the other. At eight in the morning, when Don Robert opened up, the people from Homicide Services were already there in the house lookin’ for ’im. If he hadn’t left the night before, they would have arrested him that same day. Now he’s with the girl and her boy. I don’t think he would have gone alone. And don’t let him even think about comin’ back. What’s there to come back to? To get arrested or get killed. I already knew some stuff before all this shit came out. My friend Nancy told me that Jimmy, a mugger who knows Esperanza, told her “Some shit’s coming down from on high ’cause Hummer had one of the Colombians he was doing business with killed and outta revenge they came to kill his son.” Who knows what exactly that shit’s about, but for Israel it’s real bad.

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GREGORIA The families of the desaparecidos are desperate. The mama to Little Hummer (the boy they were supposedly after at the Sunrise) is saying “I don’t want them to arrest the people who have ’em. I want my son back.” Because when shit hits the fan, the government heats people up, they trick people by saying that they’re close to finding them, but if they don’t know where they are, they shouldn’t say that. They give people hope that their sons are gonna come back alive, but those boys are probably dead by now. That really would be a miracle, if they were alive; it’d be something special. Now I see it’s been one, two, three, four months and they keep giving ’em the run-around, ’til you as a mother get tired and say, “Fuck that, I’m gonna look over here or I’m gonna look over there.” Yesterday the press was nuts. They say they arrested Chipotles, one of the Alianza gang, and that fucker informed on his brother. He said his brother El Rojo was involved in the death of that guy at Apocalipsis. All of them are fucked now! It’s not just the business at Apocalipsis and Sunrise they’re pinning on ’em, they’re also throwing all of the dead going back for years at them. It’s too much. Nothing’s gonna clear up until they arrest the other owner of the Sunrise. One of them already turned himself in: the one who gave the order for everyone to leave that night ’cause there was gonna be a raid. That’s where they stopped that group, the ten boys, and took ’em off to who knows where. But the guys that took them weren’t cops. They were high-ups in the mafia. Look at all the connections they have with the guys from Alianza. According to the gossip of the reporters, they’ve linked them all the way to El Chapo Guzmán’s cartel. They’re saying the gang Aliaza was started by El Chapo and that he’s teamed up with Beltrán Leyva. Supposedly El Rojo, the señor who worked in the Federal Police, is the leader of the gang, and Six Pack’s the leader of the hit men. Those are real strong accusations. Fuck! I don’t think it’s that bad. I say the cops and the government are making a mess of things, and gettin’ out of it is gonna be some tough shit. They aren’t even gonna know who to pin things on. They’re gonna come ’round with, “Our deepest apologies.” And while they’re fixing all that, a ton of cops are still spending the night outside here. But I mean real bad; they arrest anybody who walks by, and if the güey has any priors, well he’s finished. They’ve got others under arriago, pretrial arrest, but of the guys whose names are in the paper, they haven’t arrested a single one. The government has no choice but to throw that news out like a barricade to calm people down. They say they’re close, but if they were close they’d’ve already arrested them. Not just one of them, but all of

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them. The cops are also sayin’ they’re not gonna be making announcements so the guys don’t flee, but on the other hand, they’re telling ’em, “Start running, pendejos, because this shit’s gotten real.” That’s a warning for all of them to get going and see where they can hide their snotty faces. You know why they haven’t arrested them? Because they haven’t gone looking for them. The day they send in a goddamn sting, they’ll arrest all of them. ’Cause they know where they are; maybe not exactly, but they’ve got a bead on them. And if they don’t, they know how they can find them. Now, for example, let’s suppose the police know about ten people involved. Let’s say they arrested Chipotles, and that fucker gave them another three. Then they bring in another asshole and he turns in five more. And it starts getting bigger and bigger instead of going down. I think those sons of bitches in the government are jerking us around, but not for nothing: they’re planning their response. Right now they’re blaming everybody, and we’ll see who they blame in a bit. What they want is to keep the cops from fallin’ into it. They’re protecting themselves. When the time comes, they’ll have an answer for those families. They hafta give ’em a chance to plan everything. A time’s gonna come when they can’t keep it up, and they’re gonna say, “Pull out the other card, we can beat them with that one,” and that’s how it’s gonna be. When they start arresting every one of those pendejos, the police and the government are gonna go nuts, they’re gonna show them off like trophies. I know one day I’ll see Israel on TV; the day they arrest him, ’cause that’s the reality of it. The media mentions the desaparecidos a lot; there’re a lot of people who’ve disappeared, but these accusations are no joke, it’s a huge fuckin’ deal and to be honest, I don’t know what to do. I just say, “Take care of him for me, Lord, he’s in your hands. Flaquita, go see my son, and San Lazarito send your little doggies to watch over my son for me.” There’s nothing else to do. What I’d most like to say is “Hide him, make him disappear, ay! Diosito, make him invisible for me, don’t let them see him. Let all of this get worked out.” What I’d most like is for my son to drop off the face of the Earth and be happy out there, but they say that Earth can’t hide anything from Heaven, and I’m aware of what could be coming. I’m either a realist or a jackass. I wanna think, “Nah, my son’s a real badass. He’s slipped them once and they’ll never catch him.” If my son had killed somebody, anybody, and left, well I’d believe that, because nobody pays any attention to the last guy that got killed. Hundreds and thousands have killed and gotten away with it. Here a guy kills some fucker, he leaves and holes up somewhere, and never in his life do they find him. But this time it’s different. Why should I say that my son’s never gonna get arrested, if I know that’s a lie? It’s not

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just one, it’s a whole fuckload of assholes tangled up in this and they all know a lot. These are accusations that go all the way up to the very top. He’ll say, “It’s not true,” but look who’s saying it. We’re talking about some serious shit here. The government is the government, and they know what’s up, they’re not ignorant, but they play the fool. Just don’t let them kill him. The day they arrest him, even if I did know where he was. I imagine that day and I think, “Ah, you’re fucked now. Where are they gonna take him?” It’s like I say, God is so great that if they grab him and they nail him, well we’ll try to find a way to get him out, and if not, well at least we can give him a good quality of life on the inside. Search high and low and ask God and the whole heavenly court to support him and open all the roads for him in jail. I just ask for the truth first, and that they nail him based on the law, but with all these accusations, what way out is he gonna have? My son doesn’t have any way out. Tell me where he’s gonna go. We haven’t heard anything from him. He doesn’t call me. I told him not to; what’s he gonna call me for? What I’ve been told is that the patrón is forkin’ out cash and that’s why none of this has been in the press again. He paid them off to erase everything. But now what’s happening is somebody grabbed and killed another four, and well the whole thing is starting to go ’round again. They came back with all that about the murder of him outside Apocalipsis. Now they’re accusing the Alianza of being responsible for these last four deaths too, but I say that was one thing and this is another. What happens is they’re mixing it all together. Everyone knows Israel is a motherfucker, that when he’s mad, he’s the biggest hitter there is, but with people who fuck with him, not with people who haven’t done shit to him. He’s well connected, and he’s not running around with bullshit. A few years ago, they stopped him here in the parking lot, and since he had a gun on him, the cops took him in. He got out, because people started making moves to get him out. His patrón came, who knows who he was, and he offered a lot of money. “I’ll give you as much as you want to spring Six Pack.” He was offering a million pesos, and they didn’t wanna let him out, for real. So then they called up the big boss, and he gave the order for them to let him out right that minute. “Ay,” I said, “he’s real well connected.” But we got into a lot of problems for talking about that, because that really is punishable by law. It’s like that, you end up hanging yourself. Just imagine, we were talking about the higher-ups. Just let them find out about this stuff I’m saying, and they’ll start making serious moves. And even if they don’t know who Israel is or anything, he’s still in it deep on account of his patrones. I mean, Israel’s nothing, the real motherfuckers are his patrones.

Flight

LUZ Yesterday Israel was in the press again. They’re saying he’s involved with the case from three years ago when five guys got killed in Cempazuchitl, and that all the deaths that have ever happened in Esperanza in the last four years have been on Israel’s gang, Alianza. I understand there’s been a lot of extortion on their part; I think they were charging each stand ten pesos a day, but I also know people recognize that crime dropped a whole lot because of them. It was worth it: for ten pesos, they got rid of the muggers. Now when there’s nobody watching out for anybody, it’s gonna be like it was before, a goddamn stealing-spree on every street. Alianza took care of all of Esperanza, and that was in the interest of the police. Now all those boys are gone; only God knows where they are. They have to hide real far away, because their lives are on the line. They can never come back here again.

GREGORIA They say the police couldn’t offer protection so Alianza came in and offered to keep muggers from robbing the customers. People say thanks to that, crime has gone down in the Esperanza market. But I don’t believe it; I say it’s the same stealing-spree as before. But it’s not true that they were extorting the people who sell in the street for protection. It’s just talk. What really was happening was that Israel was working for a bootlegger who brought a bunch of cigarettes over, and Israel moved them for him. He wasn’t a criminal like that, no. He’d just get word that they’d brought cigarettes from wherever and well, he’d start to move it and keep the product safe, with another boy. Now they’re going around making up a ton of lies, but that’s pure bullshit, just talk, for real. All that too about how they brought in a cargo of I don’t know how many kilos of cocaine that they’d stolen, and they were selling it: just imagine, if that were true, this cabrón would have a goddamn mansion and fancy-ass cars. It’s fuckin’ hard thinking about the poor families of the dead boys. They might go real hard on revenge against the relatives of the people who supposedly were the ones who did it. But there’s no sense worrying. It won’t be any more or less than what God wants it to be. Now everything is calm. We might be a little more alert, but I’m not jumping backwards or forwards. What’ll come, will come. And whoever it hits, it hits. I can’t hide my people, I can’t be going around saying, “Ay, don’t come by,” or “hide,” or “if you see a cop car, take cover.” We didn’t do

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anything. We can’t go against what people think. If those people think it’s red, even if it isn’t red, they and their bad heads will see it as red either way. Every head is a world. If these families are pissed, because their sons are gone, and they read that shit in the newspapers and they believe it, well, let them believe it and do what they wanna do. I know the kind of son I have. How am I gonna go against people if I know what kind of asshole he is? If they kill Israel, I can’t say anything because I have to be a realist: I know who he is. He’s always there, boom! boom! boom! There’s a why behind everything, everything has a beginning and an end. Mario’s scared. I say that he shouldn’t get all hot and bothered, because it’s not his business. When he had his issue, Israel had no reason to get all hot and bothered. Everyone’s trouble is his own. But he’s running around all scared that someone’s gonna mistake him for Israel. I tell him, “Don’t you come around here for nothin’, asshole, I don’t want you going and getting grabbed and saying it was my fault.” The only one that they really might get their hands on is Lalo, because he looks more like Israel. I told him so already, “Don’t come by, Lalo, get outta here.” We’ll see how this all ends, because, if they get their hands on Lalo, they’ll fuck him up bad.

PATRICIA Israel thought about leaving, but he never thought about the problems he was leaving behind for his family. He’s gone now, but his mama’s still here, and his brothers. Now nobody knows if the cops are gonna show up, what they’re gonna do, who they might take. Nobody knows what kind of reaction people are gonna have, either, because I don’t believe people are ok with what the police are doing. They might wanna take vengeance, and even if it wasn’t him, he was in the fuckin’ fray. It’s not like this is a new situation for him; he’s been in jail before, he should’ve thought about things more. He didn’t give a fuck about anything. Even though he saw the problems his mama had with her operation, he didn’t think about that at all. Come on! Instead of looking for a job so he could stop fucking humanity over, there he was, doing his thing. He only thinks about feeling like a badass, about “I can do anything.” N ow the family is upset with him. Even me, I’m not one of them, but I’m upset. Maybe I’m the one who matters the least, but my kids are right here too. Maybe he didn’t kill the boy, but he was there, and now they’re looking for him. Whether he did it or not, I think they’re gonna get him one day. Because there are people who hide for ten, twelve, fifteen, twenty years, and in the end, they get caught. It hurts Alfredo,

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because Israel is his brother, but if you don’t want trouble, well don’t go getting into fights. Be a good person and don’t get into problems. My son was running around with Israel too; I told him “You leave that stuff.” I didn’t buy the accesoria for nothing, I bought it for him to have something to do. And he stopped running with Israel.

MARIO This is the consequence of all the mess that cabrón pulled. He and that guy El Rojo were the ones who were always runnin’ out there in front. Always the point guys, with two or three other assholes and a shitload of bastards bringing up the rear. I told him, “Come on, carnal, what are you doing up there with them?” I always told him, “Israel, the first ones they’re gonna fuck over are you and the other guys up in front.” Unfortunately, I was right. Who are they going after now? Well those two güeyes, because they were the ones showing their faces. I hope this shit lightens up a bit, ’cause from what I understand, the patrones are fixing it. But unfortunately this shit’s already gone far enough to harm a bunch of us. The thing is, the gang’s full of assholes, and one of the guys who went missing is the son of Hummer. Hummer’s a real heavy, real serious shit. He’s not the kinda guy you mess around with. Actions provoke reactions, and if Israel pulled some crazy shit, there’re people who’ll say, “I don’t give a flying fuck, I’m all in.” There’re ten families affected, and if just one of them wants to start shit, it’s gonna be a fuckin’ frenzy. We’ll all be dead. It’s a thing between the gangs. There’re a lotta people in that gang Alianza, and maybe out of fear, those same families’ll say, “N o, fuck that, these guys are real cabrones. Let’s just leave this crap at that.” But there’s no guarantee. Don Robert is in Esperanza all day working. My mama’s there, and Luz goes every day with the kids, they are all there. That scares me. It terrifies me that they might go pull some shit with my grandmother, Lidia’s kids, Mariana, with the whole bunch of kids. Alfredo, everybody knows where he’s at. And he lives there; it’s fucked up. My Ma must know that if somebody from one of those families comes to do something ugly to somebody from mine, I’ll beat the shit outta ’em. And then there really would be some serious shit going down, ’cause like it or not, Israel’s people’d get into it too, and it could get real nasty. But what need is there for us to be in hiding our whole damn lives, or for them to hurt somebody who has nothing to do with it? Unfortunately, you have to live with being on edge. How easy it would’ve been for Israel to’ve made a little home like mine somewhere else. Just go to work every day and come home, with

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no trouble. Me, more for my kids, for my woman, and for my ma to be at ease, I moved away, I calmed down. I made a life for myself somewhere else. I don’t give a fuck where I am as long as my family is okay, but this asshole was dead set on not leavin’. He’s all about his home, his friends. If he’da left, they probably wouldn’t’ve known how to find him. Truth is, the best thing he can do is stay gone for years, ’cause the cops ’round here are dickheads. If I go to Esperanza right now, I can see them, “Ah, it’s that guy’s brother, wowwwww!” and they grab you. They say, “Alright fucker, give me x amount and you can go.” With how big this mess is, you think they aren’t gonna grab me? A whole lot of the officers are fuckin’ creeps, just lookin’ to get some scratch outta you. They have no code of honor either, ’cause in the end they’re muggers, every damn one. They won’t just take what you’ve got on you, they’re not gonna say, “Alright, man, I’ll do you a favor. Give me something and get lost.” No, no. They ask you for x amount, and if you don’t fork it over, you’re screwed. I swear. Things aren’t good between my ma and me. She’s written me off real nasty, ’cause she says, “If it’s your turn, it’s your turn.” I tell her, “But how can you think that? It’s not even my problem.” Instead of telling me, “Relax, the problem’s with your brother,” or tellin’ me something motivating to calm me down. She just freaked me out. She has these real strong reactions. I love her, my ma is my life, same as my wife and my kids, but at a certain point I come looking for support and she tells me to fuck off. I’m just asking her for her to say, “Don’t you worry, you fix your own problems. We’ll figure out how to get out of this, but you relax.” Just the least little word of support. I know she loves Israel a whole lot, but I’m her son too, we’re not talking about a stranger here. I know my mama prefers Israel, that doesn’t bother me, but I at least want her to understand that I have my own problems, and my own family to take care of. He’s my brother, but he really did pull some fucked up shit and that could ruin me just from the blood ties. I know my ma probably doesn’t understand that, in her desperation and her hopelessness; all of this is also a huge drain on her. I love her and everything, but my mama knew Israel was running around like a thug. I’ve already had to call my lawyer and ask him, “What do I do?” ”You don’t have any problems, relax. If a problem comes up, well with all the pain in your heart, you’re not gonna say you were not running with him. Distance yourself; say it’s been months since you’ve seen him. One way or another, you have to free yourself from that.” He told me too, “You have a blood tie, but you’re not responsible for your brother’s actions, and sentences are not transferable. I mean, your brother’s shit is his shit. You had yours, and you didn’t pull your brother into it, did

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you? He should do the same thing, because if he doesn’t, he could end up fuckin’ you over in the eyes of the law. Go to the court and give your signature, fulfill your legal obligations with the jury [on parole], keep doing your thing. Yeah, they could subpoena you, but if they ask you anything, just tell ’em ‘I know my brother had a problem, but I don’t know what it was. He doesn’t confide in me, I just read it in the papers.’” So what do I do? Do I listen to the lawyer or to my blood? It’s hard, first of all, ’cause he’s my brother. And second of all, this problem is serious. I know that bastard was there. On the videos they put out, you can see that cabrón was there. Well, what can I do? It’s something indefensible, no matter how much you’d wanna say it isn’t. It’s not because I wanna be an asshole, or ’cause I don’t love my brother, it’s just simply that the degree of this shit is real fuckin’ high. God willing, may that güey go free if someone real high up does him a favor. But if they don’t, it’s a shitshow for life. With all the pain in my heart, I’m sorry, but “I haven’t seen him in a long time.” It’s real hard. Either I follow my feelings for my brother, or I realize I’m gonna get fucked up real nasty for somethin’ I didn’t do. What I really don’t want is to go back to being locked up. My ass shakes even thinking about getting thrown in jail again. Not ’cause you’re locked up, because I was alright there, for real. I wanna be at home with my kids, with my woman, working peaceful. I think I’m not even that wrong in my thinking. This is my family; they depend on me. And now I can’t even go work because of Israel, the cabrón. They could arrest me pretrial, mess around with me for a few days before they let me make bail. They might even wanna give me a one-off right there, ’cause they’re so fuckin’ far over the line. I’ve already been in there, I went through the beatings, the lockdowns. That’s how it is, and you man up, even though I don’t know what I’m gonna do or what plan to follow. I just went to the Santa Marta prison and I was real freaked out, ’cause it was different. It used to be you forked over some scratch and you could go in no problem, and now you have to wait in line. They set up chairs, they sat us down there, and as it started emptying out, they moved us in. There were two inside and one outside waving people in. I couldn’t go in like always. Plus, I was freaked out ’cause there were these guys who were like turning everywhere, looking everywhere. They were in there like they worked inside but dressed in plain clothes with that shit hanging at the waist [police badges]! You never even know anymore who they’re gonna pick up with a warrant. My ass was shaking, ’cause I knew whatever they wanna ask me, it’s not gonna be pretty. After a little bit I calmed down, ’cause I thought, “If shit was gonna go down, they’d’ve arrested me already.” But until then, I was sweating. I don’t like it, but there’s no way around it. I have to go, ’cause if I don’t, they’ll take

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away my parole. It’ll be worse. That’s why I always ask somebody to go with me when I go give my signature.

EDUARDO (speaking from the podium to his “homies” at Narcotics Anonymous) Evening, homies, my name is Lalo and I’m an addict too. I feel real cool being here and being able to talk to you right now with my truth. Yesterday we got the news that our little house is ready for us, that construction’s done. Between yesterday and today I’ve been painting my home and I can’t believe it, because I never thought that I’d have my own home. God is saying, “There you go, asshole, here’s a home so you won’t be running around in the streets.” I spent ten years living in a camp where from the minute you went in, it was drugs, drugs, drugs. I remember how I’d walk around, all high, totally wasted with no hope, no desire to do jack shit, seeing my wife crying and crying, sometimes without even anything to eat. Now I try to say, “That’s it, I don’t wanna be wasted and running around in the goddamn street.” But fuck! Now all this shit is happening. I know that even though I have my little house, at any moment something could happen to me, because this is really intense. I’m scared because I see the gang all panicked and I see myself right back there in the goddamn drugs again. For real, I’m afraid, and not just for myself, but also for the ones who are gonna stay in the barrio. My ma’s right in the middle of everything that’s been stirred up, she’s in the eye of the hurricane. So yeah, my ass is shaking real fuckin’ bad. I ask myself how that other cabrón [Israel] must be, if I’m shaking and I’m here, I can’t even imagine how he must be. Honestly, there is a certain fear for me because there is a real intense physical similarity between the person I’m telling you about and me. It’s hard for me to come to the barrio out of fear that someone’ll mistake me for him and while they’re deciding “is that the güey or not,” I’ll be fucked. It hurts me too to see my ma, who worries so much about her monsters. Even though my ma has shown me she’s real strong, that she can live with half a lung, I’ve seen her downtrodden with all this pressure. My wife says: “Don’t worry. Pray to God a lot; everything’s gonna be alright.” She’s Christian, homies, and she tells me, “Have faith, güey. Leave it in God’s hands.” I do trust Him, and I say, “Well, let Him do his will. I don’t know what you’ve got in store for me, cabrón, since I know I’ve pulled a whole lotta crap and done much harm to people, but only You know how I’m gonna end up.” Homies, thanks for listening.

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EDUARDO I know Israel got into a tremendous mess, but I have a lot of faith and I pray for him. Of all my brothers, the one I love most is him, because even though we might not see each other often, when we were little, we lived some really cool things together. When his birthday came around this time, I sent him a message where I put, “Happy birthday, old man. Have a great time with your family.” Not two minutes went by before he answered me, and he put “Thanks, carnal.” He’s the only one I’d talk to, the only one I’d play jai alai with, the one I could ask, “Hey, what do you think about this? What do you think about that?” “Well, do this, or do that,” he’d tell me. Whatever happens, he’s hooked into my heart. But let’s be honest, whose problem is it: Mario’s, Lalo’s, or Israel’s? Well it’s Israel’s. If I get grabbed, so to speak, and they say to me, “Israel!” I’ll say, “No Señor, look at my ID, my name is so-and-so. Yes, he’s my brother, but I don’t know anything.” And the truth is I really don’t know anything; they’d only be able to say, “This isn’t the guy we’re looking for.” If they investigate me, I don’t have any problems at all. My problems were years ago, and they’re cold cases now. My mama tells me, “You should leave, hijo. “Mama, I know I have to go, but I can’t stop coming to see you. I don’t know if at any moment the police could come into your house and start searching.” My mama is a real strong woman who’s bearing everything, all these problems that aren’t hers, they’re other asshole’s problems or they’re our problems, and my mama’s the one who has to resolve them. So I think that even if it’s just a little bit, I have to be here. Let whatever happens to me happen to me, I have to be here out of gratitude to my mama. At night, I go and I ask her, “How are you Mamita, good?” “Yes.” “Alright, I’m leaving.” I’m calmer because I see she’s good and my grandma too. I don’t know what my brothers think, but me, at least, I wouldn’t settle for a phone call. We’ve all lived through some fucked up shit. And with all that we’ve lived, what’ve we learned? To run away, to be afraid? Why not face things head on? If you were brave enough to pull your bullshit why not show your face? If somebody from the family of the boys who disappeared finds me and says, “There goes that guy,” and they kill me, it’s true, I’m gonna be paying for something I haven’t eaten. If someone from those families goes nuts and comes here to kill my mama, it’s true, it’s not her fault. But was it those boys’ fault? How many families are hurting now? How many children have been left without a father or without a mother? You think they’re gonna have pity on me, on someone from my family? Every day my mama goes out into the street, she goes out afraid. She’s already been through extortion, people wanting to kill all of us,

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she went through the stuff with her lung, the stuff with Mario, the stuff with Israel, the stuff with Lalo, the stuff with Alfredo, because Alfredo’s brought trouble too, the stuff with Lidia when she left for Tijuana. My sister Mariana, believe it or not, has had her problems too. And who does everyone lean on? Well, on my mama. Luz, she seems calm, but she’s had her trouble too, which maybe isn’t the same as ours, but trouble is trouble, and my mama has to support her. My mama is like that guy Pípila, who fought with the rebels at the time of Miguel Hidalgo in the Mexican Revolution. That guy, to be able to get into the Chapultepec castle without being killed by bullets, he hoisted up a huge rock onto his back, an enormous slab. That’s how my mama is: she’s got a slab on top, and another and another; seven slabs my mama’s bearing. I mean my mama is a real beautiful woman, but lamentably we haven’t realized her worth. If we realized my mama’s worth, we wouldn’t be getting into shit. It’d be the opposite, we’d take care of her, we’d support her in the decisions she makes. And yet my mama’s alone, it’s just Don Robert and her. I have no choice but to turn to God and ask Him, “Diosito, take care of Don Robert, take care of him, because if something happens to him, my mama will be the one to pay the price.” I mean, praying to God for the person you hate most in the world. It’s real intense because far from saying, “Diosito, take care of him, keep him well,” I’d rather say, “God, take that motherfucker away.” But I can’t, because he’s part of my family, even if I don’t accept him. He’s my mama’s husband, I have to respect him, whether I like it or not.

LIDIA The good thing is Israel is free, but it’s not the same freedom as he had before. And everyone else, well I see them just the same and I love them, but with him I can’t bear the pain. I remember when he’d go on the pilgrimages, and being there, living it with him, so different from our daily life. There were never any fights with him, no nasty faces, we were always laughing and messing around. “Come over here, carnala, what do you think about this, güey?” I was his carnala there, even though he had his goddamn woman right next to him, and he’d have a new one every year. For him, his sister was always his sister. To me, a pilgrimage wouldn’t be the same without him, ’cause even if the whole gang goes, the most important one, the one who I’m interested in, wouldn’t be there. I hope in a few years it’ll be different. I pray to God for everything to be worked out, but with things like they are, who knows. For me, plain and simple, he’s an exile; my carnal can’t come back here, to this

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land that saw him come into the world. Truth is, you leave your life, your people, your family, your blood: you leave what’s yours. That’s how I feel about my brother, like he’s an exile. Yeah, I’m real pissed at him for getting us into this shit, but as long as my mama’s alright, what more can I ask God for? With that, it’s enough for me. The worst thing is people are saying that somebody’s gonna kidnap me, and a lot of people have come to see me, “Be careful, flaquita.” Guys I haven’t seen in years have told me that rumor has it the one who’s gonna get fucked up is me, that I better hide. They know that on top of being his sister, I was Israel’s friend, the one who looked the most like him, the one who was always at his side to defend him in any kinda trouble. My daughter’s husband, told Mariana, “No, your mama should be careful when she leaves the house, and make sure you watch your back when you go out with her, don’t stop looking over your shoulder.” Even Adán called me on the phone, “Look sharp, I’ve been told you’re a target. Be careful, please. If anything happens, call me. If somebody follows you or chases you, hide and call me and I’ll come get you. I’ll bring people and I’ll come.” He says that ’cause he was in some shit like Israel. But that’s just what they tell me, “That’s what they have in mind, to make him come back.” Why me, if I haven’t done shit? It was that cabrón, not me. But if somebody said to me, “We’re gonna kill you now, and we’ll let your brother go free,” I swear I’d hand myself over, I’d turn myself in all on my own, ’cause I don’t want him to turn himself in. I’d give my life for my brother, and for anyone of my family. I don’t think it would hurt my mama more if they fuck me up than if they mess her son up. I mean, it’ll hurt her, but not like she hurts for him. I don’t believe I’ve ever been an asshole to her. People say, “Shit, why does your mama tell you, ‘Come here, maid,’ or ‘Come here, slave,’ why?” I say, “Ah, let her be, that’s how she is.” But she doesn’t treat Luz like that. She’s real rude to me, and why do I need to put up with her? Why do my daughters and my grandkids need to put up with her? I know she’s real messed up over the stuff with Israel, but we didn’t send him off, we didn’t tell him to go. We’re all running around scared, even Alfredo who doesn’t say much. When he found out Hummer’s son was one of the boys who disappeared, he said, “Now we really are good and fucked.” In the end, all of us are family, and that’s the thing. Instead of her saying, “You know what? Fuck all this shit, we’re gonna be together, we’re gonna be united. You watch this side, and you watch that side, all of us united.” No, far from it, instead she tells us all to fuck off, “Well if my son is gonna die, let them all die together. I’m gonna work a spell so they’ll all die; I’ll be the one to bury them.” Fuuuuck! I went cold when

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I heard she said that. There’s a reason only Mar and Luz are with her, ’cause I won’t put up with anybody talking shit to me. I do fight with her, because she’s wrong. My sisters in that respect are weaker, submissive, “She’s just angry.” Fuck that, I have no reason to put up with her.

LUZ I saw him last week. He called me on the phone. He didn’t have clothes, he didn’t have anything; he wanted his fan, he’d had it all up to here. “I’ll come bring ’em to you, I don’t give a fuck, I’m not scared,” I told him. I’m scared for my mama, for my kids, but I always believe a lot in God, in La Flaca (La Santa Muerte), and in my other saints. And I say, “Look Diosito, if they’re gonna kidnap me and rape me and kill me, well bring it on.” So I went to see him. All I was thinking was “Diosito, I believe in you a whole lot and I put myself in your hands. You know I’m not an asshole, you know I don’t go around fucking people over. I know I don’t really have a leg to stand on to pray to you for Israel, ’cause he is a cabrón, but he’s my brother and my mama’s son, and your son might do whatever he does, but he’s still your son.” And him, calling me and calling me the whole way over, “How are you? Are you ok? Nobody’s following you?” Hours later, he picked me up on the side of the road and he brought me over to who knows where. Once we get there, he sees me, and he puts his arms around me. He says, “I love you so much.” And I answer him, “Don’t you go crying. We’re not putting you in a pine box. I’ll save my tears for what may come.” Once we were talking, I asked him if he was involved in the Apocalipsis stuff, and he didn’t say yes or no. He says that he was in the club, like you can see on the security tape, but he didn’t shoot. And about the ten guys who were picked up in the Sunrise, he swears on his mother that it wasn’t them. “By God, sister, we have absolutely no idea where they are.” I have like a little murmur of doubt, I don’t wanna believe him all the way. But me, I don’t give a fuck if it was him or it wasn’t, or wherever; that’s his shit. Either way, I know he’s real guilty, and I told him so, “You went too far, brother. Again! And my mama?” And he didn’t say anything. I told him, “Well that’s your problem, no? Whatever you need, I’ll come, but you can’t even set foot near the house. I mean, you gotta vanish, güey.” Yesterday I got all the stuff outta his house, ’cause the cops from Homicide are sitting outside, and for sure they’re gonna go in. They’re not gonna steal his stuff, but they’re gonna fuck shit up. Better to sell it, help pay for his expenses. We took advantage of there being nobody watching

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’cause the dogs went to rest, and we took everything out: his flat screen, his stereo, his clothes. He left his whole life behind, his own house and his family, but he likes to fuck shit up, and look at him now: dirt poor. Plus he took his woman with him. I don’t know why he brought her. She’s real jealous and a real nest-sitter. She’s not gonna be able to take it for long, for sure. She’s real innocent: she’s got her son with her, who isn’t Israel’s, and she’s putting him at risk. Why did she bring him? Why does he need to be suffering? If they get ’em, what is she gonna do with the kid out there? It’s easier for him to go into hiding alone than with them. And then her family is real nasty, they’re terrible gossips. I just hope they’re careful with what they say. I don’t know what Israel’s gonna do. He’s real freaked the fuck out. I brought the clothes I took from his house over to my mama’s place. I’m gonna bring them over bit by bit in bags, so I can get them all together, and when he calls, I’ll take them to a metro station and then to a street that they tell me, so somebody can take them. I’ll leave them there and someone will come and pick them up. I’m never going back there; I don’t even know how to find it. My brother goes too far sometimes, too. He’s real bossy, he wants me to bring him the TV, to buy this thing and the other thing. I’ve already told him, “Don’t go thinking you’re gonna get all of it. I’m not up for that shit and I’m not gonna put myself at risk like that. I’ll bring the bags of clothes to the metro stop you tell me, but for now just stick to the goddamn old school TV they’re lending you out there, güey. As long as I can lend you a hand, I will, but don’t pressure me, because you know I work.” Only I can be there for him, ’cause Mariana’s involved in her shit, and Alfredo can’t either, Mario’s pissed, he doesn’t speak to Lidia, and Lalo’s worth shit. The only one left is me. I do it mainly for my mama, ’cause if I don’t do it, he’s gonna tell her to come, and she won’t be able to bear the ass-kicking of going to buy all that stuff. He wants us to sell his house. But I don’t know who would buy that house off him. It’s a big house and he put a lot into it; he practically knocked everything down and built it all up again from scratch, but the neighborhood is real nasty. He wants two fifty, but I told him, “Who’s gonna give you two hundred fifty thousand pesos for something like that?” Plus he doesn’t have the deed. That’s why when he bought it, I told him, “No, you’re real wrong, my carnal.” How can it be possible, knowing how to do business like he does, that he’d buy a house with no papers? That jackass thought he’d always get off scot free, and look at him now: obviously not, I mean he’s lost everything. Here, he was sittin’ pretty in his house; he’s gonna hafta break his fuckin’ back and see how he can survive, ’cause he lost everything. Even his name is changed. They’re gonna get him a birth certificate that says that he’s always had

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his residence in that place. I tell him, “If they do get you, no matter how many papers you show them, if they figure out that they’re fakes, they’re gonna fuck your shit up.” Yesterday I told Enrique, “I’ve got a crazy urge to just take off running, ’cause I don’t know what’s gonna happen. You wanna take the kids, güey, take them, no problem.” I could go live with my sister, or with one of Enrique’s aunts. I’m not exempt from something happening to me, but I can’t leave my mama, and she’s not leaving either. It’s her son, and now that I have my own sons, I understand it. That cabrón got outta hand on her; whatever may have been lacking, that güey never saw my mama mugging or selling vice or killing people. Who knows why he turned into a cabrón on his path? Now all we can do is wait to see how intense the families of the disappeared boys are, see if they’re not gonna try and get revenge. Mario asks me, “What are we gonna do?” I tell him, “Look, you know what, güey? We’re all shitting ourselves over here, and I’ll tell you something. If it were you, we’d be just the same.” “No but don’t put yourself at risk, what are you gonna go see him for?” he says to me. “Why wouldn’t I go see him, güey? He’s my brother.” “N o but he’s putting us all at risk; we could be killed.” “You’re gonna get killed because it’s your turn, not because somebody killed you. I’m not gonna leave him alone. I know he probably did do it, even though he says he didn’t, but what are we gonna do? Just leave him? He’s not a goddamn dog. Don’t forget when you were in jail, he went to collect your money. If it hadn’t been for Israel, you wouldn’t have gotten paid.” I think in this life, you should never forget. Just like when it happened to Mario, we were with him. I mean, shit. You’re gonna shower with soap and wash off the fact he’s your brother? That’s why I told him, real pissed, “Better go to your fuckin’ house and stay there, güey. I’m not gonna leave my mama, I can’t. Somebody has to be with her.” I do understand Mario’s position: he’s pissed and terrified, ’cause that güey really does piss you off. He’s gone now, warm in his bed with his woman, with her son, and we can all go fuck off. But Mario bothers me, ’cause we siblings can’t be throwing each other under the bus; we have to be united and wait to see what’s coming. It’s time to say, “You know what, Ma? It’s alright, don’t be scared, Mama.” If something happens to us, well, let it happen. What has to happen is gonna happen; we just have to wait and pray to God. That’s it. I tell the Lord, “Take care of my mama,” ’cause she’ll suffer real bad if they kill him or if they nail him. If they nail him, whaddya want, they’ll throw fifty years at him. She’s gonna die suffering, knowing she can’t get him out. I’m a realist, and it hurts me to say, but my mama’s gonna die one day. We don’t know when

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and I hope it’s not for a long time, but if something happens to that bastard, she’s gonna go before her time. He didn’t understand my mama, this old lady who was always cheering him up, helping him. Power and ambition got to him. His name got to him. Ever since he was little, he’s been an asshole; he’s always been real intense, beating people up and all that shit. I don’t know, it’s like the fame got to his head. But he didn’t hafta be that smart to know that one day this was gonna happen; it was obvious that shit couldn’t last. But he wanted to live in luxury. Two years ago he went to Acapulco and he stayed in the Playa Suite with his own private beach. He’s always liked to eat out, breakfast, lunch, and dinner, and to treat everybody. And he’s always been into runnin’ around with pure gold diggers that just want the good life, I mean, pure party girls. I think a lot of the good stuff that happens to Israel is because my mama’s praying for him to who knows how many saints, and who knows how many things she does so that he’ll be alright. She blesses him a lot. She’s got his photo there on the altar and she lights candles for him. But you don’t tempt your luck. Over there he’s been runnin’ lucky, and that’s great! But let him stop acting the fool; better for him not to come back here, and to make his goddamn life over there however he wants to make it. I said so to my mama, “Look, Mama, I know that you’re probably gonna get pissed at what I’m about to tell you, and if you get pissed that’s fine, but if somebody’s gonna kill him, let them kill him, ’cause he owes that debt. I’ve never killed anybody, I don’t mess with anybody, I don’t get into trouble. If something’s gonna happen, let it happen to him, Mama, because he’s the one who was being an asshole. He went lookin’ for it, he went too fuckin’ far with people. He’s your son, and you love him, and when they get him, I’m gonna go with you to see him wherever he ends up, or if they kill him, we’ll bury him if we can find him. But get your feet on the ground, Ma, he went too fuckin’ far and you have to recognize that. He’s my brother, yes, but he went too far and if it wasn’t with these guys, it was with some other guys.” And from there, my mama sort of got her feet on the ground and said, “Well, you’re right. Truth be told, you’re right.”

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The Granddaughter Alicia GREGORIA In Alicia, Mariana’s youngest, there wasn’t a single good thing: just sluttery, a floozy, a floozy. The thing is she’s young, with a big butt, and real lazy. You might say, she likes to go dancing on a Saturday, throwing back cold ones, running around all night like crazy with her buddies and her girlfriends. For me, that’s a floozy. I don’t mean she sleeps with a lot of men. I told her the other day, “Study, prepare yourself, don’t be the same as your good-for-nothing baby daddy.” “Yes, grandma,” she just says. “Enough of this running around ass to the wind. You can’t ever leave your kids alone; dedicate yourself to them. Your kids’ father, well he can go fuck himself. That bastard hasn’t helped you with anything. Why do you want a pair of sweaty balls if you can be just fine with your kids, on your own, without anybody yelling at you or giving you nasty looks?” The thing is, Alicia’s kids are always running around alone. They don’t go to school; they’re not even registered. Alicia goes and says to the father, “Ay, let’s go register the kids.” I don’t remember what that man’s name was, but he says to her, “Register them? Why bother? They already know I’m their dad. What’s the point of registering them?” With all that stuff you say, “What the fuck!” Poor things.

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MARIANA Of my four kids, the most liberal one is Alicia. She’s a party girl. She’s alright, it’s nice. She’s lived what she needed to live, but now it’s time for her to pay attention to her kids. I tell her, “Enough. Diosito’s put this in your path. Go and get a hold of yourself.” She’s still real young, she’s only twenty-five. I tell her that there’s an association for the protection of women, and against domestic violence, where they help single mothers out with some financial support each month; I don’t know how much. If you wanna study, they help you with training courses, and then with that they help you find a job, too. A girl from Huauzontle recommended them to us. She’s the social worker in the neighborhood and she’s involved in those things. She’s real prepared, but she also has a filthy mouth. You hear her say, “Fuck, those goddamn taxes also go to the single mothers who need it.” To receive the support, first she has to get her papers in order, ’cause her kids aren’t registered, they don’t have birth certificates, they don’t go to school. All that’s real messed up, ’cause for example if one of the kids gets sick and has to be admitted to the hospital, she has to bring the birth certificate. If she doesn’t bring it, the police will come over immediately and tell her the child isn’t registered and the DIF could take her kids away. It’s not so easy to register them now, ’cause there are a lot of requirements, and since she doesn’t have the proof of birth papers, she’s been running around all over the place. All that ’cause of Alicia’s pure laziness and carelessness. God willing, this new association will support her so she can register the kids and put them in school. Through them everything is free, ’cause normally to register a child you have to pay, three hundred, five hundred, a thousand pesos, and really, she doesn’t have the money. She’s not in a situation to have it. The kids have a father, but she’s gonna register them as having a single mother, ’cause only if she registers them under a single mother will she get all of the benefits. The father lives with her, but he’s a useless piece of shit. Whenever he feels like it, he leaves her. Cocksucker! The güey’s got “mama-it is,” he wants to be with his mama only. And he’s a jackass too. One day he called Locatel, the government hotline, for assistance and he said he felt real bad ’cause Alicia had left him. They transferred him to that place, they asked him questions, and then right there they filed a report ’cause from what he told the psychologist and the social worker, they concluded he was a violent person towards his family. That works out well for us, ’cause that way it’s easier to register Alicia as a violated mother. He screwed himself all on his own.

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The lady from the association had prepared us when we went to the Civil Registrar Office. “You’re going to say they were born in your home, because if you don’t, they’ll insist on asking you for the proof of birth papers.” The good thing is that we got that magistrate, who didn’t ask a lot of questions. This is what he said to us: “And why haven’t you registered them?” he asked Alicia. “Well the truth is I went to the Civil Registrar in Arcos de Belén, and they asked me for certification that . . .” and he interrupted her, “Ah, alright,” and boom, boom. That’s all he asked. The lady from the association had also told the kids not to mention their dad, but the oldest didn’t want to, and when she asked him his name, he told her, “My name is Diego Armando Sánchez Herrera,” with his father’s name included. “No, son, your name is Diego Armando Herrera Rosales.” “No, if I don’t have my dad’s name, they won’t register me.” That goddamn boy! In the end, only four of Alicia’s kids were registered as just hers.

GREGORIA Alicia has four sons and one daughter. The girl is like six years old. When her mama leaves early to go to work, the little one wakes up, does the chores, wakes up her brothers. She’ll grab her brothers’ clothes, and with everything in the bed she’d tell them, “Alright, come here so I can change you,” and she changes them. The last time Alicia took off, Mariana says, they were in the living room and the littlest one, who’s two, looked uncomfortable, like he’d gone to the bathroom, and the girl caught sight of him; she sort of stood there thinking, and then with the same face she said, “I’ll be right back.” She went up to him, grabbed him, and took him up to the bathroom real quick, changed him, and brought him back down. I think I’d think about it more before changing him. But one thing’s sure, she carries the belt around in her hand, she shows it to them, and they stay real quiet. She has two older brothers and she whips them too, “Be quiet!” she shouts at ’em. She takes care of them, she feeds them, puts them to sleep, washes the dishes. She puts her clothes away, the blouses over here, the pants over there, the underwear over here. She folds everything, real nicely. Six years old, and she’s already acting like a mama. They don’t ask for much. Not like Luz’s kids, who ask you for money to buy things as soon as they come in the door. You go out in the street with them and they don’t ask for candy or for sodas. They don’t know what new shoes are, what a new blouse or a brand-name toy is. The toys they know have no name: a car, a doll, no brands, not even from a store.

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Their little shoes? Just the ones I give them. Their little clothes, well the ones we give them, and everyone puts on whatever fits. That’s how they live, off charity. On Christmas Eve I remember we were walking around in the street and I bought them a couple of little party clothes. Ay! You could see the girl going nuts over her new dress. One day we went to Xochimilco, and El Troll says, “Ay look, let’s bring the kids some little shoes,” and he bought them some shoes, real cool. They went nuts. You see all of these lives and you say, “What the hell!” How are you as a mama gonna allow that? They get used to living off pity, ’cause pity is what you end up feeling. It’s awful ’cause it’s different when someone gives you a gift because they appreciate you, than if they give it to you out of pity. But well that’s how they’re gonna be if they keep getting used to growing up with the idea that people, out of pity, are gonna give them things. Soon they’ll be on the street begging for change.

The Great-Grandson Boris MARIANA I’ve had Boris since he was tiny. Legally he’s mine but really he’s my daughter Inés’s son. She left him with me because she was just sixteen when she got pregnant. The boy was born in a Health Center in Oaxtepec. They didn’t give us the proof of birth papers because the proof of birth papers are issued a week later, and we didn’t end up going to pick them up because we had to go back to the city. When we came home with the baby, under the door we found the papers to enroll Inés in high school. That’s when we decided to register him in my name, so the girl could go to school. Ernesto was working at an OBGYN back then, and he started to make moves with the gynecologists and everything to get a proof of birth paper in my name. He was on my ass, “You’re gonna put the baby under just your name.” “I don’t give a shit, I’m gonna go and register him under your name too.” “How can you think that?” In the end the boy came out under my name and his. Then when all of the stuff with the divorce happened, the lawyer told me, “Well, Ernesto has to pay alimony for Boris.” None of my kids counted because they were too old; the only one who could count was Boris. Well, I brought him in there, and Ernesto starts telling me, “He’s not my son.” I said, “He’s yours now,” and yeah, the boy stayed on alimony. Boris’s always been skinny and tall; he eats a lot, but he doesn’t gain weight. Very serious, the little guy. He puts on his music, he puts on his game, and there he is, calm and happy to be at home. He likes death

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metal. Sometimes I hear it and I say, “Ay, son!” “Mama, it’s just that you don’t know how to appreciate my music.” “Well no,” I tell him. “Me, give me some salsa, some merengue.” But look how lovely that is, ’cause if we were all the same, we’d be real bored. You have to learn to listen to all kinds of music, even if you don’t like it, so you can know the whole variety. The other day he was listening to his music and he says to me, “I’m gonna put one on for you so you can hear it like I hear it.” I listened to the whole song. It talks about marijuana, weed, and coke and I don’t know what else. “All of this is me, and I’m going to destroy you, I’m going to destroy you, I’m going to ruin your body!” Supposedly the drugs are the ones talking in the song. “Listen, this is my music, Mama. It’s giving me a message, that I don’t have to get into that shit. But a lot of people don’t know how to appreciate this music, and they think it’s bad.” He also likes to play guitar, but he doesn’t know how to play. In his delirium, he says “Mama, teach me, someone’s gotta teach me.” “Of course, son; if only I knew someone who knows how to play guitar.” But I bought him a guitar, an electric one, because he wanted an electric one. I remember that day we got home, and he started to plug it in and for once all of the kids were quiet, “I’m gonna play for you. Sit down, I’m gonna play,” and then he went, Tran trannnnnn! It sounded awful. Before he had his hair real long, that’s how he likes it, but he had to cut it. He was eighteen and he had to get his draft card from the Military Service ’cause it’s mandatory for men. They go into something like a game show: if you pull out a black ball, you don’t have to enlist, but if you pull out a white one you do. He’d already done all the paperwork and they gave him a pre-card. In December they gave him an appointment to see if he’s gonna enlist or not, but for that, he had to cut his hair. Ay! How it hurt him! He’d look at his hair and say, “It’s can’t be, just for this.” Because he talks just like my mama, “For that piece of shit draft card I’m gonna have to cut off my locks.” Now his little spikes are coming back in. “Look Mama, it’s growing back, right?” “Yes son, it’s growing back.” The other day he said to me, “Mama, if I told you I wanted to dress in all black, boots, pants, shirt, everything . . . .” Ah, because he likes that, real tight pants and all black. “Ay son, well, I respect you if you want to run around like that. I’m not interested in how you dress, that’s the least important thing. I’m interested in you studying. All I’ll say is you’ll have to deal with how society treats you.” Because all people do is judge. I’ve lived it, I see the boys who have their hair like that all spiked up, all dressed in black, with their piercings, and I say, “Ay, son

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of a bitch!” No? You see them and you say, “They look awful!” And you see the metalicos, and you say, “They must be super potheads.” Before anything else, people judge you on what you look like. I tell him, “You wanna dress like that? You’re gonna have to put up with everything.” It’s just that the music, it’s pure bam bam bam bam, and then they see how you’re dressed, and I’m sure people say, “That guy must be a real drug addict,” ’cause a lot of the time people have those prejudices, they treat you like they see you. So you’ll have to bear it.”

The Grandkids Desiré and El Pelos PATRICIA I put my daughter Desiré in one school and I put her in another, a private one and a public one, so she’d finish high school, but she never did. In the end she took one of the courses they offer so you can finish high school. She was then twenty-three, twenty-four years old and she had already had my first granddaughter, Katia. It cost her a lot, it made her vomit, even her blood pressure dropped and everything, but she took the tests, she passed them, and they finally gave her the certificate. Now she wants to study for a degree, but with the kids, she can’t, because who’s gonna take care of them for her, and who’s gonna give her the money? I do tell her, “You’re fucked now. I gave you opportunities and you didn’t want them. You wanted to have your girls; if you had applied yourself, you wouldn’t be suffering now.” The girls’ father is a hard-working person, but he got into vice and he messed himself up. That’s when he dumped her and now Desiré has nothing. I’ve told her, “You get pregnant on me one more time and you’re out. I’ll go leave you with your mother-in-law. Come the fuck on!” The boy was good for a while, but then he drops back into it. It has to be her who breaks her back for her girls and helps them get ahead in life. No way around it, we all have to pay our consequences. El Pelos [her son], Hairball, he’s calmer. You see his dad sometimes saying things to him, giving him a piece of his mind, because Alfredo gets like my mother-in-law: hysterical, neurotic and all that. But El Pelos just says, “Yes, yes,” and he leaves. He doesn’t get like Desiré, all up in her father’s face. Sometimes it scares me, even though I don’t show it, because she and Alfredo are both cabrones. They’ve got strong personalities. Desiré doesn’t like something, and wham! My God. And with her girls, that’s the trouble. Alfredo tells her, “Don’t treat them bad, don’t

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hit them.” And she complains to me, “Ay, my papa never even saw us as kids, and now he wants to tell me what to do with my daughters.” “Well that’s exactly it, because he’s trying to keep you from making the same mistakes we did. Look sharp, because kids are hard.” Sometimes I tell her, “Desiré, the thing is you’re rude.” And she answers me, “Shut up, you bitter bitch.” I tell her, “Ah, so now I’m bitter and you live in a bitter woman’s house. Go on and pack up your stuff and leave.” But she doesn’t even go, it’s no use. It’s hard to live with the kind of personality they have.

The Grandson Alfonso MARIO With Alfonso [his son], I hope he dedicates himself to somethin’ where he can get hired somewhere else, another country if he wants. I mean, as long as he’s working and doing his stuff . . . . But somethin’ that really gives him a future, somethin’ where he knows if he goes lookin’ for a job, it’s not gonna be so hard for him to get it. There are degrees that take a lot; for example, he wanted to study law, but I told him, “Come on, aside from working you to death, it’s real problematic.” Alba says, “Well, let him do it; there are different specialties.” “Yeah, I know that there are different specialties, but this güey wants to get into all that about defending people and it’s trouble and a half.” I say that outta experience, ’cause when some lawyer doesn’t get you out, you wanna bust his shit up, “Ah no, not that, then,” and she agreed I was right. Now Alfonso told me he wants to study computer systems. I see a little more of a future in that ’cause everything keeps advancing and advancing with new stuff, it’s something that’s going up all the way. Technology is somethin’ that doesn’t get stagnant and if you wanna be good, you hafta keep studying all the time. For example, electronics stuff used to be where you could make your cash, but the guys who still haven’t done some kind of studying for the new TVs and all the new stuff are behind now, they’re fucked. Every three months that shit’s changing. My son’s calm compared to others, but if I don’t start puttin’ pressure on him, he’s gonna wanna get outta line on me. And then he goes and gets together with thugs from another neighborhood. Better tell him, “Easy, cabrón, don’t take things too far.” I just tell him to look at Israel, “See, güey, see why it’s a bad decision to hang around people you shouldn’t?” I say, “He screwed me too, I haven’t been able to go work,

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and who knows when your uncle’ll see your grandmother again. He can’t go out in the street, to the market, to the movies with his kids. He has to live like a rat, in hiding. ’Cause of a bad decision, ’cause of running around with people you shouldn’t hang out with, güey. It’s fucked up.” And he gets quiet and thinks about it and he says, “No, well yeah.” “Yeah, güey. If you hang around with people who’re thugs, you think the police are gonna say, ‘No, not this guy, he’s a calm guy, leave him aside’? No, they round up everyone. They’re not lookin’ to see if you’re calm or not. If you’re runnin’ with them, you’re the same as them, and you’ll get fucked just the same. You just stick to school; give it your all there and make somethin’ good outta your life.” Next Monday he starts at a military high school. Right now he’s taking a summer course, real intense. The school gives it so they can earn the uniform. Since secondary school he’s wanted to be in a military high school, but truth is we didn’t have the money. Not that we have it now either, but I’ll see how I figure it out. It’s a private school, and it costs a good chunk of change. So far I’ve spent more than ten thousand. He’s not cheap, this güey. But they keep ’em on a tight leash, eh? They’ve even told him, “What happens here at school stays at school.” And if the students don’t do things right or they disobey, they knock ’em around and yell at ’em real nasty. But alright, he says he likes the pressure. Let him put his back into it. I love my son a whole fuckin’ lot, but he’s worth shit if I don’t put pressure on him. Unfortunately kids are like that. If you’re not watching them all the time, watch out!

ALFONSO (in a letter to his papa) Thank you, Papa, Thank you for worrying about my problems and for teaching me noble values like love, understanding, justice, hard work, charity, truth, and forgiveness. Thank you for your paternal love. There aren’t many men like you, men who give love to their sons like you give my brothers and me. You’re the ideal father bc youv [sic] fulfilled your duty bc [sic] you’ve never failed us and we can always count on you, now and forever. I give you my love for being a role model in my life. Thank you for all the love, for taking care of me at times of illness. Papa, you know what? You’re my guardian angel. Thanks again for existing and for being the most noble man there is in all the universe. Mario Rosales, you’re the best papa in the world. Alfonso

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The Grandsons Gustavo and Victor MARIO I lived with ’Tavo [Gustavo] and Victor for years, until Cristina and I split up. Now my boys are calmer; they like to work, and they have their own kids. They live in the barrio and everything, but they’re not running around like assholes. Just ’Tavo ended up tellin’ me he smokes weed. And I can’t say shit to him ’cause he’s got his wife now, he’s built his nest. No way I can show up and tell ’im, “Ay, don’t do it.” If he was still a kid . . . but the güey is grown, he knows what he’s doing. I do tell him, as advice, “Listen, come the fuck on. Ease up, güey.” I can’t do more than that ’cause he’s already twenty-something, he knows what’s right and what’s wrong. I know he’s working, ’cause all my homeboys in the area tell me, “Ah, your boy’s been around here putting up some curtains with El Gordo,” ’cause they’re metalworkers. He liked that shit. He didn’t wanna go to school. Me, what can I do? You can lead a horse to water . . . . But at least he’s working. May God take good care of him for me? Don’t let ’im slack off at work. Even though it breaks my heart, I only help ’im with what I can. With Victor, I’ve been through a goddamn terror: he wanted to run around like a bad motherfucker, and the güey goes and gets himself arrested. He went to juvie for stealing and was in there for like fifteen days ’cause I met a girl and a couple of buddies over there in the offices and with a little palm greasing and some other stuff, they helped me out. My friend told me, “He keeps asking for you and crying.” I tell her, “Well, he wasn’t thinking about that when he was running around like an asshole. When he asks you, tell him nobody’s come to see him.” And we didn’t go see him. I wouldn’t even let his mother go see him, or his brothers either. The thing is if I did, well it’d be real easy, he’d say, “Oh well they’ll get me out, no problem.” No, we left him in there while we were making moves. And then when my friend called me, “Guess what? Tomorrow I’ll give you your son, come by at nine.” There I went and filled out all the paperwork. I signed the Legally Responsible sheet they give you; it says you hafta take care of him and take him to the psychologist and all that. Pure bullshit. When he got out, well he sees me, and he starts crying. I tell him, “Ah, motherfucker, next time don’t even call me, güey.” It’s a real expense. And look, thank God he got it, it worked for him. He’s still working at the butcher and so far he hasn’t slacked off at all. He’s gotten married too, he’s got his two kids. I know he goes out drinking ’cause the gang tells me, “Your boy’s running around, güey.” But God save me from havin’ to see my sons in one of those places I was in.

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The Grandkids Roxana, Diana, Lidia (Chica), and Carlitos LIDIA My idea was to have just one kid, but a boy, a cabrón, I mean, cabrón in the sense of being a man, who doesn’t let anybody take advantage of him. Not aggressive, not a thief, not a vice-head, I mean a good man, that’s what I wanted. So then Roxana came out, and after her, Diana. And after that, when I got pregnant with Lidia, I still remember before I found out, I told Carlos, “I want a boy, please, I want a boy.” “What God wants, my gorda.” ’Cause he’s always called me his gorda, his chubbykins. So Lidia was born, and I said, “No, well that’s it then.” I asked for an operation, but ’cause of my age they told me no, I had to wait until I was twenty-four. One day I started feeling bad, and I started to gain weight. My period stopped coming, but since my period’d stopped when I was nursing my kids, I thought it was because I was nursing Lidia. I was already like four months along when I realized I was pregnant again, ’cause that little güey didn’t even move around. When I told Carlos I was pregnant again, he even proposed that I get rid of the baby, but I told him no, better for him to leave me alone if he wanted, I wasn’t gonna do anything. So then without even planning it I got Carlitos. After all that praying for a son, God gave him to me. And that was it. I closed down the factory, I had the operation. He’s a good boy, Carlitos, he’s calm, though he’s a womanizer just like his papa. I tell him, “Respect. If you’re going with this girl, keep cool, never hit her.” I mean, little things like that. The trick isn’t having a relationship, it’s that you’re gonna have to deal with the trouble that comes with it. Now he’s gonna see if he can do a short study for a career with his uncle, ’cause he doesn’t wanna go to high school. Maybe something in computation. I’ve talked a lot with my daughters, “Look, partying isn’t good; think about your kids. Don’t make the same mistakes as me.” I try for each of ’em to see it. I’d tell them, “No, hija, don’t be silly. Look sharp.” More than anything, we’d talk about how they shouldn’t sign up for a baby, they shouldn’t get into a relationship just to see what it feels like. My problem with the girls was never about them running in the street, like me. They weren’t too friendly, they didn’t go to dances, they drink a little, but they’re not like me. Vice never caught their attention; mugging either, or running around with vice-head boys like I like to do. They were always very calm and relaxed. Obviously though, they’re the kind who put up with things ’til they can’t take it anymore, and then they don’t let anybody push them around. For example, Roxana [her

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oldest] finds out about something with someone and it’s “Hey Mama, listen, this happened, and this, and this.” “Alright, let’s see,” I tell her. “But go talk to them, Mama, tell them not to mess with me and we’ll stop, that’s it.” Diana’s [her middle daughter] always been very quiet, she says, “Enough, Mama, calm down. Don’t say anything, don’t fight, leave them. They’re crazy, don’t pay attention to them.” Lidia, [her youngest daughter], did turn out a little bit more aggressive, ’cause she doesn’t like anybody messing with her family. For her, it’s like this, “Nobody lays a finger on what’s mine.” You tell her, “Guess what? That dirty old bitch came by . . .” and she’s the kind to say, “Let’s go bust her shit up,” and she’ll jump right on her. Lidia is proud. Right now we’re not talking, ’cause she hit her little boy. She slapped him, it pissed me off and I told her, “What the fuck is wrong with you goddamn numbskull, why are you hitting the boy?” You wanna slap somebody, slap a carbon, slap some bitch who gets up in your shit in the street, beat the crap outta her, but how are you gonna slap a tiny little thing who can’t even hit you back?” The way she raises her kids is her problem. But every once in a while I’ll speak up and I’ll say, “You’re getting real rude,” but that’s it. Or to my grandkids, the most I’ll say is, “Alright, come on, stop being so rude. You’re gonna see when your mama gets home,” or something like “Goddamn girl, don’t talk to me anymore,” that’s all. A little discipline is alright, no? If they need a little spank or two, that’s why God gave us asses, but I don’t think it’s right for them to slap the kids or smack their hands. We’ve all got a bunch of little veins in the hands, and their hands are more delicate than ours are. Imagine if you end up bursting a vein in their hand! Or their face, you could split open their face; their skin is delicate, it’s fragile. You land a slap a little too hard and you leave the mark of your fingers all over their face. Instead of that, grab her, pull down her underwear, give her two goddamn spanks and tell her to go fuck off, that’s all. But when they really deserve it, not just out of the blue. All that where they grab them and wham! throw candy at their heads, yank their hair, and then you still hit them real hard on the back? No. Lungs are real delicate. If it hurts me when I get hit in the lung, imagine how it is for the little ones. Irene is the oldest of my grandkids. She’s told me when she’s grown she’s gonna buy me a house, ’cause her deadbeat mother, La Señora Roxana, says when I get up in years she’s gonna stick me in a nursing home. And my Irene tells me, “That’s not true, don’t listen to her. Your daughter’s crazy, I’m gonna buy you a house. That’s why I’m gonna study and I’m gonna work. I’ll take care of you, Grandma.”

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GREGORIA All three girls have their feet on the ground. At least they haven’t gotten into vice, they’re not running around mugging. Three of them’ve already had kids, the jackasses, but they’re making it work, more or less: Diana with her husband, and Roxana with hers. Little Lidia doesn’t have a husband, but she’s got a kid and the papa comes to see him from time to time. He works over on the Eje. Sometimes he brings her a couple of pennies, and sometimes not, but they’re happy living like that, that’s how they want to live. She’s alone because she likes to run around like an asshole, and often she’s on the lookout to find someone to take care of the boy for her. With me, she can go suck it. I’m not taking care of him for her. Just like her mama, Lidia “chica” and her boy lives here. In a little while she’ll go out because, supposedly, she’s going to work at night. She’s started spouting this crap that she’s going to burn CDs at night, but I know she’s running around partying all over Esperanza. She comes and she says to me, “Grandma, I’m going to that burning bullshit.” “Go on then, hija, God be with you, but quick, because I’m locking up.” She knows that if she isn’t inside by a quarter to nine, I won’t open up for her. After that time, she shouldn’t even think about knocking on my door. I don’t give a fuck if she’s got the boy with her. Let her find somewhere for them to stay. If I knew she was going to work, well then I would take care of the boy for her. But when she’s going out like an asshole with her girlfriend and she still wants you to take care of the kid? No, not me.

The Grandson Aarón and His Sister Kaira EDUARDO Aarón [his son] works at a carwash on Hidalgo near where his mama lives. I didn’t see him for a while. His mama took him with her when I started having problems, and I didn’t hear anything about him until four or five years later. She worked at a bar; she was in her shit and I was in mine, and Aarón started to get out of control. When I saw him again, he was already a teenager, resentful and bitter towards me and towards his mama, probably because we weren’t there for him, I don’t know. Back then my son and his sister came to live over here in Esperanza because their mama ran them out. They started turning into a disaster. At night they’d tell me, “Yes Papa, we’re coming in now.” And I’d leave, trusting

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that they were going inside, but they stayed out in the street. Aarón was getting together with a bunch of different thugs and that’s where all this shit started. He wanted to buy himself some swag, and it seemed easy to him to start mugging. He tore a chain off of a señora who works in the Esperanza market selling tennis shoes. They caught him and took him down to the Delegation. When my sister Luz called me, I went looking for him. His name was there and everything, but they’d already transferred him to the juvie. They kept him there for a month, before they transferred him to the Norte prison where he spent half a year until his case went to trial. He could have gotten out earlier, but the lawyer asked me for eighty thousand pesos I didn’t have. His mama got real pissed at me, and she even wanted to dump the blame on me for something we’re both to blame for. While he was in the N orte prison, my mama and my sister Lidia went to see him, and his mama did too. I went with my wife to see my son. Like it or not, it’s like there was a little more unitedness, more strength. It didn’t stop hurting the day my son got out. We left like at nine at night to wait for him. My son got out at eight in the morning. He came out changed, more centered. Who knows how he’s doing now? All things considered, he’s good, thank God. But there is a certain concern, because for me it’s not enough to just see that he’s ok and that’s it. I want to know what’s up with him, talk to him, ask him what he wants, but I can’t because he moved back in with his mama. Not so much because he wanted to, but because his mama rules over him. If his mama tells him, “You’re gonna do this,” then that’s what he’ll do. I told him, “Look son, any time you want, you come stay with me.” My wife’s even told me so, “The day he wants to come live with us, he can move into Johan’s room and stay there.” But his mama is difficult. So I’ve tried not to get any more involved. I just told him to go study, to finish secondary school, because he stopped school in the third year of secondary school. Three months before his schooling was over, he left. I told him to come here and I’ll lend him a hand with school. He said yes, but I haven’t heard from him since then, and since he’s of legal age now, I can’t decide for him. His sister Kaira lives over in Tulipán. She’s sixteen, I think, and she’s already got a baby. It’s all a little bit delicate. I’d always see her, and she’d shout, “Hi Papa!” “What’s up, hija?” I’d answer. All of that business calling me Papa is because we lived together for a while. But I stopped talking to her because once she was huffing and talking everybody up, and she had her daughter with her. I told her, “Come on! Get with it, better go leave your girl with someone and then you can keep chatting after that, no?” And she told me, “You stay out of it, I don’t ask you for

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anything.” “Ah, you’re right. I won’t say anything to you again. Just a little favor, then: the day you see me, don’t say anything to me either, don’t even talk to me.” Because at that moment she hurt me; I said it in good faith, but she took it wrong. She was sniffing around with the girl. It hurts me, because she’s following in my footsteps, even though she’s not my seed. She lives in Tulipán, where everyone huffing around a whole lot. Nasty place! I used to get together over there, I know who they are. Huffing, it’s one of the worst things, because if you take a toke of marijuana, well it’s no problem, but with huffing, you lose your sense of time. Those are the effects paint thinner leaves on you, it dries out your brain and makes you a black stain.

LIDIA Mar and me went out to eat some tacos, and I ran into Aarón. “Aunt!” “What’s up, son?” And I see Kaira’s husband with Aarón, both of them looking kinda desperate, “What’s wrong? Where’s Kaira?” “Well we’re looking for her, Aunt. My mama sent her to go get some food, but she came over here instead and we can’t find her.” “What do you mean, she came over here?” “She left the girl with my mama and she came here with the money for the food.” I told her, “Go to the places you know people get together, and if you find her, call me fast and I’ll get her out.” The next day, when I was right about to down my shrimp soup, my phone rings, “What’s up, Aunt? Where are you?” “Here at home, what’s up? Have you found her?” “No, but I was told she’s over where Diana [her daughter and Aarón’s cousin] lives, she went in through this brown door over there.” “And what, you want me to go get her or what?” “Yes Aunt. If I go, she’ll lose it, and they say there’s a shitload of assholes in there.” “Ah, hang on, I’m on my way.” I was in my pajamas, got dressed real fast, and I tell Mar, “I’ll be right back.” Mariana says, “You’re not going alone, I’m going with you,” with her jacket in her hand. The point is we made it to that vecindad, and I started up, “Kaira, you better come out, because I’m coming in there to scratch your fuckin’ face off and you’re gonna see what kind of shit I’m gonna start with you.” And she leans outta the window, looking drunk, and she says to me, “What do you want?” “What do you mean, what do I want? I’m gonna tear you to fuckin’ pieces.” I was real pissed by then. She comes out all stupid and I tell her, “Sup, motherfucker, you better start walking because I’m gonna fuck you up.” I was gonna slap her hard, but she looked so dazed. I thought, “No, she won’t even be able to take it, and truth is, I’m gonna go too far because I’ll end up punching her and that might even kill

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the jackass.” So just with my open fingers I gave her a little slap and she started tearing up. She was so out of it that she was in shock, impacted, too much to even walk. So young, the girlie. Just sixteen and with a daughter already. I grab her and start telling her real hard, “Aren’t you ashamed? Do you want your daughter to live the same life as you? Just like I’m coming to pull you out of this crackhouse, you wanna be coming to pull your daughter out of a place like this? She just cried and cried. In the end, I put my arms around her and told her I loved her a lot, but I did give her a real good tongue-lashing.

The Grandkids Karla and Quique LUZ I always wanted a girl. Since I was in the second year of secondary school, I’d always said, “Ay, when I have a baby girl, I’m gonna name her Karla.” The name I got outta a book I was reading back then, it was called something like “Youth in Ecstasy: Ovulating in the Swamp.” It was about venereal diseases and self-improvement. So for me, a girl was everything. I imagined she’d be real calm, straight hair, but no, not at all: Karla’s got hair like a stripper. Plus, she’s a fuckin’ mess, she curses all the time, I mean, nothing like the girl I’d imagined. She always tells me, “Hey Mama, the teacher told me I’m a real pain in the neck.” “Yeah, well you are a pain in the neck.” But after I give her shit, I tell her, “But I love you however you are, hija.” “You really love me, Mama?” “Ay, curly hair, straight hair, however you are, I love you.” My daughter might be the worst one, the most cabrona, the most criticized, but she’s my daughter. We didn’t want the littlest one Quique. I was taking the pill, but I got pregnant. I went to the woman who delivered Karla, so she could do the test for me, and it came out positive. I was working already, things were going well, and suddenly: pregnant. Well for me, it was real hard. When I told Enrique I wasn’t gonna keep it, he told me, “Don’t be an asshole.” And he told me, “I think we should split up.” “Well let’s split up, güey.” And I didn’t talk to him after that. I was working in a beauty salon and one day he shows up and tells me, “Hey.” I tell him, “What?” “I dreamt it was a boy.” “Oh fuck off, güey, you and your dreams. How can you think it’s gonna be a boy? Come on, you don’t even know if I kept it or not.” “Don’t get rid of him.” Later I went to see the doctor and I told her I wanted a curettage abortion. She tells me, “Go get an ultrasound to see how many months along you are.” I went and they did a normal ultrasound on me and they couldn’t see anything, and then they did an

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intravaginal ultrasound and they couldn’t see anything either. The doctor says to me, “Are you sure you’re pregnant?” I told her, “Yes I’m sure, really. I mean, I’m real regular and I’ve already taken a pregnancy test.” “Well go for a walk for a minute, wait outside, and in a minute, you can come back in.” And they still couldn’t make anything out. Suddenly, after trying for so long, there was a little noise that sounded far off, like “tac, tac, tac.” The doctor says, “Why are you afraid?” He already knew that the ultrasound was for me to have a curettage, and he tells me, “I don’t want to stick my nose in what’s not my business, but this product is scared.” He’d been hiding up at the top of the uterus, with a fear that was making his heart pound. He knew we were gonna get rid of him. I felt real awful, I felt like the most miserable woman, and I cried out of remorse. When Quique was born, he was born sad, with no light in his eyes at all. He was born crying, because he knew he was on his way out. And when I saw him, I started crying too, and I said, “Ah, you coldhearted bitch, how were you gonna get rid of him?” Look at him now, he’s the one who loves me most. He’s real loving, real sweet to me. Karla is clever. When she has an exam coming up, she’ll tell me, “Tomorrow I have an exam in X subject.” “Study,” I tell her. “No, I don’t study,” and she doesn’t study, she doesn’t even crack open her notebook, and she still gets a nine or a ten. I mean, she’s an excellent student, without anyone pressuring her. She does well all on her own. There’s gonna be a dance contest at her school, and she’s gonna be in it. I tell her, “Hey Karla, what are you gonna sing?” “I’m gonna sing Todos me miran, by Gloria Trevi.” “Shit, Karla, you’re really gonna sing? You know the whole school’s gonna be watching you.” “Yep.” “And you have to sing live because it’s a singing contest, and you can’t sing at all, Karla.” “I can sing, Mama,” and she says to her brother Quique, “You cheer for me, eh?” “Sure, I’ll make a big sign for you.” She went onto YouTube and she watched the video. She’s copying the steps and the choreography. And she starts to sing and move like Gloria Trevi: she grabs her waist, she drops to the floor. She wants me to buy her a sequin dress, boots with heels, and to curl her hair. What balls that girl has! I definitely wouldn’t do it. But I’m gonna have T-shirts made for Quique and for me, to support her. She’s gonna be ridiculous, because she sings real awful, but she’s gonna do it, and she says, “Look Mama, if I get into the finals, I’m gonna sing Tamarindo.” Goddamn Karla, she’s Juan Sin Pena, Shameless Juan like in that old play. One day I get home and Karla’s crying and crying. At first she didn’t wanna tell me why, but finally she started to tell me, “It’s that Dorian told me that I’m a disgusting fatty, and that my papa hits you.” Well I get

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up real quick and I tell her, “Karla, don’t be silly. He’s telling you what they do to him in his house, because his mama’s a whore and his papa’s a vice-head; I know his parents.” So I went to the school and I started some shit. I went onto a website called Consejo al Ciudadano, Citizen’s Council, and I filed a suit against that kid in her class. He’d punched a boy in the stomach, too, a couple days before, and sent him to the hospital. The only problem is it’s real tricky for them to kick a kid outta school, because the boy’s parents can file a discrimination suit and it’s a whole lotta shit for the school. But nobody messes with my daughter. So I went to see the boy’s grandma the other day, and I told her, “You know what? I’ve filed a suit.” “No, but the thing is Dorian has problems.” “I don’t give a fuck. Everyone has to deal with his own shit. I accept them throwing themselves on each other, giving each other nicknames, sure, because they’re kids and that’s how they do, but what your grandson’s done to my daughter is too, too much.” I know that old woman. Her daughter’s a stripper called Yazmín. She’s from Magnolias. The father is a vice-head, and that’s how I deduced where this kid Dorian was getting this shit about Enrique hitting me from. I tell Karla, “Thing is, Dorian has no way of knowing. But what did you tell him to make him believe that?” “I didn’t tell him anything, because I’ve never seen my papa hit you, but he says that my papa hits you and you two don’t love me.” Outta that, Karla started to get a complex, “Do I look really fat?” And I told her, “N o Karla, you look good. You’re a little girl, you’re gonna stretch out and your potbelly will go away.” But she still started in on a shitload of that weight loss bullshit. I thought, “When she grows up, she’s gonna end up anorexic or bulimic or she’s gonna cut her wrists on me.” So then we started to go to the psychologist. First Enrique and I went to see her; we told her that we weren’t exactly a model family, but we weren’t a bad family. I mean, nobody’s getting beaten, he’s not hitting me, I’m not hitting him. And no vice. I mean, we live well. When the psychologist started talking to Karla, you could see that the kid really did affect her, because Karla was a real tough girl; she’d fight about everything. It was her own resentment she was reflecting. The psychologist told us that for her to change, I had to change. So every Monday Karla goes to see the psychologist, and every Monday I go in too. Karla has changed, and so have I. Before everything turned into a fight, I’d yell at her and she’d yell at me. N ow that we understand each other, Karla’s a lot more laid back. She understands when I tell her no about something, and she’s calmed down a lot. I treat her the same as she treats me. I tell her, “In life, everything comes back to you.” For example, I tell her, “Karla, pick that up off the floor,” and she acts like she doesn’t hear me. But then in a bit she comes up to me, “Mama, will you give

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me an orange?” and I stay silent. “Mama, will you give me a juice?” Silence. “You’re ignoring me!” Silence. And she feels like shit. Later I tell her, “What you felt, I felt, because I asked you to please pick up your shoes, and you ignored me. How does it make you feel to be ignored?” “It makes me angry.” “You didn’t wanna beat the crap outta me?” and she stares at me. That’s sort of the way we’re keeping things calm. With Quique, her brother, I have no problems. He lets people walk all over him: someone hits him, and he doesn’t do anything. “Mama, so-and-so hit me.” “And what did you do?” “Nothing.” For him, as long as he’s not fed up, he doesn’t care about anything. One night, Quique was crying, “What did they do to you? Did someone do something to you at school?” “The English teacher, the Miss.” “Ay, what did she do to you?” “It’s that she puts on a song that scares me a lot, Mama, one about the senses.” He doesn’t like strange noises, or loud ones. Here we had a stereo that goes up real loud, and now that I took it away, he’s happy. “It’s that the song hurts my ears, Mama. Go tell the Miss that the song scares me.” I said, “Come on, güey, I’m not always gonna be around. You’ve got to get used to it, ’cause there’ll be loud people wherever you go.” And Karla says to me, “Go and tell the teacher, Mama.” I say, “No way, he needs to get used to it and he needs to teach himself how, because he’s a real cabrón.” I tell Quique, “Look, if I go and tell her, she’s gonna listen to me ’cause it’s a private kindergarten you pay for. Those women wanna have you there, but then if you go to a public primary school, you’re gonna be fucked. I’m not gonna be there with you all day long.” “What do I have to do?” he asks me. “Well, get used to it. You don’t like the song? Sing it real quick, and that’s that.” “It’s that I cover my ears, Mama, and the kids make fun of me.” Yeah, they’re real cabrones. “Well, don’t cover your ears. Don’t let them see that you don’t like it.” “Alright, tomorrow when I get outta school I’ll tell you how it went, and if it doesn’t work, then you go and you tell the Miss.” “Sure, then I’ll go.” The next day he gets out of school and he tells me, “I wasn’t scared of it anymore, I sang it today, Mama.” “Ah, you see?” “Would you have gone?” I told him, “There are things where I’ll definitely go and complain, but there are other things where you have to teach yourself to handle them.” I hope they study, but there isn’t something in particular I’d want them to study. In my way, I’m real demanding with Karla. She might chide me ’cause I’m always on her to eat well, or sit up straight, or say hello, but that’s part of being accepted in society. I tell her, “You, if you wanna keep being a stuck-up little girl, you’re not gonna be accepted. Why? Because they’re gonna say, ‘Ay no, that girl is real stuck up.’ I’m on you because I care about you, I listen to you, I hear what you tell me.” So then she tells me that she’s gonna be a singer, no, a veterinarian, no, an

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artist. I tell her, “Look, be whatever you want, but be a good thing. Don’t be fucking people over; for example, if you sell vice, you fuck people over. If you mug people, you fuck people over.” “Yes, Mama.” “So try to be a good person. Try to be what you wanna be, but if you come home and tell me, ‘You know what, Mama? I’m a line cook, but I’m happy,’ that’s fine. I want Karla to be super fuckin’ happy. Even if she ends up being an asshole, I want her to be happy. Even if she ends up being a stripper, as long as she’s happy. Let her come tell me, “Mama, I’m working as a whore, but I’m happy.” I mean, when she has her happiness, that’ll be my happiness too. But I don’t want to push my lost dreams onto her. Fuck no! Go on and live your own life.

GREGORIA Karla has real good grades. She’s doing well at school, she knows her times tables, but you’ve got to be on her, so she’ll feel more sure of herself. I tell her, “Ay, mi amor, I love you, you’re real pretty, try hard at school, don’t be messing around, you have your whole life ahead of you. What would you like to be?” She tells me, “Ay, me, I’d like to be a lawyer so that when my uncles get arrested again, I can get them out of jail. But God’s truth, Grandma, I won’t charge you a goddamn penny.” Things like that really move me.

The Grandkids Samanta and Brian LIDIA Samanta and Brian, the kids Israel had with Elizabeth, they’re living a shit life. They used to live over here with her on Nardos street, but it’s been about three years since they moved, ’cause something horrible happened to the mama that scarred her for her whole life as a woman. She was kidnapped and gang raped. She was beaten terribly and everything. Elizabeth used to work at a Sanborns department store. She left work one night with a friend, and they got into a taxi. The taxi guys kidnapped them and beat them. They put her into a truck and did their shit to her. And then they dumped them on the side of the road. I imagine those jackasses didn’t even know Elizabeth and her friend were from right here, the same neighborhood, a couple streets away. They pressed charges on two or three of them, I don’t exactly know, but it was a number of cabrones. They arrested some of them, but the ones who’re still

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free threatened to kill her, ’til in the end she said, “No, I’m taking my kids and leaving.” And she left. After that Israel was running around hunting down those bastards. He sent some messages to the inside, to the jail, and those men did pay. Not as much as they deserved, but they got their little surprise. He couldn’t get too involved, ’cause he had other business he had to take care of, he owed other things. Plus, he got together with his current girlfriend, and then he couldn’t even talk to Elizabeth without that bitch getting mad. But Israel did make some moves, seeing what the deal was with the ones who did it. And one of the ones who didn’t get arrested got sent to heaven, but the others took off, ’cause after rumor got out that it was Israel’s woman, they decided it was better to leave. And that’s where that shit ended. When Elizabeth’s brother got arrested, she came around here a little to see what she could do, but after that she left for good. She threw in the towel and said, “I’m leaving, ’cause if something happens to me, what’ll happen to my kids?” And we haven’t seen her since. When she told me what happened, I swear I felt horrible. My God, I have daughters. How is it possible for things like that to happen? For people to be such animals. Soulless, heartless, to do such enormous damage like that. Those kids and their mother are never gonna feel safe again. Elizabeth can’t even go visit her brother in the Oriente prison, ’cause she runs the same risk there on the inside. They know she has kids by Israel, and in there, a lot of the time you pay the price as a woman for what the men in your life owe. So it’s better for her not to step foot in places like that. Neither she or the kids can see Israel, ’cause of that bitch who’s his girlfriend now, and also because nobody knows where he lives. Moreover, she can’t come back to the barrio because the neighbors might come looking for her to take vengeance for their worthless sons. It’s fucked up from wherever you see it. Her kids are real little. How are Samanta and Brian gonna grow in that fucked up life?

ISRAEL I wouldn’t want my kids to do the same thing I do, but unfortunately this is where we were born, and like the TV program says, “Our lot was to live here.” I’m not puttin’ down my parents. Believe me, my parents are the best thing in the world just as they are, with what they had and for what they had, but if I’d been born the son of some other people who had money, well logically I wouldn’t be here. I would’ve loved to’ve been born in Europe and eat at a goddamn table set for three hundred people, but this is the hand we were dealt: this is our hustle, this is our grind.

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REGNAR The sixteenth of April 2002 was my first day in my new UN job on the 9th floor of a high-rise on Presidente Masaryk, one of Mexico City’s fancier streets. Coming from a family farm in Denmark, I was dazzled by the view of helicopters passing from one high-rise to the next in this urban colossus. I felt honored to be a part of the UN’s program against drugs and crime and visualized myself making a difference in a place where world politics was made. However, my Spanish boss, who among friends I would soon name el bruto, brought me back to reality from day one, making it perfectly clear that my primary job was not to make the world a better place. My job was to be loyal to him as a son is to his father. I had no idea how central that kind of family loyalty would be to understanding Mexico. My introduction to Mexico was largely through names, lots of names, and stories of violence. I was the head of the supply reduction department of the United Nations Office on Drugs and Crime for Mexico and Central America. It surely sounded much more than it was. The former head of the office had left months before and nobody in the office could explain to me what this department really did. Since there was little to do, I was told to update myself on the drug and crime situation in the region. I read hundreds of local newspapers spanning stories on the murky activities of politicians, the police, the military, and the different drug cartels; a favorite matter for newspapers then as it is now. There were names everywhere: who was related to whom, who knew whom, so-and-so, and such-and-such. Law enforcement bulletins fed me more names and, when I participated in meetings, my Mexican colleagues

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would exchange names in a rare game. They always had a very close friend or family member working somewhere, while they strategically avoided mentioning other friends or family names. I was literally drowning in names and secrecy. After some time I knew Los Arellano-Felix, Los Carrillo-Fuentes, Los Cárdenas, or I simply said I knew the Tijuana, Juárez, and Golf cartels’ different members by their given and surnames. I also learned about the Los Panchitos, Tenocttilán 40, and many more gangs in Mexico City. I could not, however, help wondering why gangs and cartels had such boring names. Despite drug trafficking and killings being much less intense in Denmark, the gangs there had names such as Black Cobra or Hells Angels and, north of the Mexican border, Los Angeles gangs were named Bloods and Crips. Yet in Mexico they named their infamous cartels only by a surname, a place name, an address or, in one case, La Familia. Were they all family? I soon made my own Mexican family. I met my Mexican love Claudia after arriving in Mexico and, six years later, our newborn daughter took her surname, Adeath. Our family “gang” at least had a cooler surname than the cartels, I thought, and yet Gregoria (who we knew by now) soon punctuated that wish of mine. She called me Pancho because my N ordic name is unpronounceable in Spanish and, after our daughter was born, she started to call us “Los Panchitos,” just as my wife’s brothers’ families were also addressed by their fathers’ first name. Marrying into a Mexican family, I came to know firsthand the tremendous love and loyalty such unity provides. We spent Sunday after Sunday together at the dinner table, laughing, joking, and exchanging views on politics with neighbors and family members. I also sadly experienced the tensions when something goes wrong. My wife’s brother’s family split. The mother went off with another man. That hurt deeply. There was no meeting point, no negotiation, no forgiveness. Only pain and deep anger, and two kids left in-between. My brother-in-law, whom I admire deeply for his good humor and never-failing smile could not, a decade later, speak to his kids’ mother. Merely mentioning her name was poison at the Sunday dinner table. My cousins widely blame both parents, and one of them tattooed ADEATH in huge letters on his chest. His most profound identity after all this pain was, after all, his family. Family loyalty was apparently not merely a cultural disposition in work environments, cartels, and gangs. Parking was not an easy thing at the UN office on Presidente Masaryk; however, an extraordinary kind of trust was at work here. The local viene viene, a kind of self-installed caretaker of cars, would ask for my keys and keep moving the car around until I needed it again. Dressed as a tramp, he did not look like a person I would normally have

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trusted with my car keys, but in time we came to know each other well. He invited me to murky cantinas and told me about his problems with his wife, the main house (la casa grande), with his lover, the minor house (la casa chica), and with the many kids he had with both. He seemed to take pride in supporting his “two houses,” yet it was surely no easy task for him to be present in both. My more affluent Mexican friends also revealed in time how difficult it was to find the right excuse in “the one house” to be able to be with “the other house.” One friend had to time it so he could be in the hospital when his lover gave birth to their child without his wife knowing it. Just imagine the complications of such an agenda? From the highest to the lowest social classes, it seems to be a public secret that a fair part of the men frequent several “houses,” and that a number of women have long-term secret married lovers. Infidelity is probably the oldest social conflict in the world. There is no difference between Mexico and Scandinavia in terms of the scope of this; indeed, there is probably even more of it in Denmark. What strikes me as different is the solid family loyalty in Mexico inside this infidelity circus, and probably also in other parts of Latin America. Instead of breaking up, many seem to prefer, shrouded in secrecy, to be present in two or even more parallel families. It takes its toll though, sometimes pushing situations into absurdities. “This is the Devil’s invention” was Gregoria’s son Israel’s dry comment to me on Valentine’s Day. He had had a tough day buying flowers, hearts, Viagra, and visiting the many mothers to his children. They all expected him to perform outstandingly well on this day, which had turned it into his yearly nightmare, to the laughter of his friends, family, and the Danish anthropologist. I guess the most important thing that the Rosales taught me was that a family can simultaneously be a well of both colossal support and utter destruction. Most will see the Rosales as a highly dysfunctional family, yet for me their strong commitment towards each other is equally remarkable. For the Rosales, the family is an extremely important lifeline of support, identity, joy, and outrageous pain. Their lives are ongoing melodramas, both tragic and comic at the same time and, as such, a concentrate of much of Mexico today. I cannot stop thinking of it as a messy unity and, straight after, I fall back into admiring the strength and vitality of my own, the Rosales, and all the other Mexican families. But how on earth do families sustain so much pressure, I ask myself again and again? What if the core of the problematic violence and the cultural vitality derives from this enormous loyalty in millions of Mexican families; from the smallest families through the cartels to the biggest oligarchs and political clans? What if stability, happiness, corruption, and shocking pain derive from the outstanding

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strength of this social pressure cooker? Is family loyalty so strong that this unity triumphs all else until it explodes under its extraordinary pressure? A scary thought, México lindo.

CLAUDIA In October 2000, I was walking the streets in the neighborhood of Buenos Aires, guided by a community leader who was pleased with our collective proposal to hold an exhibition on this emblematic barrio at the Museum of Mexico City. He protected me from the common hassle and risk of being assaulted so I could photograph the streets. Buenos Aires is a rough barrio in Mexico City known for its dealings in both stolen and straight automobile parts. On one of my walks, I was stunned to find in a wall, close to a street junction, a small vitrine with three tiny skeleton figures dressed as “virgins” in different colors—red, green, and black—accompanied by lit candles and flowers. It was La Santa Muerte. Another two years would pass before I stumbled into her again. One early Sunday morning in November 2002, I crossed the Tlalpan Avenue in the Nativitas quarter and walked slowly along this broad thoroughfare where cars drive very slowly at night to check out the transvestites and prostitutes displaying their attributes. On a street corner, a delicate vitrine, encircled by flowers and under a tall lush tree caught my attention. Inside was a skeleton figure in a red princess-like dress. La Santa Muerte. Her candles were still burning. Surprised, I returned to my house and told Regnar, whom I had met a couple of months before. At night, I went once again to this lush tree with La Santa Muerte and talked this time with my tocaya (name-sister) Claudia. She was a short, skinny woman without exaggerated make-up, rather unpretentious indeed. It was my first time speaking to a prostitute, who opened up this world for me that I had always seen from a distance with prejudice, and yet with interest. Claudia introduced us to her pimp Furio, a dark-skinned man who was leaning his body on a brown ill-treated Ford; he was tall and also somehow square, with an expression of distrust. Regnar, Furio, and I we spoke a while and I remember that Furio’s expression relaxed when he said: “Here we take care of her and she looks after all of us.” Realizing our interest in this skeleton “virgin,” Furio recommended we visit the major altar to La Santa Muerte in Tepito. Soon after, we hired a taxi and went. First, we passed the Apostólica Romana México-Texas Free Catholic Church where Father David Romo Guillen had shortly before constructed a chapel to La Santa Muerte. Going to Tepito, all my senses

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were on the alert. Born in Mexico City, it is impossible to relax in a place that has been spoken about as dangerous all your life. Nevertheless, we had a long conversation with Father about La Santa Muerte and afterwards he told us that the mero mero principal altar was further inside the barrio. He ordered a taxi driver he knew to take us to the street altar at Alfarería 12, where we introduced ourselves to Enriqueta Romero, the guardian of the recently erected and already major altar to La Santa Muerte. He received us effusively and quickly hauled up a couple of small stools in order to sit down and speak with her. Enriqueta offered rosaries (largely conserving the Catholic structure), every first day of the month to La Santa Muerte outside her home. At that time, devotees met up in the tens, later in the hundreds, and years later in the thousands to pray in unison to this skeleton saint in front of her home. I grabbed the opportunity with enthusiasm. I had long wanted to photograph street altars, finding the stories behind them fascinating. For some time I took photos of all I could at the monthly rosaries at Alfarería and at a number of rosaries at other street altars that were popping up all over Mexico City; Regnar talked with the people who attended the prayers, the organizers, and the neighbors. This was how we met Israel Rosales, aka Six-Pack, a young man with a simpático and charming face, with a strong build but a childish attitude, always with a marijuana joint the size of a cigar between his fingers. He was not a devotee, but he accompanied a friend once in a while on the first of the month to the rosary at Alfarería. Israel was Chalmero, he had a tremendous trust in The Christ of Chalma; however, he was eager to know what was happening at the major altar to La Santa Muerte, since his mother had also erected one outside her house in Esperanza as many did in those years, most of them women who wanted to give thanks to La Santa Muerte for helping them get their sons safely, and with good health, out of jail. After we met Israel in Alfarería he invited Regnar to participate in a pilgrimage to Chalma that his gang Alcatráz organized every year. “So you know what faith is,” he told him. Regnar accepted. The series of anecdotes that Regnar told me when he reported to me on the phone, and later when he came back, were surreal, some of them truly bizarre. I was not unaccustomed to the themes of pilgrimages; they had passed through the streets close to my home, yet I had no clue what happened inside those groups of devotees, who in their religious acts slowly moved toward sacred places. Much less within a pilgrim group of criminals. Of course we did not know these pilgrims well, who they were, and what they did for a living. It was simply anthropologically and photographically too big an attraction to let go. I also walked a little with them, shocking and exciting as it was to walk with such “heavy” (dangerous)

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people without fear. Even though I was constantly alert—among the smells of marijuana and solvent, the singing of religious songs, and the vivid nightly images—I felt as if I were taking part in a fiction. It was three o’clock in the morning when we passed close to our home, and I left Regnar with all my adrenaline pumping through my veins and with lots of questions on my mind. Days before the pilgrimage, Israel had invited us to his home. He introduced us to his mother Gregoria and to Lidia his sister, who also walked the pilgrimage with Israel’s gang. I remember there were good vibes between us, in particular between Gregoria and myself. We spoke about the pilgrimage and agreed to catch a bus and join the gang in Ahuehuete. Four days after they had taken off, we met Israel, Regnar and the rest of the gang in a grand water fight in the sacred water of this place. From Ahuehuete to Chalma, Gregoria and I became closer, walking and talking a bit about everything; her peculiar rough and cheerful character spawned a lot of funny moments. We laughed a lot and both of us were surprised at the pilgrim sensation. None of us had done it before.

REGNAR (letter to friends, translated from Danish, October 2005) Hi friends, hope you are all doing fine? I have some news. The other day I got wasted with some of the bad guys in Mexico City. They meant for me to start selling Rolex watches “with blood on them,” as they jokingly said, while insinuating they had cut the victim’s hand off when robbing him. These guys are hit men, kidnappers, robbers, pimps, smugglers, etc. Little by little, I have gained their trust. The best thing is that they know I study them and have plans to write a book about them. In fact, they think it is cool. For more than three years, I have frequented altars to La Santa Muerte in the most notorious parts of the city without getting close to these people. The big change happened when this young man Six-Pack invited me to participate in a pilgrimage to Chalma with his gang. Not being devoted to La Santa Muerte, he wanted to show me “what faith is really about.” He sure did. What a pilgrimage, it was! The pilgrimage was evidently real yet all the way I had this feeling that sooner or later I was going to wake up from a strange dream. It was surreal, one hundred percent; Dalí could not have made it up better. For four days, three hundred criminals (only fifteen of whom were women) and one anthropologist went on a “Viking raid” from Mexico City into

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its hinterland, and left in their track a gigantic amount of trash, drugs, crime, and religious faith. “You need to dope your body, else it won’t run,” I was told. Nobody thought I would make it to Chalma, since I didn’t take drugs. I did, however, prefer that they never had any doubt I was there to study them and therefore showed them my notebook often. Meanwhile, they sniffed scores of thinner, smoked loads of grass, and poured down ecstasy, opium, and peyote in quantities I have never seen. The size of their joints would be the envy of Bob Marley. They easily consumed ten to fifteen grams of marijuana daily. And on top of this, all the other stuff they swallowed. Indeed, I was surprised most of them made it to Chalma. In addition to the consumption of thinner and marijuana on the road, they robbed shops. Trash was thrown everywhere, some carried pistols, others sold drugs, some fucked around with local prostitutes, others shat in people’s front gardens, and every single one of them sang loudly religious hymns to Jesus el mero mero the “boss of the bosses” because as they said “we have much to be forgiven.” The police passed the pilgrimage at times, but they did not want to confront three hundred armed bandits puffing marijuana into their face. I realized that the police had little power in this country. “It is a fucking free country, a shame we don’t know how to administrate that freedom,” was one of the comments from a pilgrim. It was, of course, hard for me to be accepted while not doing drugs, not robbing shops, not having a nice pistol to show them. “What size are your boots?” one asked me with hunger in his eyes. “Do you live off your money? Where does your wife live? What do you think of kidnapping? Do you work for the CIA?” were some of the not so nice questions, they asked me. Usually it helped when I told them that Six-Pack had invited me. He was my pilgrim godfather, a bad bandit that most of them respected. I guess he has some lives on his conscience. Moreover, his family counts one hundred and fifty members in Esperanza alone. His sister and a couple of his nephews were also on the pilgrimage. They protected me a lot. It also helped when I grabbed a two-meter-tall cross and carried it a full day. It seriously hurt my shoulders but, with my Western Jutlandish stubbornness, I succeeded in outrunning them carrying the cross on my back. Moreover, they boyishly wanted to challenge me by “breaking fingers.” For some odd reason, my strongest body force has always been located in such a useless place as my fingers. Naturally, this game ended after a couple of them had to kneel down. After that, it was like I had won a little more respect. Yet what made the big difference was an incident on the last day. We had stopped to eat the holy providence at a gas station we passed on the route. I was standing in the shop observing how the youngest among them took

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half the store with them without the poor employee being able to do anything when suddenly all of them ran crazy. They dropped whatever stood in front of them and jumped out of the door. Outside, hundreds of pilgrims rushed away from the gas station as if a bear was after them. I was certain the military was finally after the gang and stayed calm, since I had absolutely no interest in being arrested running with this gang of delinquents. When they returned after a short while, they were laughing themselves half to death. However, it impressed them that I had stood calmly at the gas station. Bewildered, as I was, I had no clue what had happened. It turned out that one pilgrim had lit his mega joint while holding a solvent-soaked piece of toilet paper in his other hand. Of course, it caught fire and he threw it away. The burning toilet paper landed very unluckily, and it lit a leaking gas hose coming from a small gas tank that fed the stove standing in one of these small stands selling tacos that you find all over Mexico. It flared up. Not a big deal. However, the food stand with the burning gas hose stood a mere twenty meters from a huge fuel truck that was unloading 38,000 liters of gasoline into the gas station’s underground tanks. There was therefore a very good reason for them to run very fast. Afterwards, in a moment of weakness, I thought that if everything had gone up in an explosion, the accident would not have been that terrible. When do you get the chance to get rid of three hundred criminals and an anthropologist in one blow? Indeed, these delinquents had some problems with fire. One early morning when some of the leaders where trying to wake the flock with firecrackers, one leader got the brilliant idea of throwing the lit firecracker into the trash can, you know, one of these old oil barrels of steel. It gives a much better bang, he thought. What he did not know was that I had collected the thinner-soaked toilet paper littering the campsite and thrown it into the same trash can moments before. After the firecracker went off, a sea of burning toilet paper flew up only to fall slowly down on their tents. It worked. Out they came, laughing and yelling while putting out the small fires. It was also puzzling why many of them were afraid of the forest. I don’t know if they imagined that angry spirits and grumpy Indians were waiting to attack them with tomahawks? The indigenous people we met had good reason to be angry though. As a noble gesture, they had bought or robbed toys which they gave to the poor children on the road. But, in one of the gift sacks, they found a good number of foam spray cans. Some Mexicans use the cans for fun, spraying colored foam on each other when celebrating The Day of Independence. Needless to say, these pilgrims were excited to find those cans. When an indigenous mother was receiving gifts for her children from them, they gave her a

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good “facial foam wash” at the same time. Suffice to say, the women got very angry, to the roaring laughter of the pilgrims. I won’t make the story any longer despite there being much more to tell. The good thing is that with this pilgrimage I became accepted among people who would provide me with the protection that not even the police can offer me because, at the end of the day, they protect me from themselves. It is a fantastic opportunity to study the dark area of crime that takes up so much room in Mexicans’ minds. However, I haven’t submitted an application for a PhD fellowship to study this gang and their religious beliefs. The plan is still to do so but as things are right now, we will probably not move to Denmark before the beginning of 2007. Have a wild time! Love, Regnar

CLAUDIA Gregoria’s home quickly became our quotidian meeting place; family reunions, birthday parties, celebrations of the Day of the Dead and, most the time, us sitting there chatting about anything from the most trivial to the most private, intimate matters. It took place between roaring laughter and ardent insults. In Gregoria’s house, you do not speak with solemnity, you do not whine about what you do not have, you are grateful to be alive and with health, and you always look forward, never back. Quoting Gregoria: “I don’t like to think about the past. For me, memory’s in another world. Really, it’s not something that interests me. What happened, happened.” As I am prone to nostalgia, this view was very different from mine: I wanted to always remember their home and the dirty and worn-down neighborhood, where, from the moment you set your feet in it, you feel the tense watching eyes, vociferous greetings, and a certain disdain for the güeros. With time we got used to entering and leaving the barrio, Regnar with his thoughts on his investigation, and me always with my eyes wide open. It was a challenge to leave my childhood prejudices behind and move into this sordid world. I had worked with homeless women and children, which are difficult social themes in rough parts of Mexico City, but I had never engaged with them like I did with the Rosales. We shared emotions with Doña Goya; we laughed heartily together and talked about millions of things while learning to respect our differences. I always felt her way of speaking and treating people violent, in particular the way she treated some of her children, yet she contained herself with me. I guess she sensed my intolerance to rudeness and even though I know she was bothered by my “good manners,” preferred to laugh at them

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behind my back. Slowly we developed a friendship, and with time, we almost became part of their family. But it was not easy. I come from a family where swearing has no place, where order and tidiness are integral parts of daily life, along with the habitual classism of the Mexican middle and upper class. Still worse, at this time I had just founded an association, where our group promoted civil education through art and communication and our fundamental principle was “respect for the law.” It was often difficult to speak about our work since we worked with different governmental institutions; it was especially hard when my work was with the Seguridad Pública (Secretariat of Public Security) because, for the Rosales, that meant the “police.” I remember clearly when we signed an important agreement with the leader of Seguridad Pública. It was in front of many people from the media and all the paraphernalia that governmental institutions use to show off. I prayed silently that they did not watch the TV or read about it in the newspapers in Esperanza. My fear was that they would suspect us of being secret agents working for the state; one with the police, the other with the United Nations. It was, indeed, a very ambivalent period in my life. One day my socio and I had a meeting with the head of the city police and, out of the blue, he started to tell us about criminal connections in Esperanza, mentioning some names that I knew. It was a moment of anguish for me, worried that the police chief might know I knew them. But, for Doña Goya and her children, it was fun to tell me: “I saw you on TV.” Until this moment, they did not know much of my work, but I started to bring them information so they better could appreciate what it was all about. Evidently they laughed, since for them to follow the law, to put trash in the container, not to cross the street outside the pedestrian crossings, and all the other things we did to promote better city conduct simply belonged to a world that was not theirs. Neither was their world known to me; there were things I was not accustomed to. On one occasion, Gregoria’s son Mario invited us to the opening of his house in a new residential zone on the outskirts of Mexico City. It was a family event and I was as usual sitting with the women, close to Goya, since with her I felt protected; she was la Matrona everybody respected. Once I passed close to the little bar where Mario was standing. He was, like Israel, a charming guy, had a great smile, and loved flirting. “Look Claudita, this is la mini, do you like it?” and he put it in my hands. It was a pistol that was not that “mini.” It froze my fingers, and in a flash the chill reached my knees, and for a long time I felt they did not respond to me. The next time he showed me a firearm it was a small machine gun. With time, I learned to fear less, not the firearms and violence in all its

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grim aspects, but the coexistence with people from very different social backgrounds and with other views on the world.

REGNAR There have been few quiet moments for the Rosales since the end of stable economic growth at the beginning of the 1980s. To make matters worse, in 1985 Esperanza and much of Mexico City was devastated by a massive earthquake. In 1994, Mexico entered the global economy by signing the North American Free Trade Agreement (NAFTA); a year later, Mexico was nearly bankrupt and spiraling into its second crisis in fifteen years. Poverty and unemployment skyrocketed. So did crime. In 2003, Mexico City’s municipal government declared a Zero Tolerance policy on crime; in 2006, the federal government followed suit, declaring a nationwide War on Crime. As of 2018, a couple of hundred thousand had died or disappeared in these so-called wars. Only Syria has higher yearly death rates. The tally of those locked up in jails reached six digits; the number of Mexican citizens who have passed through these prisons exceeds even that. Gregoria’s sons Mario and Israel are merely two of the vast number of people pulled into the penitentiary system. Faced with a reality such as this, it is hard not to feel lucky to have been born in Europe and to “eat at a goddamn table set for 300 people,” as Israel tellingly told me. Economic and social structures have not given us the same opportunities. Neither Gregoria’s grandchildren nor great-grandchildren will have the same opportunities as our daughter. When Mario says: “the neighborhood pulls you in,” he speaks a regrettable truth. They are entrenched in socioeconomic poverty and it marks them profoundly. Political reforms have only accelerated this marginalization. Yet the children take on the fight in their own ways. Mario skipped highway robbing and went to China to try his luck smuggling. Gregoria’s son Alfredo and his wife Patricia sell pirated CD/DVDs at the local market. Gregoria’s daughter Lidia and her son Eduardo are each on opposite sides in the local drug market. Israel has gone into security racketeering, while Gregoria’s youngest daughter Luz and her oldest daughter Mariana have taken straighter roads. They all push their children in the hope that they will find other walks of life. They are, however, one way or the other immersed in a global, clandestine economy pushing them into the fringes of society. Esperanza’s informal market, the people’s resistance, their ingenuity, and the violence surrounding the clandestine economy were also part of Esperanza before neoliberalism existed. The underground economy

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thrived under national protectionism, as it has done under neoliberal reforms. When Mexico protected national production, some merchants in Esperanza started to smuggle and sell electronics and cloth from the US and paid some custom and police officers, politicians, and judges to let them do so. When they later opened the market to the US, others turned to selling pirated goods from China or drugs from Colombia, while they kept “socializing” with the authorities who wanted a piece of the pie for a favor. Entrenched in the informal sectors, its people have adjusted faster than lighting to the opportunities the national and world economy offer them. Yet their hopes, emotions, and social activities change slower. Half a century ago, the Sánchezes, the family the American anthropologist Oscar Lewis made world famous in his classic The Children of Sánchez, lived in a similar quarter. They faced many of the same problems and shared many of the same aspirations that the children of Gregoria do today. Despite the gender of the head of the family changing from a man to a woman, and even though the Rosales lack a person with bourgeois aspirations like Consuela Sánchez, the family dynamics of the Sánchezes and the Rosales are often not far apart. The conflicts and commitments with brothers, sisters, parents, children, cousins, neighbors, partners, work, schools, hospitals, gangs, jails, and the police are strikingly similar, as is their popular Catholic faith in alternative saints and pilgrimages. By giving the children of Sánchez a voice, Oscar Lewis ignited what was to become a “war on poverty” in the 1960s and 1970s. Today, that war is replaced with a “war on crime.” Two very different wars, indeed, yet the people under siege largely struggle in the same battles, hold the same feelings, and have the same dreams. Neoliberalism, guns, and drugs have surely enhanced all those conflicts and commitments, yet these influences were already there half a century before. Most aspects of their social life are not new—just harder, rougher, and tougher. Part of this war on crime has been the political efforts to clean up the police. For the Rosales, the repeated purges of the notoriously corrupt police, while well intentioned, in reality had the opposite effect of what was anticipated. Some of the purged police officers jumped into Esperanza’s contraband and drug scene, strengthening the illicit economy and amplifying the gang violence already present. The rivalry between Esperanza’s two major gangs, Alcatráz and Xochitlán, peaked at the beginning of the millennium. Homicide rates skyrocketed, only to drop and then surge once again a decade later, this time in a more silent and cruel manner, as the gangs’ truce opened the door for stronger powers to take the policing of the barrio into their own hands. The former rivals unified in a new cartel we have called the Alliance. Now, it was these

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former enemies that tried to “clean up” Esperanza for those behind the unification. What the police could not do legally, the Alliance was doing extrajudicially. Eventually, this “policing” spiraled out of control. Deaths and disappearances. The effect on the Rosales family was devastating; Gregoria’s youngest son Israel had to flee Esperanza, probably for good. Both the local mafia and the police looked for him, wanting revenge or a “trophy.” In this book, we hear how the rest of the family feared for their own lives. By 2017 one had died. Assassinated. While one is a small number compared to the tens of thousands of killings in Mexico, it was a devastating blow to this family. Despite living in the middle of these tortuous processes of major political change in Mexico City, the political life of the Rosales is suspiciously lacking from their stories. While active in their communities, Doña Goya and her children rarely mentioned politicians; at most Doña Goya would call Lopez Obrador, “Lopez Mamador” (cock sucker) with a big smile, while laughing heartily. Her political preference would probably point towards the chief of chiefs (el mero mero), as she also called Lopez Obrador and yet, for her and her children, politics was generally just another word for the police. Two of Mexico City’s recent mayors were, in fact, head of the city police before they took office (Marcelo Edbrard and Miguel Ángel Mancera). The Rosales certainly shared in the public anger towards corrupt politicians, judges, and police, but they also took the opportunities emerging from this grey area and never participated in the political demonstrations that so often paralyzed Mexico City. Nor did they vote as far as we know. They simply preferred to remain silent and navigate the pitfalls and opportunities arising from changing police and political powers.

REGNAR With a beautiful Mexico City–like red sky that autumn day I defended my doctoral dissertation in Copenhagen in 2011; quiet Copenhagen could not have been further away from the people I had studied in Mexico City. Chaotic street markets, messy family relations, gang pilgrimages, jails: my ethnographic material was massive. Still, after reading my dissertation that focused on popular Catholic saints and security politics in Mexico City, my sharp committee members had little idea of the social lives of the people concerned. Who were their families? What did they do for living? What were their hopes, dreams, and anxieties? Their critique hurt me. I had taken the plunge into a problematic world without knowing how to write about it. Tired of listening to my own

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analytical writing, the idea that would lead to this book began to take shape. This time, I wanted to draw the reader into a realistic style of storytelling that gave voice to the daily lives, dreams, and anxieties of those studied. I wanted to provide a window for the reader into some of the darkest sides of the human condition, emotion, and commotion when entrenched in Mexico’s clandestine economy and left to rely on family loyalty. I wanted a literature everybody could readily read; including those it is all about. Who better to voice than Six-Pack’s family, whom I had come to know well? The seven brothers and sisters were all very different and yet closely related. They held different positions in the clandestine economy and spoke frankly about it. Only the oldest son, Alfredo, preferred not to speak, however, his wife Patricia did and was included. Like Oscar Lewis gave voice to the Sánchez family, I wanted to give voice to the Rosales family. Indeed, I decided to study anthropology after reading Lewis’s The Children of Sánchez. In this classic monograph, he gave the floor to a Mexican family. The ethnography stunned me in the early 1990s, as it had stunned the world in the 1960s with its direct and immediate style. Lewis tape-recorded the Sánchezes’ stories and edited them in a powerful polyphonic structure. Only the introduction featured his own voice. I did not even know what ethnography meant but the Sánchezes’ storytelling captivated me. However, my enthusiasm for Lewis did not last long. I began to study, and a professor made me understand that Lewis’s academic approach was flawed. Hence two decades later, I would return to Oscar Lewis, not to revisit his thesis on the culture of poverty, something he had been criticized severely for, but to be inspired by his method of writing ethnography and to empower it by adapting principles derived from the Danish cinematic school of “dogme.” I created ten rules (appendix II) to empower the ethnographic material I already had, and to direct the form of what was still to come in a cinematic, creative nonfiction path. The two most important were that every word written had to be spoken into my or Claudia’s microphone and that our own voices should be cut out in the published text. Based on these rules, other constraints were developed, the most far-reaching of which was an insistence on not inserting either arguments or descriptions into the text. This method prevented me from falling into the scholarly pitfalls of overdoing theory-making or selfreflection and gave room for me, Claudia, and our Cuban coworker Yudy to concentrate on the Rosales’ storytelling. Any analytical intent had to be communicated to the reader indirectly by meticulously editing and arranging the Rosales’ voices. This technique demanded a huge bank of ethnographic material. In the end, Yudy transformed 140 hours

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of selected recordings with the Rosales family into 3,500 transcribed pages, and afterwards, all three of us arranged and condensed these into the pages of this book.

CLAUDIA In autumn 2013, in the final redaction phrase, Regnar, Yudy and I worked from three locations in North America: New York, Havana, and Mexico City, with perfect coordination. It was a time of intense and joyful creativity. The texts passed from one city to the other, each time improving the readability of the Rosales’ monologues. I laughed once again with them when I heard Doña Goya and Lidia speaking, I was once again surprised when I heard Mario’s voice, and my body froze when I read Lalo’s stories. The selection of phrases was a meticulous task; it was clear that I could not add any phrases nor change any words. I had to unite one sentence with the other, cut what was in excess, and paste what remained together so it made sense and stayed in concordance with each chapter. The redaction helped me situate the family in a broader social context. I found behaviors, habits, and situations similar to those of other social classes. Sometimes I could relate them to my own family or to close friends. It became blatantly clear that the problems of violence and crime in Mexico often start in the family, and therefore should be targeted in this family figure that makes up large parts of society and our discriminately marginal practices. I went through various reflections and clarifications during this process, including the hard blow I got one morning when I spoke with Regnar on the phone. He was clarifying for me something about his decision to follow dogme rules, inspired by the Danish film industry. Slightly distracted, I listened to him between glances at the text on my monitor when suddenly I clearly heard him recite the fifth dogme rule: “No visual effects are allowed. Neither can the editing author include maps or drawings.” “You are wiping me out as photographer,” I exclaimed heatedly. I simply felt it was unacceptable. Not that we had plans to include images in the book, but I had plans to work on a photodocumentary about this family, with whom I felt close. And this dogme rule eliminated my possibilities of showing it publicly. Was it not sufficient that we had already changed all persons’ and places’ names? Even a few quantitative figures had been altered to safeguard the identity of the Rosales. I long failed to understand his reasons. His decision was, however,

Afterword

something that emotionally affected my way of visualizing images in an academic setting and also in the media. When people such as the Rosales reveal delicate situations, there is no way around it; ethically, you have to maintain their anonymity by all means. Still it raised a strong dilemma for me as a photographer. Evidently, I could not betray their trust; nevertheless, I had this opportunity to develop an insightful, profound photographic work. It was a unique situation and soon we would leave for Denmark. Yet to be sure that nothing could happen to the family due to our imprudence, we dropped the images.

REGNAR As of summer 2018, we have sent the manuscript to a good number of literary agents and academic editors in the US, Britain, and Mexico. It turns out they cannot find the shelf to put the book on. It is not fiction, not literary nonfiction, nor is it academic. The experimental oral history approach makes this project a hard sell, we are gently told. I guess I had not seen this coming. Tired of the self-promoting literature of Western societies, I wanted the Rosales to be the protagonists of their own stories through our meticulous redaction of their voices. Late in the writing process, I realized that I also had to give a part of myself to the readers, even if I do not like the person I am giving, to make them appreciate the context of the book’s creation. Part of the story behind this book is also to explain to readers my childish fascination with the pilgrimage when I first met Israel, my Mexican family; my insistence on making Claudia’s prime capacity as photographer off limits; and my persistent battle with a rigid book project in which the dogme credo was also a way of concealing my unfinished thoughts about the family, Esperanza, and Mexico. When writing about those sides of myself and this book’s creation, I cannot help but feel naked. Paraphrasing Gregoria: “I don’t like it, but it is the fucking truth, for real.” Breaking with my dogme rule, which prohibited me from writing a long, reflective introduction, I hope to give a little back to this courageous family that gave us their all in this afterword. I promised them I would make their voices heard, and I have to take on that responsibility. Claudia and I therefore decided to write this afterword and publish the manuscript ourselves on the internet. After all, the visions, comprehensions, and sharp messages from the Rosales were too important to restrict to academic echo chambers. We wanted them to be heard. The irony of it all was that when preparing the two versions to upload for free access, two editors encouraged us independently to submit the manu-

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script. One asked for the Spanish version for commercial sale in Mexico and the Spanish-speaking world (Grijalbo, Penguin Random House). The other asked for the English version aiming at an academic audience (Berghahn Books). This English translation is therefore enlarged with an appendix for anthropologists in which the methodology behind the book’s creation is discussed. In the end, the two different language versions for different audiences became what conserved the original idea of writing a book for both nonacademic and academic readers.

Appendix I

FOR ANTHROPOLOGISTS: EDITING DOGME ETHNOGRAPHY Regnar Kristensen

I hope that by now you are captivated by the Rosales’ intense lives and vivid storytelling and, through their redacted stories, you are also able to understand the social and cultural circumstances in which the family is entrenched. They are complicated people making complicated choices in a complicated world. If this is the case, you’ve made my day. What I wanted was a book that could transfer, with immediacy, the lived knowledge of the Rosales to both scholars and non-scholars. The reason for formulating the research and writing rules was to force me down an apparently nonacademic alley without however totally straying from it. And out came this odd literature that I have called dogme ethnography, but which could also be termed nonfiction-cinematic-memoir. This latter is due to its similarities with film production (the cutting and pasting of recorded tapes) and its narrative flow (a generational family story). Despite having some initial vague ideas, I had no notion of where the dogme rules would finally take us. In this appendix, I shall reflect on the ideas and inspiration behind the editing rules and on the hurdles we encountered by following this dogme. It is hard to appreciate the need for an ethnographic dogme credo without making reference to the reflective turn in anthropology and the humanities in the 1980s and 1990s (Said 1979; Clifford and Marcus 1986). The postcolonial critique made anthropologists and the like look critically at themselves and their role in the negotiation and construction of culture. One consequence was that anthropologists’ dialogue with interlocutors began to feature in their monographs (e.g., Crapanzano 1980; Behar 1993). There have been several responses to this, at times an excessive, self-reflective practice. However, those who explicitly oppose this reflective approach, such as the scholars behind the so-called

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ontological turn (Roy Wagner, Marilyn Strathern, and Viveiros de Castro; for further details on this, see Holbraad and Pedersen 2017), they tend to venture into complicated theoretical thinking rather than returning to the ethnographic craftsmanship of producing weighty descriptions. This may be related to having less time for conducting fieldwork and the rise in multi-site fieldwork. However, it may also be due to the academic professionalism, developed over decades, that accentuates the practice of assessing scholars more on their reflective and theoretical skill than on the extension and persuasiveness of their field material. Despite anthropologists constantly stating the importance of having a solid ethnographic basis, their anthropological knowledge is increasingly measured by the sharpness of their argument. Indeed, a comment such as “it is a very rich ethnography” has, in Britain, turned into an ironic way of insinuating that a monograph is in fact chaos. To confront this tendency of favoring academic arguments and selfreflection over old school ethnographic description, the dogme rules were created in 2012 to ensure that we were engaged in a more descriptive way with our large number of transcribed pages and tacit knowledge of the cultural and social realities of the Rosales. My approach had, in this sense, the opposite purpose of similar contemporary experiments within anthropology (Willerslev, Marcus, and Meinert 2017; see also Candea 2007). Whereas they challenge orthodox anthropological thinking through self-inflicted constraints, I searched for a method that would force me into a more literary form of writing in which the field site’s voices, so to speak, outshone the academic voiceovers. I find it important to emphasize, however, that the dogme rules in my manifesto were not shaped to diminish the importance of anthropological thinking and analysis. They were seen as a way to make room for a kind of writing in which anthropologists arrange large amounts of ethnographic material into the good story that it normally is, without necessarily constraining those stories with a full-blown anthropological argument. Rather than a critique of current practices, dogme-produced ethnography is a suggested way of diversifying the use and reach of anthropologists’ ethnography. To have got this far, I must acknowledge an intellectual debt to three rather distinct sources. First, I am indebted to the American anthropologist, Oscar Lewis, who stunned the world with his realistic style of ethnography in the early 1960s. He is known for the classic The Children of Sánchez (1963) and La Vida (1966).1 Lewis tape-recorded family stories and edited them into a powerful polyphonic structure: not a novel, nor a traditional ethnography, but a mixture of both. However, Lewis never described in detail the process by which he redacted his ethnography.

Appendix I

From this elision comes my second great intellectual debt, to the Danish Dogme 95 movement. This avant-garde filmmaking movement began in 1995, propelled by the Danish directors Lars von Trier and Thomas Vinterberg, among others. They suggested that filmmakers should follow a strict credo of editing rules in their production, with the aim of forcing the truth out of characters and settings.2 The third intellectual master of inspiration is retrospective, since I did not know her before she received the N obel Prize for literature in 2015. Reading Svetlana Alexievich’s books (2005, 2015), I have come to know an author who is departing from journalism and composing her books as a compilation of redacted monologues based on year-long conversations with people.3 Somehow, an American ethnographer, a group of Danish filmmakers, and a Belarussian journalist-novelist, from different sides and with different meanings, have been experimenting with hard-to-define genres of storytelling in order to capture powerful realities directly and with immediacy. By combining the two first sources of intellectual inspiration, I created the “Manifesto for a Dogme Ethnography” (see appendix II) that Claudia, Yudy, and I followed in our research and writing, with the exception of the afterword and this appendix. Armed with the dogme credo, we thus returned to record long conversations with the Rosales. The first two dogme rules, in particular, became game changers: 1) every word written had to be spoken into our microphone; and 2) our own voices would be cut out of the recordings. Based on these two rules, other constraints were developed, the most far reaching of which was an insistence on not inserting either arguments or descriptions into the text. This method gave us room to concentrate on the Rosales’ storytelling. However, it also demanded a colossal amount of ethnographic transcriptions (3,500 pages) and gave rise to quite a number of grey hairs on our part as we searched for the best connecting pieces in the transcriptions to provide the reader with context in the Rosales’ own words for a given act, thought, or social relationship in the material. Any analytical intent had to be communicated to the reader indirectly through meticulous editing and arranging of the Rosales’ voices. Surprised and gratified, I found we ended up with cinematic, radical real prose. I have to clarify that radical real is not to be understood naively. It is not that I claim that, in our weaving of their voices, the Rosales present “things as they are.” Rather, the tightly woven sentences in this book condense “things as they are” because the editing turned their lives into a cinematic fiction-like nonfiction story. The characters and settings in this book are, in that sense, no more genuine that those of the fictional TV series The Wire. That the Rosales exist and the characters in The Wire do not exist does not change the fact that the characters and

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settings in both cases have this radical real nature to them that can surprise and at the same time persuade us that they portray a matrix of true problems.4 Rather than turning reality into an epistemological problem of how subjective views color objective facts, the dogme credo helped us to concentrate on how to get a partly silent yet honest story persuasively told to a wider audience. In this sense, we are following the call of the anthropologist Clifford Geertz (1988) to write persuasive ethnography that convinces the reader that the writer has somehow, intellectually and in situ, “been there,” rather than the cognate literary critique sparked by James Clifford and George Marcus, who urged anthropologists to visualize their own labor in the text; even so, Clifford and Marcus have been a governing inspiration in getting this far and taking up a polyphonic kind of ethnography. Despite Clifford advocating for polyphonic ethnography, he made it painfully clear that scholars’ editing is not innocent, even in the polyphonic genres, and much less so if cutting out one’s own voice from the conversations (Clifford 1988). Indeed, we manipulated this full force. It was therefore, and still remains, a mystery to me why the product of this manipulation seems so real for us, for them, and for others. An anonymous reviewer gave one answer to this question: “It seems real because the narrative conventions into which he [Regnar] fits his interlocutors’ words are well-established and intuitive.” There is certainly some truth in this answer, and yet I also believe there is another reason, one which relates to the sheer quantity of ethnographic stories and the decision not to follow a sharp argument. We saw no reason to omit stories from the field in order to make them better fit an analytical approach or because there was no more writing space, since a manuscript contains a limited number of words. By dropping reflections and the construction of an argument we got more space for their stories. Indeed, very few of the stories we were told were excluded. They were of course cut, pasted, and condensed (in terms of word count, the stories were typically narrowed down to one-fifth or less); however, next to none were left unmentioned because they all helped to thread the protagonists’ stories together making them more convincing and more real, despite the manipulation, or perhaps because of it. When anthropologist Anna Gan´ko was in her final stage of ordering her field material, she entered a bar in her field site (a Polish village) where a group of giggling men accosted her. Even though she did not recognize any of their faces, after a while she started to recognize their voices. Surprised, she discovered that she knew all of them since she had interviewed them, and yet, she wrote, “I spend much more time listening to the recorded interviews than actually talking to them” (2018:

Appendix I

230). Realizing that their voices rather than their faces had become her means of recognition, Gan´ko uses this anecdote to argue that the textual recorded interviews are also creating scholars’ bodily-grounded ethnographic experience. Could it be the same for us? Surely the vast amount of textual recorded interviews has also influenced our ethnographic experience of the Rosales and Esperanza. But is it a problem that Gan´ko does not recognize the faces of her interlocutors? I would find it more worrisome if she had not recognized their stories through their voices, their characters, and the environment they inhabit. That listening and writing are different means of communication to the visual is hardly a surprise. Neither is it a surprise that we use them all and that they influence one another. Indeed, the point with ethnographic writing is that voices, smells, etc., influence the narratives we create in our writing. If our lived experiences in the field (including listening to recorded conversations) did not set their fingerprints on what we write, it would be a prose less grounded in reality. I was very aware from the start that readers had to make their own images of the Rosales and their environment due to the safeguarding of their identities. We therefore did not include photos or notes on physical characteristics (dogme rule five). Nor did we, as in oral literature, describe a tone, volume, rhythm, pause, smell, or descriptions of gestures in the conversations. As such, the text does not offer any help to the reader to deduce meaning from the context of the recordings. It could therefore be argued that the same statement may have quite contradictory meanings (Portelli 2006: 64). Yet we did not find further explanations necessary. The Rosales’ interwoven monologues allow the reader to grasp the pictures, rhythms, and sounds better than if they had been explained by us. Despite being mere text and verbal communication, besides narrative meaning, the Rosales’ descriptions, and our editing of them, also provoke the reader with smells, images, and sounds connected to the lived realities. The first dogme rule demanded that we obtain a first-person perspective. The intimacy a reader experiences with the characters through a first-person narrative is a well-known technique in fiction and memoir alike. It takes the reader on a roller coaster ride, pushing him or her to perceive the world both factually and emotionally through the eyes of the narrator, perhaps even leading the reader to identify with the narrator. Our use of this technique is designed to allow the reader to engage directly with the Rosales, rather than engaging with our analysis of them. The second dogme rule was designed to obscure the social interaction between us and the Rosales, in order to ensure that the Rosales remained the crucial focus of the reader’s attention. I was not interested in an “us”

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and “them” dialogue, which often becomes dominant in anthropology. Even so, we did not totally disappear. Despite meticulously cutting ourselves out of the text, we are still indirectly present. Occasionally, the questions we have just asked them are obvious by the Rosales’ responses. Furthermore, there are moments when the family found it informative to refer to the differences between themselves and us; these reflections are inevitably built into the final edited form of the monologues. Of course, if they did not find it important to mention us in telling their story, they obviously left us out. And that was nearly always the case. Though we would love to think of ourselves as having made a difference in their lives, or in the way they reflect on their lives, we know that any claim of such influence would be an exaggeration. Our influence on the text was, without doubt, more pronounced. We were often in need of more general descriptions, e.g., they would never feel the need to describe how their homes were furnished. As the second dogme rule prevented us from inserting our own descriptions, we tried to compensate by asking the Rosales to comment on specific things (into our microphone). However, they were greatly resistant to this. For example, they never gave us an eagle-eye description of their home or of the neighborhood’s dirty streets and market. Instead, they would respond to our prompting with thoughts on a family member, a bossy neighbor, or whatever they found important. As the book slowly took shape, I came to appreciate the insistence of the dogme rules on favoring the Rosales’ descriptions over our own. They were fully capable of contextualizing their lives through their own and their siblings’ voices. No need for our descriptions. But to ensure this contextualization was accessible to the reader and more complete, I found it necessary to follow-up on most stories independently with various members of the Rosales family (therefore following the importance of dogme rules seven and eight). What one obscured, another revealed, and related fields of inquiry were often woven together in this process. Since they knew we were talking to all of them, it also ensured a certain level of soberness in their stories. The funny thing is, they never suspected us of manipulating their voices even though we did do just that. In addition to removing our own voices, we also cut out repetitions, non-verbal sounds, and excessive use of profanity (swear words have a greater impact in written versus spoken language). In order to ensure readability, syntax was changed at times by swapping main and dependent clauses, and some adaptation was made to punctuation (rule three). For the purpose of clarity, pronouns were at times replaced by the name of the person to whom they referred, or vice versa, and connecting elements were added as needed

Appendix I

to join sentences. In instances where a word was clearly missing, it was added in the transcription process (rule four). Sometimes, a concluding sentence was moved to be first in the story to help the reader, or different details told to us in several interviews on the same story were merged into one coherent story. The end result of this editing process was a rather marked improvement in the accessibility and flow of the Rosales’ narration. In real life, there are great differences between them. Gregoria, Lidia, and Lalo are talented orators, something Patricia, Mario, and Israel are not. However, after going through our editing machine, these differences were evened out. They all turned into a more eloquent version of themselves, though some more than others. I guess they liked that part; at least they never doubted they were the ones speaking. They recognized one another’s phrases and distinctive tone despite the rough editing. Even in the English translation, readers can quickly recognize who is speaking in the monologue. The dogme ethnography may well be far from fiction in terms of literary qualities, plot structures, and suspension. It would be preposterous to claim otherwise. Yet it captures the special trope of the characters and settings; a feat that a fiction author has a hard time doing in an equally persuasive manner. In that sense, the ethnographic dogme research and writing could inspire fiction and screenplay writers to sharpen their characters and settings, just as they inspired us to play with time. The chapters of this book progress without any need to reveal specific dates. However, there is a flow backward and forward in time underneath the master narrative. The first chapter concerning the earthquake fixes the book in historical time; we could not blur the date of that event as we blurred the dates of others. The events of the first chapter occur in 1985, and the second chapter spans from 1950 to 1995. The remaining chapters that are organized around events progress gradually from 1985 to the present, albeit with constant leaps forward or backward in time. The three chapters that are organized around personal relationships are also, albeit to a lesser degree, organized chronologically starting with when Gregoria’s children were small (chapter 2), continuing through their relationships with partners (chapter 4) and ending with the children’s children, Gregoria’s grandchildren (chapter 11). Likewise, we intended to edit the flow of the stories in each chapter chronologically. The chapters concerning an event (e.g., the earthquake or Israel’s flight) were the easiest to redact. We simply followed the course of the actions from A to Z. It was more complicated with the chapters organized around the Rosales’ personal relationships (chapters 2, 4, and 11). But, even here, it was possible to give the sequence of monologues a forward flow in time by beginning with the mother’s monologue followed by the oldest

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children and ending with the youngest. The reader can, in so doing, recognize what they are talking about because the former monologues have already provided a basis for understanding the latter. It required, however, much cutting and pasting to give the book this flow since the narrators normally looked back in time while the course of action moved forward. Despite our rough redaction, many sentences hint at something that had happened chapters before or would take place chapters after. The many references backward and forward in time somehow help the text to acquire a more literary tone. They provide the book with a suspense curve (How do they get a new house? How does Mario end up in jail? And how does he get out?) without the plot reaching the intensity of fiction. The crime author Don Winslow was able, in his famous novel The Power of the Dog (2005: 179–96), to shift between being inside the head in his characters and outside looking down on Mexico City (as from a plane) when describing how the city was shaking his main character nearly to death in the 1985 earthquake. For obvious reasons, we could not provide the reader with the same omnipresence when redacting the stories of the Rosales who were buried in the same earthquake. We could not “see” the disaster from above or “feel their fears,” much less invent things and details to increase the suspense to a maximum. Still, having eight voices, we had different distances and perspectives (Genette 1990) and were able to weave some suspense into the master narrative by organizing the sentences, and the sequences, of their monologue. When Patricia begins the second chapter by telling us that Gregoria’s children are good-for-nothing, it somehow foreshadows for the reader how the kids buried in the earthquake become problematic adults, and, when Gregoria tells us in the second chapter that her Jewish mentor Juanito put down the payment for her flat, it provides the reader with a flashback to the first chapter. The loose ends, hints, and returns to former actions or feelings slowly increase the readers’ understanding while inciting him or her to continue a little more: a classic narrative flow in fiction. Nevertheless, as a rule, there was far too much foreshadowing and too many flashbacks in the raw transcriptions to structure a steady reading flow capable of tying the many events and thoughts tidily together. When the Rosales talked to us, they mixed things, stories, and emotions, as most people do when speaking. Our job was to straighten out for the reader the stories and sentiments told to us. Much foreshadowing and many flashbacks were therefore cut out; yet this editing could not avoid leaving loose ends for the reader’s imagination to fill in the missing gaps. This openness reflects the fact that the narratives are taken directly from real life and, as such, the master narrative should be

Appendix I

appreciated as an open-ended ongoing story of a family entrenched in the fringes of modern Mexico. The last two monologues in the book, by Lidia and Israel, leave us with a cliff hanger. What will happen to Israel’s kids? It is up to the reader to imagine what time will eventually tell. Even though Israel ends the book, his final sentence was not recorded at the end of our study. It was recorded five years before he went underground. This editorial license to present the story free from strict chronological adherence is no different from that of authors or filmmakers. By breaking up and reordering their monologues, we were able to direct and magnify some of the suspense already present in their stories. For instance, when Gregoria was extorted, I happened to be there. It was too intense an experience to discuss at that time. Who had done it? Why did she fall into the trap? I also participated in some black magic ceremonies but never fully understood them. It was not until years later, when Mariana, Lidia, and Luz once again commented on the extortion, that we realized how traumatic the experience had been, and how far-reaching its consequences. In the editing process, we were able to merge stories recorded years apart into a story line that made it possible to develop and direct this suspense (using literary tricks such as shifting perspectives and jumping in time). Far from obscuring things, we found this editorial reworking of chronological time enables the reader to better appreciate this rather complicated story. The cutting and merging of multiple interviews, here, had much in common with the postproduction editing of film production, hence also the cinematic nature of the book.5 Yet, by cutting out the empty time when nothing happens in relation to the story, the text condenses a semantic field around those stories. In this sense, the book not only portrays their dramatic stories but dramatizes them by accelerating the time between events. As such, it condenses meaning and actions around certain themes. In addition to ordering the chapters according to when the stories took place, I also chose to order the stories along not just one but three underlying theme-based story lines. Some might find the Rosales’ behavior and family relations more interesting than their social entrenchments, or vice versa; and the reader will draw connections between the stories based upon his or her own particular interest and political vision. The common oscillation between stressing psychological, familial, socioeconomic, or cultural imperatives often develops into a moral debate about whom or what to blame for people’s fortune, or more often, misfortune. I can hear the whisper, “Is it Israel, the family, the mafia, or society pushing them out to the fringes?” The trend of blaming the poor for their poverty, occasioned by the release of Oscar Lewis’s books in the US, indicates that this form of oral

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ethnography holds its own innate dangers. During the 1960s and 1970s, Oscar Lewis’s concept of a culture of poverty divided the conservative Right and progressive Left in the US into a heated debate about values among the poor, and who is to blame for poverty. The conservative Right utilized Lewis’s concept to blame the poor for their own misery (a view Lewis never espoused) while the Left engaged in beatifying the poor by angrily denying the violence described by Lewis (Bourgois 2003). In Mexico, Lewis’s books did not occasion the same kind of finger-pointing. The Children of Sánchez rather provoked widespread shock and disgust among Mexico’s affluent population, to the point where Lewis was accused of having fabricated the Sánchez family to damage the country’s image. The violence and poverty the children of Sánchez described did not fit with the Catholic ideas about family and their conception of modern Mexico (Lomnitz 2012). The irony of all this tumult was that Lewis never put much effort into his concept of the culture of poverty. Lewis was much more interested in the eloquent real-life ethnography he produced than in his culture of poverty thesis. Indeed, he wished to publish The Children of Sánchez without any theoretical argument. The problem was that the editor at Random House did not allow him to do so, forcing him to include a rather flimsy theory he himself did not find fully adequate for understanding the ethnography (Rigdon 1988). This provided even more reason for us to avoid making the same mistake. However, instead of constructing a full-blown argument in the introduction to The Children of Gregoria, we preferred to follow Lewis’s original plan and leave the theory-making up to the reader. Nonetheless, the problems Lewis faced in the US with victim blaming or victim beatifying may not derive solely from the flossy cultural theory of poverty he presented in the introductions to his books. It may also derive from the very story line he provided to the reader. There was also, of course, an analysis at play in the editing process for Oscar Lewis and his wife Ruth, who we mention because she was, according to Susan Rigdon, the main editorial force behind his books (1988). In the introduction to The Children of Sánchez, Oscar Lewis hints at what this analysis might be. As Rigdon also argues, Lewis was deeply entangled in psychology; nowhere is that more evident than in The Children of Sánchez. In his introduction, he describes his use of “individual consultations” and “free association,” which at times provoked “catharsis” and “anxieties” among the Sánchezes. Lewis also collected a large number of their actual dreams for psychoanalysis. His research setup therefore seems inspired by Freudian psychoanalysis. I find that this interest of his goes deeper than just his interviewing methods. The structure of the book starts and ends with a chapter on

Appendix I

the authoritarian father figure of Jesus Sánchez.6 Each child gets three chapters apiece in which they describe their childhood/adolescence, and early and later adulthood in long monologues. In other words, each chapter is structured as one period in which one individual looks backward or forward towards a single dominant father figure. There is much in such a story line that is suggestive of a classic psychoanalytical drama, drawing particularly on a Freudian idea of what a person is. It does not mean that the rough social and economic situation caused by the entrenchment of poverty is not part of the Sánchezes’ narratives; on the contrary, it is all over them, yet it leads us in our reading to foreground the psychological personality traits of each individual and the nexus of relationships between the many voices rather than their social and economic constraints. It is hence possible that the very psychological structure of their stories in his book facilitated this reading of poverty as a psychological problem of the protagonists. To avoid an equally strong psychological bias in the reading of the Rosales’ violence, we broke with this understated Freudian story line and divided the chapters between the three distinct story lines mentioned. Whereas one of the story lines addresses personal relationships to family members, as in Lewis’s framework, the others organize the monologues according to extraordinary events and more mundane activities. To follow an incident, a product, or an event is not the same as to follow the children becoming adults. Yet, the moral disputes about who or what to blame is not merely a political and academic debate. The Rosales also ask themselves these questions all the time. In this three-dimensional montage of their narrations, we have resisted discussing them as if psychological, familial, socioeconomic, or cultural imperatives were not interconnected. On the one hand, we ordered the monologues in the eleven chapters according to three distinct story lines: 1) personal relations, 2) extraordinary events, and 3) ordinary socioeconomic and cultural activities, to give room for interpreting the role and scope of different agents, be it individual personality traits, family matters, or social and cultural constraints. On the other hand, we ensured that the reader’s interpretations are reached through a journey that mixes these three story lines at the level of the storytelling. In other words, the order of the chapters (the way the reader reads the book) does not follow a natural succession of the three theme-based story lines (although the reader will probably not notice this)—it does, however, equip the reader with the information and familiarity necessary to see the links between these episodes, and to raise such questions him/herself. The first story line is primarily concerned with affinal and consanguineal relations, a common anthropological approach to family research

253

254

Appendix I

since Lewis Henry Morgan’s classic from 1871 Systems of Consanguinity and Affinity of the Human Family. This line is pursued in three chapters, addressing parents and siblings (chapter 2), partners (chapter 4), and children (chapter 11). In these chapters, the reader also takes a journey through the historical and psychological differences of the complicated relationships between the members of the Rosales family. Their individual personalities and different socioeconomic and familial positions compromise the family’s unity over and over again. The second story line concerns extraordinary events. Five chapters are structured around events that have influenced the whole family: the earthquake (chapter 1), Mario’s imprisonments (chapter 6), the extortion of Gregoria (chapter 8), her cancer (chapter 9), and Israel’s flight (chapter 10). By passing through the development of each event, the reader is given an insight into how the Rosales deal with institutions (churches, police, jails, rehab, hospitals) as well as their response to one another’s fortune and misfortune. The third story line concerns more ordinary socioeconomic and cultural activities. Three chapters are organized around activities the family consistently engaged in from different sides: “work” (chapter 3), violence (chapter 5), and religion (chapter 7). In the chapter on work, some monologues are organized according to how products circulate (stolen, pirated, or contraband). Like an actor-networktheory researcher (Latour 2007), the reader can follow the illicit products in different places in the underground economy. He or she is thereby given a window into the flow of illicit product distribution, and different points in the underground economy. The chapters dealing with violence and religion do not follow things but are instead based on recurrent events; unique as each of them are, they drag the Rosales back into the same whirlwind. In these cases, violence and faith become the underlying structuring mechanism of the events and sentences. Yet, in these chapters too, it is the narrative story line that first comes to mind for the reader. It is through the interwoven actions and reflections that the reader is provided with a radically real sense of problems and encouraged to reflect on the underlying personal, familial, social, and cultural circumstances. And so, despite merely editing the Rosales’ voices in this book, it is still possible to guide the readers’ potential analysis. There were thousands of crucial decisions about where to cut and how to merge the stories behind each of these story lines. None of these cuttings and pastings were innocent but, instead of seeing this as a problem, we approached it as a powerful tool to push the potential interpretations of The Children of Gregoria away from what happened in the US with The Children of Sánchez, fifty years ago. We still do not know what the outcome will be. Only

Appendix I

the readers’ reception and understanding of the book will clarify this for us. So far, film and podcast producers, psychologists, anthropologists, sociologists, historians, journalists, and linguists have shown an interest in the book. My Mexican father-in-law and friends have been choked over the lives and thoughts of the Rosales, and my seventeen-year-old Mexican nephew, who has probably never read a whole book in his life, was amused and amazed by the wit of the Rosales. Gregoria’s only comment after having read it was: “I don’t like it, but it is the fucking truth, for real.” We could not have had better comments. Time will show if more people find it interesting to tap into the lives of the Rosales, and if our editing of this family’s voices makes any difference to how they and Mexico’s fringes are appreciated among academics and nonacademics.

Notes 1. Oscar Lewis wrote several books which had a characteristic mixture of oral literature and ethnography. The Children of Sánchez (1963) and La Vida (1966) were his most famous books; however, Five Families (1959) and Pedro Martinez (1964) were also written in the same style, based on careful editing of multiple tape-recorded interviews with the same people. 2. For information on the dogme 1995 see: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Dogme_95. 3. Over the last decades a strong journalistic tradition in Mexico has surged for capturing the voices of the voiceless (e.g., Javier Valdez Cardenas, Marcela Turrati, Sergio González Rodríguez, etc.) that in some aspects comes close to the dogme ethnography (for a masterful thought piece on such authors see Meade 2018). It might also be argued that dogme ethnography resembles aspects of Diego E. Osorno’s “N ew Manifesto for Infrarealist Journalism.” 4. I follow here the distinction Didier Fassin makes between true life and real lives in “True Life, Real Lives: Revisiting the Boundaries between Ethnography and Fiction” (2015: 40–55). I like to think of The Wire as nonfiction-like fiction and The Children of Gregoria as fiction-like nonfiction. They both gloss over the tension Fassin describes between true life and real lives, albeit from opposite points. 5. For an in-depth discussion on how the work of editing or montage in ethnographic film production can offer a way of conveying an invisible and irreducible otherness, see Christian Suhr and Rane Willerslev (2012). 6. I must thank Rihan Yeh for commenting to me on Oscar Lewis’s psychological structure of The Children of Sánchez at a seminar on Lewis in May 2013, which inspired me to create my own counter-structure for The Children of Gregoria.

255

Appendix II

MANIFESTO FOR A DOGME ETHNOGRAPHY

1. Everything written in the book has to have been first said into a microphone and transcribed (or written down by the principal narrators chosen to be voiced). It is not possible for the researcher to remember the precise wording of a conversation. 2. The researcher’s voice has to be cut out of the transcribed conversations. 3. Multiple, transcribed conversations with the same person can be cut and merged at the author’s discretion (full sentences only). Repetitions, sounds, and excessive use of certain words (e.g., swear words) in a sentence can be deleted and the word order changed (e.g., swapping main and dependent clauses). 4. No new sentences or half sentences are to be invented. Only small adjustments and a few added words are allowed to ease the reading. “She” or “he” can be changed to the name of the person or vice versa; “it,” “they,” “those” can be changed to what they refer to; “therefore” or “thus” can be added to connect sentences; a missing word can be added if needed, etc. 5. No visual effects are allowed. Neither can the editing author include maps or drawings. 6. Only a preface can be exempt from these editing rules. In the preface, the researcher can explain the context of the transcribed recordings, however, no academic argument is allowed. This preface should be restricted to a maximum of three pages. 7. There must be more than one person voiced in the book. 8. The people voiced have to be socially related either through family, friendship, or associations (gangs, clubs, work, etc.).

Appendix II

9. A long relationship between the researcher and the people voiced is obligatory. 10. The researcher takes full responsibility. He or she must be credited.

257

GLOSSARY

accesoría: A small commercial business usually installed in a garage or section of a family’s home. Accesorías typically offer tacos, quesadillas, empanadas, or other light fare, as well as sodas and, at times, beer. amiga, amigo: Literally, friend. May be used as a form of friendly address to shopkeepers, waiters, or strangers in general. barbacoa: A community or family celebration centering around a feast of pork, beef, or goat that has been slow roasted in an underground pit. barrio: Neighborhood, residential zone. bisnes: Business, usually refers to illicit or illegal business dealings. Brujería: Witchcraft, usually referring to one of several syncretic religious practices, similar to Santería. buñuelos: A dessert made from fried tortillas coated in cinnamon sugar or honey. cabrón, cabrona: An obscenity, can be used either as a term of endearment or as an insult. Similar to English “badass,” “bastard,” “bitch.” canijo: Used to describe something or someone difficult, violent, tricky. carnal, carnala: Terms of affection, usually referring to blood relatives, but also used as a term for a buddy or friend, like “bro” in English slang. chamalongo: Descriptive term for Santería shamans who divine by throwing chamalongo shells. chingón: One of the most flexible terms in Mexican caló, chingón may indicate a high degree of skill, physical strength, or social/criminal influ-

Glossary

ence. This obscenity may also be used to express satisfaction or pleasure, or alternately, difficulty or obstacles. It may also be used as an intensifier, amplifying the emphasis on whatever it is employed to describe. Derivative of chingar, loosely, “to fuck (up).” chingón de los chingones: See above. The baddest bastard around, the top fuckin’ dog, the baddest motherfucker. Superlative of chingón. colita: Literally, little tails. Similar to English “bottoms,” “backsides,” “behinds.” colonia: A self-contained neighborhood, usually consisting of a group of architecturally similar residential structures. Comandante: From Vulgar Latin commandant, in caló it refers to a chief in police or military; the one who commands. compadre, comadre: Literally, the co-father or co-mother of your child. Generally denotes close or intimate friends of the parents. conjunto: A small musical ensemble. curandero: Literally, healer. A folk healer or medicine man who uses herbs or hallucinogenic plants, magic, and spiritualism to treat illness. desaparecido: Literally, disappeared. Refers to someone who has been “vanished,” either by narcotraffickers or by the government. Diosito: Literally, [my] little God. Used as a term of endearment for God. Federales: Federal police officers. gabacho: Chicano, pejorative term for an English-speaking, non-Hispanic. gansitos, pingüinos: Sugary cake-based snacks sold everywhere across Mexico. gorditas: A deep-fried pocket of cornmeal dough (masa), often with a filling of meat and vegetables. güera: Literally, a woman with light skin. Often used as a term of flattery or affection. güey: Vernacular slang similar to English “guy,” “dude,” “buddy,” “pal.” Can be used affectionately, neutrally, or as a term of aggression, depending on the context. Commonly used in reference to both men and women. híjole: Interjection, usually to express surprise or to preface news that the speaker feels will be disappointing to the listener.

259

260

Glossary

lacra: The decayed matter in the crust of a wound. Refers to the lowest of the low, like hit men who have no morals and nothing to lose, and therefore who are also widely feared. licenciado(a): Term of respect used to address someone who has completed a university-level degree. Among low-income families it refers mainly to someone whose degree specializes in law, though not necessarily. mano, mana: Term of affection, derivative of hermano, hermana. mano a mano: Literally, hands on hands; used to describe fist fights as a more honorable form of fighting. mazapancillo: From the almond paste, marzipan. In caló it is used to describe beating-up somebody neatly—“to make a paste of them.” mercado: A local market, generally housed in a large indoor space, consisting of numerous specialized stands offering produce, prepared food, spices and chili peppers, shoes and leatherwork, artisanal crafts, and many other products. (the) mero mero: The chief of the chiefs, the main one or top dog. México lindo: Referring to a traditional mariachi and ranchera Mexican song written by Chucho Monge and made famous by singer Jorge Negrete. It is widely known throughout the Spanish-speaking world for its characterization of patriotism and loyalty for the land of Mexico. mija, mijo: See hijo, hija. Contraction of possessive adjective mi and hijo/a. mixiote: A traditional dish made from steamed, spiced ram meat. mole: One of several types of thick, chili-based sauces served over chicken, turkey, or beef, usually accompanied by rice. muertito: Literally, little dead man. Used as a term of affection for the dead. negra, negrita: Literally, a woman with very dark skin. Can be used as a term of affection. n’ombre: Interjection, contraction of No hombre! Generally used to express surprise or chagrin. órale: Interjection expressing encouragement, appreciation, surprise. Also used to goad an opponent into a fight. padrino: A senior member of Alcoholics Anonymous (AA) or Narcotics Anonymous (NA) who helps newer members maintain accountability, a sponsor.

Glossary

patron: Chief. pendejo: Insult, similar to English “jackass,” “idiot,” “asshat,” “fool.” pere: From peregrinación, literally, pilgrimage. pinche: Intensifier; similar to English “damn,” “goddamn,” “fuckin’.” quinceañera: A celebration, usually large and ostentatious, for a daughter’s fifteenth birthday. Socially, quinceañeras function as a sort of “presentation to society” of said daughter. rock&roll: to go for a rock&roll means to “get wasted.” To get rock&rolled means to get “beaten up.” Santera, Santero: A religious practitioner of Santería. See Brujería. tanda: A community savings cycle, in which each member contributes a given sum (usually monthly), which is then repaid to one member per term. A system of savings devised among the impoverished people of Mexico who either cannot or choose not to use bank accounts. temazcal: A traditional Mexican steam bath. tepache: An alcoholic drink made from fermented pineapple juice. tianguis: Similar to a mercado but generally held in an outdoor space. tlalpalería: From the Nahuatl, tlalpalli, a tlalpalería is akin to a general store, offering construction materials, mops, cleaning products, and general items for use in the home. tocaya: Name-sister. tortas: Mexican-style sandwiches, usually featuring black beans, cheese, and a selected type of meat on a roll. tostón: Literally a fifty-cent coin, half of a peso. Used in slang to say “fifty.” vámonos: Exhortation; “Let’s go!” vecindad: A Mexican term for a building containing several, often lowincome, housing units around a central patio with shared facilities.

261

REFERENCES

Alexievich, Svetlana. 2005. Voices from Chernobyl: The Oral History of a Nuclear Disaster. London: Dalkey Archive Press. ———. 2015. Krigen har ikke et kvindeligt ansigt. Copenhagen: Palomar Press. Behar, Ruth. 1993. Translated Woman: Crossing the Border with Esperanza’s Story. Boston: Beacon Press. Bourgois, Philippe. 2003. “Culture of Poverty.” In International Encyclopedia of the Social & Behavioral Sciences, ed. N . J. Smelser and Paul B. Baltes, 11904–07. Oxford: Pergamon. Candea, Matei. 2007. “Arbitrary Locations: In Defense for the Bounded Field-Site.” Journal of the Royal Anthropological Institute (N.S.) 13: 167–84. Crapanzano, Vincent. 1980. Tuhami: Portrait of a Moroccan. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Clifford, James. 1988. The Predicament of Culture: Twentieth-Century Ethnography, Literature, and Art. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press. Clifford, James, and George Marcus, eds. 1986. Writing Culture: The Poetics and Politics of Ethnography. Berkeley: University of California Press. Fassin, Didier. 2015. “True Life, Real Lives: Revisiting the Boundaries between Ethnography and Fiction.” American Ethnologist 41(1): 40–55. Gan´ko, Anna. 2018. “Writing What Is Told—On Ethnographic Narrative and Text.” Journal of Education Culture and Society (2): 227–39. Geertz, Clifford. 1988. Works and Lives: The Anthropologist as Author. Stanford: Stanford University Press. Genette, Gérard. 1990. Narrative Discourse: An Essay in Method. Ithaca: Cornell University Press. Holbraad, Martin, and Morten Pedersen. 2017. The Ontological Turn: An Anthropological Exposition. London: Cambridge University Press. Latour, Bruno. 2007. Reassembling the Social: An Introduction to Actor-Network-Theory. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Lewis, Oscar. 1959. Five Families. New York: Basic Books.

References

———. 1963. The Children of Sánchez: Autobiography of Mexican Family. New York: Vintage Books. ———. 1964. Pedro Martinez. New York: Vintage. ———. 1966. La Vida: A Puerto Rican Family in the Culture of Poverty. New York: Vintage Books. Lomnitz, Claudio. 2012. “Prólogo.” In Los Hijos de Sánchez: Una Muerte en La Familia Sánchez, by Oscar Lewis. Mexico City: Fondo de Cultura Econónica. Meade, Everard. 2018. “The Plaza Is for the Populacho, the Desert Is for DeepSea Fish.” In Journalism, Satire, and Censorship in Mexico, ed. Paul Gillingham, Michael Lettieri, and Benjamin T. Smith, 299–332. Albuquerque: University of New Mexico Press. Portelli, Alessandro. 2006. “What Makes Oral History Different?” In The Oral History Reader, 2nd ed., ed. Robert Perks and Alistair Thomson, 63–74. London: Routledge. Rigdon, Susan. 1988. The Culture Facade: Art, Science, and Politics in the Work of Oscar Lewis. Chicago: University of Illinois Press. Said, Edward. 1979. Orientalism. New York: Vintage Books. Suhr, Christian, and Rane Willerslev. 2012. “Can Film Show the Invisible: The Work of Montage in Ethnographic Filmmaking.” Current Anthropology 53(3): 282–301. Willerslev, Rane, George Marcus, and Lotte Meinert. 2017. “Obstruction and Intervention as Creative Methods in Anthropological Research.” Ethnos. Journal of Anthropology 82(5): 809–19. Winslow, Don. 2005. The Power of the Dog. New York: Vintage.

263

INDEX

Aarón, xii, 87, 217–18, 219 abortion, 220–21 Acapulco: Eduardo’s trips to, 37–38; Gregoria’s trips to, 8; Israel in, 205; Mario’s pilgrimages to, 161 accesoria: Gregoria’s, 2, 4–5, 10; Patricia’s, 41, 195 actor-network theory, 254 Adán: contraband merchandise and, 40; jealousy of, 86, 185; Lidia and, xii, 50, 85–87, 185, 201 Ahuehuete, pilgrimage route through, 231 Alameda Park, visits to, 18 Alba: children of, xi, 212; Mario and, xi, 35–36, 72, 80–81, 83, 98, 172; prison visitations by, 131 Alcatráz gang: Eduardo and, 44; Israel and, 17, 32, 44; murders by, 47–48; pilgrimages by, 160–64, 230; rivalry with Xochitlán gang, 43–44, 45–46, 237; stealing by, 31–32, 44 alcoholism: Don Robert’s, 22, 69–70. See also drinking Alexievich, Svetlana, 245 Alfarería, rosaries at, 230 Alfonso, xi, 80, 81, 212 Alfredo (Alfi), xi, 3, 138, 239; business of, 41–43; carjacking incident and,

113–15; Don Juanito’s encounter with, 11; drug use by, 22, 23; during earthquake, 1–2; father of, 6, 13; gang violence and, 95; infidelity of, 71, 72, 88; Israel’s flight and, 194–95, 201; and Lidia, 19; and Mario, 97–98; personality of, 19, 113–15, 211; police bust and, 41; relationship with children, 211–12 Alianza gang, 237–38; accused of murder and kidnapping, 189–91, 193–94, 195, 199; disunity in, 46; extortion by, 193; Israel and, 46, 190, 193; and security racket, 46, 193, 238 Alicia (grandmother), xi; grandchildren living with, 2, 15; and Gregoria, 175; and Lidia, 18 Alicia (Mariana’s daughter), xi, 206–8; children of, 61, 208–9; fight to defend, 109–11 altar(s) to Santa Muerte: authors’ visits to, 229–30, 231; in prison, 150; proliferation of, 140, 230; prostitutes and, 229 altar to Santa Muerte, Gregoria’s, 138, 139–44, 146; abandoned women visiting, 65–66; Checo and Lupe visiting, 28–29; after earthquake,

Index

146; explosion at, 26; gang members visiting, 139–40; hard work required to keep, 142, 143; and moneymaking, 143; opposition to, 139, 140–41; origins of, 139, 140; and politics, 141–42; popularity of, 140, 141; reputation associated with, 105, 109, 139; rosaries performed at, 138, 139, 140, 141; statue of Santa Muerte at, 139, 140, 142, 143 Andrés: extortion by, 171, 175–76; hex on, 173 Ángel (El Chino), 75–78, 79 anger: Alfredo’s, 113–15; Eduardo’s, 21, 117–18; Gregoria on, 7 anorexia, 222 anthropology: academic arguments vs. ethnographic description in, 244; ontological turn in, 244; reflective turn in, 243 Antillanos bar, Alcatráz gang and, 44 APAC (Association for People with Cerebral Palsy), 60–62, 75 Apocalipsis bar, murder at, 189, 190, 192, 202 Apostólica Romana México-Texas Free Catholic Church, 229 Azucena, xii, 90, 91, 92–93; fight with Lidia, 92–93; flight with Israel, 189; infidelity of, 92 bail, 133, 135 bank(s): drug trade and, 49; Gregoria’s extortion and, 169; Gregoria’s inheritance from Don Juanito in, 12–13; unreliability of, Patricia on, 42 bank accounts: absence of, 35, 42, 167, 261; tanda as substitute for, 41, 261 baptisms, 145–46 Baptist Church: altar to Santa Muerte and, 146; stealing from, 5; vecindad rebuilt by, 4–5 beating(s): car chase and, 121; of children by parents, 14, 16, 19, 20, 21, 36, 38, 75, 216; by police,

265

22, 121, 124, 126–27; in prison, 117, 121, 122, 129, 130, 136, 197; among siblings, 17, 19, 96, 97–98, 118; of women by partners, 16, 66–67, 75, 76, 85, 93, 162, 207 Belize, contraband merchandise from, 39, 63 Beltrán Leyva cartel, 190 birthday celebrations: in Gregoria’s house, 24, 234; quinceañera party for El Rojo’s daughter, 45 Bombas (strip joint), 45 Bony Lady. See Santa Muerte Boris, xi, 61, 79, 209–11 Brian, xii, 224, 225 Buenos Aires neighborhood, 229 bulimia, 222 Burbuja (strip joint), 44 business: altar to Santa Muerte as, 143; Church as, 145; Don Juanito’s, 8–9; Don Mario’s, 6, 15; Enrique’s, 43; Israel’s, 31–32, 193, 236; Lidia’s, 49–50, 236; Mario’s, 33–36, 63–64, 82, 125–26, 135, 236; Patricia and Alfredo’s, 41–43, 236; in prison, 121–22, 129. See also work El Calavera, 141–42 camps, after earthquake, 3 cancer, Gregoria’s, 26, 177–88 Cancun: Ernesto’s move to, 68; Mariana’s trips to, 61 candles: making, 62; selling at altar, 143 car crash, 26 cards, reading of, 120, 157, 158 carjacking: of Alfredo’s SUV, 113–15; Mario accused of, 121, 122–23 Carlitos, xii, 84, 215 Carlos: Lidia and, xii, 18, 19, 49, 84–85, 215; in prison, 84–85 car washing, 62, 63 Casa 21: gang from, 95–96, 97; Mariana’s in-laws in, 13; steam rooms and pool in, 14 Casa Blanca (strip joint), 45

266

Index

Catholicism: Gregoria on, 146, 182; and Santa Muerte cult, 229. See also Church(es) CDs: burning of, 42; pirated, 41–43, 236 celebrations: absence in Don Juanito’s life, 11; in Gregoria’s house, 24, 234; quinceañera party, 45 cemetery: Checo’s visits to, 29; common grave in, 15; Gregoria’s visits to, 123, 154–55, 172, 174; Santería rituals in, 155 Central gang, 97 Centro Medico, 178, 179, 184 Chalma, pilgrimages to, 160–64; Don Mario and, 14; Mario and, 51; Regnar and, 230–34 El Chango, 163 Chapo Guzmán cartel, 190 Chapultepec, trips to, 13, 93 El Chato, 162 Chávez, Julio Cesar, 32 Checo, xii, 28–29; faith of, 7, 156–57; Gregoria’s cancer and, 185; and Palo Monte, 7, 29, 156, 158–60; relationship with Gregoria, 7, 29; relationship with mother, 28, 29; rosaries performed by, 7, 29, 136; visits to cemetery, 155; visits to women’s prison, 136, 137 children: beatings of, 14, 16, 19, 20, 21, 36, 38, 75, 216; Don Juanito’s attitude toward, 10; father’s absence and, 16, 20, 26; gang violence and, 95–96; Gregoria on, 8, 66, 69; lessons for, 28, 58, 212–13, 214, 215, 220, 223–24, 236; love for, 14, 18, 20, 21, 25, 66, 205, 213, 220; neglect of, 17, 18, 206–9; parents’ mistakes repeated by, 26, 211, 214, 217–20; participation in fights, 96, 97; rape by family members, 70–71; registering, 206, 207–8; toys for, distributing during pilgrimages, 160, 233–34; in women’s prison, 136

The Children of Sánchez (Lewis), 237, 239, 244, 252–53; psychological bias in, 252–53, 255n6 China: Don Juanito’s trade with, 9; Mario’s trade with, 63–64; pirated goods from, 237 El Chino (Ángel), 75–78, 79 Chiquimeca City, Santa Muerte cult in, 141 Christmas, 11, 23, 39, 209 Christ of Chalma. See Lord of Chalma chronology, in dogme ethnography, 249–51 Chucho (gang member), 47–49 El Chulo, 45 Church(es): asking for donations in, Drug Addicts Anonymous and, 52–53; business of, 145; criticism of, 144–45; Eduardo and, 152; and politics, 141–42. See also Baptist Church; Catholicism; priest(s) Cinco de Mayo colonia, 3 Claudia: association founded by, 235; and dogme ethnography, 239, 240–41; and Gregoria, 231, 234–36; photography of, 229, 230, 240, 241; on pilgrimage to Chalma, 230–31; and Regnar, 227, 229; and Santa Muerte, interest in, 229–30; visits to Esperanza, 234 Clifford, James, 246 Colombia, drug smuggling from, 237 community savings cycle (tanda), 41, 261 Consejo al Ciudadano (Citizen’s Council), 222 contraband merchandise, 39–40, 237; Mario and, 125–26; police and, 40, 41 cops. See police corruption: of DA, 135; of police, 42, 45, 46, 50, 125, 155, 196, 237; of priests, 145–46; of prison guards, 125, 128–29, 133, 134, 136, 137; public anger stemming from, 238

Index

crime: UN program against, 226–27; Zero Tolerance policy on, 236. See also specific crimes Cristina: Alicia (grandmother) and, 175; children of, xi, 214; Esther and, 171, 174; and extortion of Gregoria, 171, 172–73, 175–76; hex on, 174; Mario and, xi, 72, 80, 172, 175; in prison, 172 La Cuarta, 114 Cuernavaca, Lidia in, 83 cysticercosis, 124, 128 DA, corruption of, 135 dance halls: Eduardo and, 37, 44; Gregoria and, 11, 21, 68; Mariana and, 79; violence at, 30 death: blaming Santa Muerte for, 140–41; Don Juanito’s, 8, 11–12; Don Mario’s, 14, 15; Gregoria on, 147, 148; Gregoria’s, children’s contemplation of, 143, 204–5; Israel on, 30–31, 148–49, 150; during pilgrimage, 161, 163, 164; Santa Muerte as, 149; War on Crime and, 236. See also murder(s); Santa Muerte death metal, 209–10, 211 Delegation (police station): Aarón in, 218; Eduardo in, 116–17; Israel in, 117; Lidia in, 36; Mario in, 127 Denmark: Dogme 95 movement in, 239, 245; gangs in, 227; infidelity in, 228 description, ethnographic: vs. academic arguments, 244. See also dogme ethnography Desiré, xi, 211–12; and CD burning, 42; and fight against diablas, 101, 102; gang violence and, 44; on massage course, 59 destiny: Gregoria on, 68, 148, 175; Israel on, 225; Luz on, 153; Mario on, 236 Diablo, fight against family of, 99–106 Diana, xii, 84, 215, 216, 217; and CD burning, 42; and fight against

267

diablas, 102, 103; neighbors ganging up on, 99–101 Diosito. See God disappearance(s): Israel’s, 189–205, 212–13, 225, 238; Santa Muerte and, 152; War on Crime and, 236. See also kidnapping doctor(s), visits to: Alfredo’s injury and, 113; with Don Juanito, 9; Eduardo’s stabbing and, 116, 152; Gregoria’s cancer and, 177–78, 182–84; Gregoria’s insistence on, 26, 184–85; Israel’s injury and, 124; Luz’s, 26, 154, 220–21; Mariana’s, 158, 184–85; vs. Palo Monte, 159; in prison, 116, 127. See also hospital(s) Dogme 95 movement, in Denmark, 239, 245 dogme ethnography, 239–42, 243, 244; chronology in, 249–51; contextualization in, 248; editing rules for, viii, 243, 244, 245, 247–49, 256–57; fiction compared to, 249, 250, 251, 255n4; film compared to, viii, 239, 243, 251; first-person perspective in, 247; Gregoria’s comment on, viii, 255; guiding of readers’ potential analysis in, 254; inspirations for, 239, 244– 46; Mexican journalistic tradition compared to, 255n3; psychological bias in, avoiding, 253; and radical real prose, 245–46, 254; story lines in, 253–54; suspense in, 250, 251 donations: asking for, Drug Addicts Anonymous and, 52–53; during pilgrimages, 160, 233–34 Don Jorge. See Jorge (uncle) Don Juanito, 8–13, 16, 56; business of, 8–9; daily routine of, 9–10, 11; death of, 8, 11–12; diet of, 9–10; fears of, 9, 10, 11–12; and Gregoria’s inheritance, 12–13; manners of, 9 Don King, watch of, 32 Don Mario: death of, 14, 15; Eduardo’s relationship with, 20; faith of, 14;

268

Index

as father, 6, 13, 14–16, 20; Mario’s relationship with, 14, 16; market stands of, 6, 22; work of, 6, 15 Don Robert, xi, 6, 13; alcoholism of, 22, 69–70; and altar to Santa Muerte, 140, 142, 143; attempted extortion of, 170; children of, 6; Eduardo’s relationship with, 21–22, 200; fall from roof, 26; Gregoria and, xi, 6, 13, 21–22, 24, 67, 69, 187; Gregoria’s cancer and, 181 drinking: break-up and, 78; Don Mario and, 145; Don Robert and, 22, 69–70; giving up, 70; Mario and, 16, 81, 120, 121; priests and, 146; El Troll and, 157; on vacation, 13; Victor and, 214 Drug Addicts Anonymous, 52–53 drug trade: Gregoria on, 53–55; Lidia and, 49–50, 236; police raid and spread of, 54; profitability of, 46, 49, 50, 54; UN program against, 226–27; Xochitlán street and, 44 drug use: Alfredo and, 22, 23; Checo and, 28, 29; Eduardo and, 21, 22, 27, 36–37, 44, 51, 53, 54, 88, 115, 118, 120, 198, 236; faith and break with, 51; grandchildren and, 210, 211, 214, 218, 219–20; impact on family, 51, 53, 211; Israel and, 17, 23, 230; lack of warning regarding, 16; Mario and, 51; and muggings, 54; and murders, 55; during pilgrimage, 161, 162, 164, 232; in prison, 121, 129–30, 172; rejection by mother and, 21; songs about, 210, 211 earthquake (1985), 1–3, 236, 249; aftermath of, 3–5; and altar to Santa Muerte, 146; impact on Rosales family, vii, 1–3, 250; Winslow on, 250 Edbrard, Marcelo, 238 Eduardo (Lalo), xii, 19–24; and altar to Santa Muerte, 143; childhood

of, 19–20; children of, xii, 217–20; and contraband merchandise, 39; and Don Robert, 21–22, 200; drug addiction of, 21, 22, 27, 36–37, 44, 51, 53, 54, 88, 115, 118, 120, 198, 236; during earthquake, 2; eloquence of, 249; and Esther, xii, 87–88, 171; faith of, 63, 138–39, 141, 152–53, 164–65, 198–99, 200; family loyalty of, 38, 117; father of, 6, 20; and gangs, 20, 22, 44–45, 62–63; on gang violence, 45–49; homicide charge against, 116–17, 152; house of, 198; and Israel, 117, 118, 199; Israel’s flight and, 194, 198–200; and Lidia, 19, 118, 119; loneliness of, 49, 53, 88; longing for family unity, 117, 118; on love, 20, 21, 88–89; and Lula, xii; and Mario, 22–23, 24, 117–18; morality of, 63, 118; mother’s cancer and, 187; muggings by, 36–37, 38, 62; pilgrimages by, 164–65; poverty experienced by, 21, 23; on razor’s edge, walking, 47; in rehab, 51–53, 54, 115, 117, 118; relationship with mother, 20–21, 24, 27, 51, 199, 200; relationship with siblings, 22–24, 117–18, 199; revenge for stolen bike, 118–19; romantic relationships of, 53, 87–89; in security racket, 46; stabbing of, 115–16, 152; stealing by, 23, 36, 51; trip to Acapulco, 37–38; work of, 62–63 Eje Street: contraband merchandise in, 39–41; violence in, 30, 36 Elegguá (saint), 156; ritual sacrifice to, 159–60 Elizabeth: Israel and, xii, 90, 91, 224–25; kidnapping and rape of, 224–25 Enrique: business of, 43; faith of, 144; and fight against diablas, 103; hex by, 173–74; kidnapping of, 43; Luz and, xii, 25, 26, 58, 93–94, 145, 220, 222; in prison, 154; work of, 94

Index

Ernesto (Mariana’s husband), xi, 13, 14, 36, 60, 67–68, 72–75, 79, 209; and grandson Boris, 209; infidelity of, 67–68, 73–74; jealousy of, 72, 74–75; parents of, 13–14; work of, 36, 209 Ernesto (Mariana’s son), xi, 109–10 Esperanza: Claudia’s visits to, 234; earthquake in, 1–3; gangs in, 5, 17, 32, 44–46, 237–38; gang violence in, 47–48, 95, 237; Gregoria’s move to, vii, 8; inability to leave, 56, 58, 68, 99; Mario’s move away from, 63, 196, 235; murders in, 47–48, 54, 55, 193, 237; nostalgia for old times in, 55; pirated goods in, 39–43; police busts in, 40–41; rats in, 3; re-building after earthquake, 4–5; relations with El Rosal neighborhood, 45, 46; risk of rape in, 71; street fights in, 97; street peddlers in, 39; underground economy in, 236–37, 239; violence in, 30–31, 55 Esperanza market: Don Mario’s stands in, 6, 22; muggings in, 42–43, 46; Patricia’s stand in, 41–42; security racket in, 42–43, 46 Esther, xii; Cristina and, 171, 174; Eduardo and, 87–88 ethnography: dogme, 239–42, 243, 244–57; Lewis’s approach to, 239; lived experiences and, 247 extortion: Alianza gang and, 193; of Don Robert, 170; of Gregoria, 26, 166–76, 251; by police, 42, 45, 50; from prison, 82, 125, 167, 168, 171, 173; by prison guards, 125, 128–29, 133, 134, 136, 137 faith: Checo’s, 7, 156–57; Don Mario’s, 14; and drug addiction, overcoming, 51; Eduardo’s, 63, 138–39, 141, 152–53, 164–65, 198–99, 200; and family unity, 138–39; Gregoria’s, 7, 14, 24, 29, 65, 138–39, 142,

269

145–48, 154–57, 187–88, 191, 192, 193; Israel’s, 138, 148–50, 161, 230; Lidia’s, 138–39, 157, 161, 215; Luz’s, 138, 140, 144–45, 153–54, 202, 204; Mariana’s, 138, 139, 140, 157–58; Mario’s, 51, 121, 138, 139, 150–52 fajina grind, in prison, 129 family: conception in modern Mexico, 252; Don Juanito’s, 11; Ernesto’s, 13–14; parallel, 228; problems of violence and crime starting in, 240; support and destruction stemming from, 228; visits to psychologist and, 222–23. See also family loyalty; Rosales family family loyalty: carjacking incident and, 113–15; during earthquake, 2; Eduardo questioning, 117, 118; Eduardo’s, 38, 117; faith and, 139; and fights, 99–106, 108–12; grandchildren’s problems and, 219– 20; Gregoria’s cancer and, 180–82, 185–87; Gregoria’s extortion and, 168–70, 172–75; infidelity and, 228; Lidia questioning, 18; Lidia’s, 86, 201, 219–20; Mariana’s, 101–6, 109–12, 219; Mario’s, 19, 35, 55–56, 81, 195; Mario’s imprisonment and, 131, 134–35; in Mexico, 226, 227–29; peaceful, longing for, 117; reliance on, 239; stabbing incident and, 115, 117 Fassin, Didier, 255n4 father(s): absence of, impact on children, 16, 20, 21, 26; Alfredo’s, 6, 13; Don Mario as, 6, 13, 14–16, 20, 81; Gregoria’s, 15; Luz’s, 6, 13, 21, 24–26; Mario as, Alfonso on, 213; neglect of children, 26, 206, 211; rape of children by, 70, 71 Father’s Day, 20, 39 fears: Claudia’s, 231, 235–36; Don Juanito’s, 9, 10, 11–12; Don Robert’s, 6; Eduardo’s, 44; Gregoria’s cancer and, 180; Gregoria’s extortion and,

270

Index

170; Israel’s flight and, 195, 201, 202, 238; of kidnapping, 71, 201, 202; Lidia’s, 87, 201 Ferrocarril Avenue, vecindades on, 3 fiction, dogme ethnography compared to, 249, 250, 251, 255n4 fieldwork: limited time for conducting, 244; lived experiences of, and ethnographic writing, 247 fights: Alfredo and, 113–14; to defend family members, 99–106, 108–12; between gangs, 30, 43–44, 45, 48, 95–96; Gregoria and, 18, 97, 100, 101, 103, 104, 106; growing up with, 96, 97; Israel and, 101, 102, 104, 108–9; Lidia and, 96, 99–106, 216; Luz and, 101–6, 108–9; Mariana and, 101–6, 109–12; Mario and, 97–99; during pilgrimage, 161, 162, 163–64; and respect, 101–6; in school, 107–8; between siblings, 17, 19, 96, 97–98 film, dogme ethnography compared to, viii, 239, 243, 251 financial crises, in Mexico, 236 La Flaquita/Flaca. See Santa Muerte flight: Israel’s, 189–205, 212–13, 225, 238; Lidia’s, 50, 86–87 food: Don Juanito’s diet, 9–10; Luz’s father and, 24–25; neighbors’ sharing of, 18, 21; during pilgrimage, 162, 163; in prison, 127, 131, 132; at quinceañera party, 45; in rehab, 52; in Santería ceremonies, 156; street, learning to eat, 18 Freudian psychoanalysis, and The Children of Sánchez (Lewis), 252–53 friendship(s): Gregoria’s, 59; during pilgrimage, 161; in prison, 122, 127, 131, 132 funeral, for Don Mario, 15 future, concern about, 143–44 gang(s), 43–49; arrests of members of, 47, 48; attacks on neighborhood, 95–96, 97; Eduardo and, 20, 22,

44–45, 62–63; faith in Santa Muerte, 139–40, 150–51; hijacking of trucks by, 33–36; Israel and, 17, 32, 44, 46, 55–56; lavish lifestyle of leaders of, 45, 46; Mario and, 16; in Mexico City, 227; pilgrimages by, 160–65; in prison, 121–22, 130; rivalries/fights between, 30, 43–44, 45, 48, 95–96, 237; and violence, 43–49, 54, 55, 95, 237; youth in, 55. See also specific gangs Gan´ko, Anna, 246–47 Geertz, Clifford, 246 Germany, Don Juanito in, 11–12 Giovanna, 90, 110 Girasoles gang, 97 God (Diosito): Eduardo’s faith in, 152, 153, 198, 200; Gregoria’s faith in, 7, 65, 146, 147, 148, 187, 191, 192, 193; Israel’s faith in, 149, 150, 161; Luz’s faith in, 145, 153–54, 202; Mario’s faith in, 121; and Santa Muerte, Israel on, 149, 150 Golf cartel, 227 González Rodriguez, Sergio, 255n3 government: corruption in, 135; after earthquake, 3, 5; kidnapping at Sunrise bar and, 190–91; lack of assistance from, 5, 39. See also police grandchildren, xi, 106–7, 206–25; adopted by Mariana, xi, 61, 209–11; Gregoria’s love for, 156, 170, 182, 224; Gregoria’s protectiveness of, 106–7, 156, 166–67, 168, 170; hope for, 210, 212, 213, 216, 223–24; lessons for, 28, 58, 212–13, 214, 215, 220, 223–24, 236; neglect of, 206–9; problems of, 211, 214, 217–20, 221–22, 224–25; support for, 219–23 Gregoria (Doña Goya), xi; accesoria of, 2, 4–5, 10; adopted son of (Checo), 7, 28–29, 137; age of, 66; beatings of children, 16, 19, 20, 21, 36, 38, 75; birthday celebration for, 24; cancer of, 26, 177–88; childhood

Index

of, 8; children of, vii, xi, 6–7, 8, 17, 69, 120, 180; on Church, 145–46; comment after reading book, viii, 255; concern about future, 143–44; death of, children’s contemplation of, 143, 204–5; devotion to Santa Muerte, 7, 14, 24, 123, 138, 142, 146, 147, 148, 154–55, 172, 174, 187–88, 191; and Don Juanito, 8–13, 16, 56; and Don Mario, 6, 13, 14, 16, 145–46; and Don Robert, xi, 6, 13, 21–22, 24, 67, 69, 187, 200; on drug dealers, 53–55; after earthquake, 3–5; during earthquake, 1–2, 3; eloquence of, 249; extortion of, 26, 166–76, 251; faith of, 7, 14, 24, 29, 65, 138–39, 142, 145–48, 154–57, 187–88, 191, 192, 193; father of, 15; and fights, 18, 97, 100, 101, 103, 104, 106; friendship with Claudia and Regnar, 227, 231, 234–36, 251; gang members’ respect for, 56, 139–40; on gang violence, 48; grandchildren of, xi, 106–7, 206–25; great-grandchildren of, 18, 208–9; hard work of, 6, 16, 20, 26, 56; house of, 4–5, 10, 143–44; husbands of, 6, 13, 21, 24–25; on infidelity, 65–66, 67–68; inheritance of, 12–13; Israel’s flight and, 189–94, 195, 196, 198, 199, 201–2, 204–5; lawyers hired by, 117, 172; on love, 66, 68–69, 137; and medical checkups, 184–85; morality of, 7, 8, 36, 56, 137, 147–48, 173; mother of, xi; move to Esperanza, vii, 8; mugging of, 38; personality of, 6, 17–18, 21, 24–25, 26, 69; on pilgrimages, 8, 147, 231; and politics, staying away from, 141–42, 238; pregnancies of, 10, 14; prison visitations by, 124–25, 131, 132, 136–37, 218; profanities used by, 1, 9, 16, 21; protectiveness of daughters, 66; protectiveness of granddaughters, 106–7, 156,

271

166–67, 168, 170; recovery after operation, 182–84; relationship with children, 17–18, 19, 27; relationship with Eduardo, 20–21, 24, 27, 51, 199, 200; relationship with Israel, 18, 55–56, 91, 180–81, 192, 196, 201, 204–5; relationship with Karla (granddaughter), 156, 170, 182, 224; relationship with Lidia, 17–18, 27, 36, 83, 86, 201–2; relationship with Luz, 18, 26, 58, 94, 156, 181, 202; relationship with Mariana, 78, 202; relationship with Mario, 18, 36, 55–56, 186–87, 196; relations with friends, 59; reputation of, 105–6; on romantic relationships, 67, 68–69; smoking by, 103, 155, 174, 187; sons’ imprisonment and, 117, 120, 122–25, 131–33, 134–35; sons’ protectiveness of, 55–56; on street peddlers, 39; strength of character, 1, 16, 17, 26–27, 66, 148, 169, 181, 186, 199–200; support for family, 143, 199–200; taco stand of, 4, 20, 56; on thugs, 38–39; visits to cemetery, 123, 154–55, 172, 174. See also altar to Santa Muerte Guadalajara, girl from, Mario’s involvement with, 72, 81–82 Guadalajara prison: Checo in, 28; extortion from, 82 Guadalupe, Señora, 91 El Güero (lawyer), 127, 134–35 Guillen, David Romo, 229 gun(s): Diana threatened with, 101; Eduardo’s fear of, 44; hijacking of trucks and, 33–36; Israel and, 108, 111, 112; Mario and, 98, 235; during pilgrimage, 161, 232; street fights and, 96, 97, 102, 108 Gustavo, xi, 39, 214 health care. See doctor(s); hospital(s) hell, Gregoria on, 147–48 hex: curing, 158–59; on Mariana, 157– 58; as revenge for extortion, 173–74

272

Index

homeless man, murder of, 47 Hong Kong, Mario in, 64 Hortensia Street, violence in, 30 hospital(s): Centro Medico, 178, 179, 184; during earthquake, 2; Eduardo in, 115–16; Gregoria in, 179–82, 184, 185–87; Mariana on, 184–85. See also doctor(s); Seguro Social Hummer, 44, 189, 190, 195, 201 hygiene, learning, 17 ice picks: murders using, 125, 130; use in fight, 98 illness(es): Don Mario’s, 14; Gregoria’s, 26, 177–88; of Luz’s children, 26, 153–54, 167; in prison, 124, 128, 132; El Troll’s, 157. See also doctor(s) Inés, xi, 61, 62, 72, 110, 111, 209 infidelity: Azucena’s, 92; Carlos’s, 84–85; Eduardo’s, 88–89; Ernesto’s, 67–68, 73–74; Gregoria on, 65–66, 67–68; Luz on, 94, 144; Mario’s, 72, 81–83; in Mexican families, 227, 228; Patricia on, 71–72 Irene, 18, 216 Isaac (gang leader), 45 Israel (Lidia’s partner), 83–84 Israel (Six Pack), xii; accused of murder and kidnapping, 189–90, 202; and Alcatráz gang, 17, 32, 44; and Alianza gang, 46, 190, 193; and altar to Santa Muerte, 143; arrests of, 46, 117, 124, 191–92; and Azucena, xii, 90, 91, 92–93, 225; business of, 31–32, 193, 236; children of, xii, 90, 224–25; drug use by, 17, 23, 230; on earthquake, 2–3; and Eduardo, 117, 118, 199; and Elizabeth, xii, 90, 91, 224–25; on Esperanza, violence in, 30–31; faith of, 138, 148–50, 161, 230; father of, 6; fractured skull of, 124; and Giovanna, 90, 110; Gregoria’s cancer and, 180–81; Gregoria’s extortion and, 169; guilt of, Luz on,

202, 204, 205; and guns, 108, 111, 112; in hiding, 189–205, 212–13, 225, 238; house in Esperanza, 55, 202, 203; infidelity of, 72, 91–92; and Lidia, 19, 92–93, 163, 200, 201; lifestyle of, 32; and Luz, 27, 108–9, 202; and Mario, 2, 17, 112, 212–13; and Marta, 90; pilgrimages by, 160, 163–64, 200, 232; in prison, 7, 124, 125; problems of, impact on family, 55–56, 194–205, 212–13, 225, 238; protection of family by, 19, 55, 101, 102, 104, 108–9, 112, 115; and Regnar, 230, 231, 232; relationship with mother, 18, 55–56, 91, 180–81, 192, 196, 201, 204–5; reputation of, 106, 109, 110, 111–12, 192; romantic relationships of, 90–93, 205, 228; and security racket, 46, 236; and Señora Guadalupe, 91; on survival instinct, 30; and uncle Jorge, 2, 97; on Valentine’s Day, 228; on watches, 31–32; and Yolanda, 90, 91–92 Itzapalupa, fights in, 109–12 jail. See prison Japan, Don Juanito’s trade with, 9 jealousy: Adán’s, 86, 185; El Chino’s, 76–78; Ernesto’s, 72, 74–75; Gregoria on, 67; Mario’s, 83 Jehovah’s Witnesses, 136, 144 Jesica, xi, 98 Jesus (Papá Chuchito), faith in, 14 Jesus of Chalma, belief in, 51, 138, 150, 152, 160–61, 165, 230 Jocelyn, xi, 98 Jorge (uncle), xi, 75, 97; and fighting lessons, 96; protection of nephews by, 2, 115, 116; revenge for Eduardo’s stabbing, 115 Jorgito, xi, 61, 76–77 journalism, in Mexico, 255n3 Juárez cartel, 227 juvie, grandchildren in, 214, 218

Index

Kaira, xii, 218–20 Karla, xii, 220, 221–23; baptism of, 145; extortion scheme involving, 166, 167, 171; on grandfather, 26; Gregoria’s love for, 156, 170, 182, 224; Luz’s lessons for, 28, 58, 223–24; Luz’s pregnancy with, 154; visits to psychologist, 222 kidnapping: of children, fear of, 71; directing from prison, 125, 137; of Elizabeth, 224–25; of Enrique, 43; Israel accused of, 189–90, 202; Lidia’s fear of, 201; Luz’s fear of, 202; Mario accused of, 121, 122, 139; from Sunrise bar, 189–91, 193–94, 199, 202; in Tijuana, 86–87 Lalo. See Eduardo lawyer(s): Aarón’s imprisonment and, 218; Cristina’s imprisonment and, 172; Eduardo’s imprisonment and, 117; grandchildren aspiring to become, 212, 224; Israel’s flight and, 196–97; Mario’s imprisonment and, 127, 134–35 lesbians, in prison, 137 Lewis, Oscar, 255n1; The Children of Sánchez, 237, 239, 244, 252–53, 255n1; on culture of poverty, 239, 251–52; realistic style of ethnography of, 244 Lewis, Ruth, 252 Lidia, xii, 17–19; and Adán, xii, 50, 85–87, 185, 201; aggressiveness of, 96, 216; and altar to Santa Muerte, 143; and Carlos, xii, 18, 19, 49, 84–85, 215; children of, xii, 27, 83, 84, 215–17; and Claudia, 231; on contraband merchandise, 40; domestic violence and, 85, 93; and drug trade, 49–50, 236; on earthquake, 1–2; and Eduardo, 19, 118, 119; eloquence of, 249; faith of, 138–39, 157, 161, 215; on family disunity, 18; and family loyalty, 86,

273

201, 219–20; father of, 6; in fight against diablas, 99–106; fight with Azucena, 92–93; flight to Tijuana, 50, 86–87; on gang killings, 47–48; grandchildren of, 18, 216; Gregoria’s cancer and, 185–86; Gregoria’s extortion and, 166–67, 169–70; and Israel (brother), 19, 92–93, 163, 200, 201; and Israel (partner), 83–84; Israel’s exile and, 200–202; loneliness of, 186; Mariana’s hex and, 158–59; pilgrimages by, 161–64, 200, 231; on quinceañera party, 45; relationship with mother, 17–18, 27, 36, 83, 86, 201–2; relationship with siblings, 18–19, 92–93; romantic relationships of, 68, 83–87, 120; shoplifting by, 36 Lidia “chica,” xii, 84, 107, 215, 216, 217 Lirio Street, security racket in, 46 Locatel, 117, 207 loneliness: Eduardo on, 49, 53, 88; Mariana on, 186; in prison, Gregoria on, 137 looting, after police busts, 40 Lord of Chalma, belief in, 51, 138, 150, 152, 160–61, 165, 230 Los Angeles gangs, 227 love: for children, 14, 18, 20, 21, 25, 66, 205, 213, 220; Eduardo on, 20, 21, 88–89; God’s, Gregoria on, 138, 147; for grandchildren, 156, 170, 182, 220, 224; vs. gratitude, Gregoria on, 69; Gregoria on, 66, 68–69, 137; Mariana’s mother-inlaw on, 14; in Mexican family, 227; need for, Gregoria on, 137, 138; vs. passion, Gregoria on, 68; for siblings, 16–17, 19, 93, 117, 197, 199, 200, 202; violence and, 20, 21. See also infidelity; jealousy; relationships, romantic Lucía, Aunt, 1 Lupe, xii, 28–29; rehabilitation of, 7; visits to cemetery, 155; visits to women’s prison, 136, 137

274

Index

Luz, xii, 24–28; and altar to Santa Muerte, 143; on barrio life and strength, 99; in beauty school, 57, 59; birth of, 8, 10; children of, xii, 24, 26, 28, 58, 154, 208, 220–24; children’s illnesses, 26, 153–54, 167; on Church, 144–45; defense of mother, 27–28; defense of niece, 108–9; during earthquake, 1, 2; on Eduardo, 118–19; and Enrique, xii, 25, 26, 58, 93–94, 145, 220, 222; extortion scheme involving, 167, 168, 171–72; faith of, 138, 140, 144–45, 153–54, 202, 204; father of, 6, 13, 21, 24–26; and fights to protect family members, 101–6, 108–9; on gangs, 43–44; Gregoria’s cancer and, 177, 180, 181–82, 187; on infidelity, 94, 144; Israel and, 27, 108–9, 202; Israel’s flight and, 189, 193, 202–5; on living in the present, 187; Mario and, 16–17; morality of, 26, 144–45; pregnancies of, 154; relationship with mother, 18, 26, 58, 94, 156, 181, 202; relationship with siblings, 27, 202–5; relations with neighbors, 58–59; visits to psychologist, 222; work of, 57–58, 236; youth of, 94 La Madrina. See Santa Muerte magic: Gregoria on, 148. See also Palo Monte; Santería Mancera, Miguel Ángel, 238 Maraca bar, 44 Marcela (cousin), 8 Marcus, George, 246 Mariana (Mar), xi, 13–14; and aerobics, 60, 74–75; and Ángel (El Chino), 75–78, 79; birth of, 8; childhood of, 95–96; children of, xi, 79, 109, 206–8; and Ernesto, xi, 13, 14, 36, 60, 67–68, 72–75, 79, 209; faith of, 138, 139, 140, 157–58; father of, 6, 13; fights to protect family members, 101–6, 109–12; gang violence and,

95–96; grandchildren adopted by, 61–62, 76, 79, 209–11; Gregoria’s cancer and, 177, 181, 186; Gregoria’s extortion and, 166–67, 168–69, 172–73; hex on, 157–59; in-laws of, 13–14, 73; and Lidia, 19; massage course and, 57, 59; morality of, 173; moving out of family home, 3; partners’ jealousy and, 72, 74–75, 76–78; relationship with mother, 78, 202; romantic relationships of, 72–79; self-esteem classes and, 75; support for family, 219; and El Troll, xi, 78–79, 157; work of, 60–62, 75, 236 Mario, xi, 14–17; aggressiveness of, 19; and Alba, xi, 35–36, 72, 80–81, 83, 98, 172; business of, 33–36, 63–64, 82, 125–26, 135, 236; carjacking charge against, 121, 122–23; children of, xi, 35, 63, 80, 81, 98–99, 212– 14; concern about mother’s safety, 55–56; and Cristina, xi, 72, 80, 172, 175, 214; and daughters’ husbands, 98–99; and Don Mario’s stands, sale of, 6, 22–23; drug use by, 51; and Eduardo, 22–23, 24, 117–18; faith of, 51, 121, 138, 139, 150–52; family loyalty of, 35, 81; father of, 6, 14–16, 81; and fighting, 97–99; giving up vices, 70; grandparents of, 15, 17; Gregoria’s cancer and, 181, 186–87; Gregoria’s extortion and, 167, 169, 173, 175–76; and guns, 98, 235; house of, 235; infidelity of, 72, 81–83; and Israel, 2, 17, 112; Israel’s flight and, 194, 195–98, 204, 212–13; kidnapping charge against, 121, 122; and Lidia, 19; morality of, 151; move away from Esperanza, 63, 196, 235; need for guidance, 16; on neighborhood, influence of, 236; nicknames for, 98; on parole, 197–98; in prison, 7, 72, 120–24, 125, 127–36, 139, 143,

Index

186, 197, 204; protection of family by, 19, 55–56, 195; relationship with mother, 18, 36, 55–56, 186–87, 196; relationship with siblings, 16–17, 97–98; reputation of, 106, 112; revenge for Eduardo’s stabbing, 115; on ritual sacrifice, 159–60; romantic relationships of, 79–83; and statue of Santa Muerte, 139, 140, 143; as thug, 33–36, 97–99, 121; trial of, 122, 123; uncle Jorge and, 2, 97 Marisela, Licenciada, 4–5 Marta, Israel and, 90 massage: courses in, 57, 59–60; in Hong Kong, 64 memory: Gregoria on, 8, 234; Mario on, 81 menopause, 157–58 Mexico: family loyalty in, 226, 227–29; financial crises in, 236; journalistic tradition in, 255n3; middle and upper class in, 234–35; reaction to Lewis’s Children of Sánchez in, 252; speed of life in, 56; UN Office on Drugs and Crime in, 226–27; violent communities in, vii, 229, 234; War on Crime in, 236, 237 Michoacán, drug addicts in, 38, 55 military high school, 213 Military Service, 210 mistakes, parents’: repeating, 26, 211, 214, 217–20; teaching kids to avoid, 212–13, 214, 215, 220, 225 Mocambo dance hall, 37 Molotovs, making, 96 money: altar to Santa Muerte and, 143; Drug Addicts Anonymous and, 52–53; drug dealing and, 46, 49, 50, 54; Eduardo on, 46–47, 63; flaunting of, Gregoria on, 32; Israel on, 32; making in prison, 121–22; Mario on, 35; Patricia on, 41; pirated CDs and, 41–42; Santería and, 156; street peddling and, 39 Montze, xi, 114, 155, 168, 169

275

morality: Eduardo’s, 63, 118; Gregoria’s, 7, 8, 36, 56, 137, 147–48, 173; Luz’s, 26, 144–45; Mariana’s, 173; Mario’s, 151 Morgan, Lewis Henry, 254 Mother’s Day, 53, 101 mugging(s): Aarón and, 218; Alianza gang and protection from, 46, 193; blaming Santa Muerte for, 141; drug use and, 54; Eduardo and, 36–37, 38, 62; Eduardo’s attempt to prevent, 115; Enrique accused of, 154; in Esperanza market, 42–43, 46; of Gregoria, 38; Gregoria’s disdain for, 39; Patricia on, 42; in prison, 125, 134; El Troll and, 109 murder(s): at Apocalipsis bar, 189, 190, 192, 202; drug use and, 55; Eduardo charged with, 116–17; in Esperanza, 47–48, 54, 55, 193, 237; by gangs, 43–49, 237; and hell, Gregoria on, 147; Israel accused of, 189–90; during pilgrimage, 161; in prison, 125, 130, 131; as sacrifice to Santa Muerte, 150 music: in Esperanza neighborhood, 55; grandchildren’s interest in, 209–11; during pilgrimage, 232 mutiny, in prison, 130–31 Nancy (Luz’s friend), 57–58, 59 Narcotics Anonymous, 52, 88; Eduardo’s speeches at, 53, 198–200 narcotraffickers, and cult to Santa Muerte, 147, 150–51 neighbors: during earthquake, 1–2; Gregoria’s altar and, 139; hospitality of, Lidia on, 18; left-over food shared by, 21; looting by, 40; Luz’s relations with, 58–59; new vecindad and, 4–5; stealing from, Eduardo and, 36; street fights with, 97, 99–106 Norteños, 155 Norte prison: Aarón in, 218; Enrique in, 154; water in, 131–32

276

Index

North American Free Trade Agreement (NAFTA), 236 Oaxaca, trips to, 8 Oaxtepec: birth in, 209; trips to, 13 Obbatalá (saint), 156 Obrador, Lopez, 238 ontological turn in anthropology, 244 Oriente prison: Baptist Church representative at, 4; Elizabeth’s brother in, 225; extortion from, 171, 173 Orquídea, gang from, 95–96 Osorno, Diego E., 255n3 Paco (gang member), 47–49, 122, 123, 147–48 paint thinner, huffing of, 97, 130, 164, 218, 219, 232 Pajarito, 132, 133 Palo Monte: Checo and, 7, 29, 156; Gregoria’s belief in, 147; Mariana and, 157; ritual sacrifice in, 158–60 Panchitos, Los, 227 Papá Chuchito (Jesus), faith in, 14. See also Jesus of Chalma passion: Lidia on, 87; vs. love, Gregoria on, 68 past, Gregoria’s dismissal of, 8, 234 Patricia, xi; accesoria of, 41, 195; and Alfredo, xi, 3, 212; business of, 41–43, 236; children of, xi, 42, 211–12; on extortion of Gregoria, 172; grandchildren of, 211–12; on Gregoria, 6; on hard work, 41, 42, 43; on infidelity, 71–72; Israel’s flight and, 194–95; in massage course, 59– 60; moving in with, after earthquake, 3; on police busts, 40–41 Paulina (neighbor), 54, 136 El Pelos, xi, 41, 114, 211 pelotas, 49 peres. See pilgrimages photography: Claudia’s, 229, 230, 240, 241; exclusion from dogme ethnography, 240, 241, 247

pilgrimages (peres), 160–65; charity during, 160, 233–34; Don Mario and, 14; Eduardo and, 164–65; Gregoria and, 8, 147, 231; Israel and, 160, 163–64, 200, 232; Lidia and, 161–64, 200, 231; Mario and, 161; Regnar and, 230–34; robberies during, 232–33; security (vests) during, 160, 162 pirated goods, 39–43 plastic surgery, 82–83 police: arrests for drug possession by, 22, 50; arrests of gang members by, 47, 48; arrests of Santeras by, 155; beatings by, 22, 121, 124, 126–27; carjacking incident and, 113, 114; Claudia’s work with, 235; contraband merchandise and, 40–41; corruption of, 42, 45, 46, 50, 125, 155, 196, 237; disguise as, during truck hijacking, 33–34; drug dealers and, 49–50, 53–54; efforts to clean up, 237; in Esperanza, 55; extortion by, 42, 45, 50, 155; fear of, 62; Lidia’s encounters with, 36, 49–50; pilgrimages and, 232; politics equated with, 238; search for Israel, 189, 190–91, 194, 196, 202, 238; security racket and, 46; stabbing incident and, 115–16; street fights and, 102, 104–5 police station. See Delegation politics, staying away from, 141–42, 238 polyphonic ethnography, 246 postcolonial critique, in anthropology, 243 poverty: culture of, Lewis’s thesis on, 239, 251–52; Gregoria on, 56, 68; in Mexico, 236; in prison, 128; Rosales family’s experience of, 21, 23; “war” on, 237 The Power of the Dog (Winslow), 250 pregnancies: Desiré’s, 211; Gregoria’s, 10, 14; Lidia’s, 83, 215; Luz’s, 154, 220–21; violence during, 101

Index

present, living in, 8, 187, 234 priest(s): corruption of, 145–46; Enrique as, 154; hypocrisy of, 144– 46; publicity sought by, 141–42; rape by, 141 prison(s): Aarón in, 218; beatings in, 117, 121, 122, 129, 130, 136, 197; Carlos in, 84–85; “checkbooks” in, 122; Checo in, 28; cleaning chores (fajina grind) in, 129; Cristina in, 172; cult of Santa Muerte in, 150; drugs in, 121, 129–30; Eduardo in, 116–17; Enrique in, 154; extortion from, 82, 125, 167, 168, 171, 173; extortion in, 125, 128–29, 133, 134, 136, 137; food in, 127, 131, 132; friendships in, 122, 127, 131, 132; gangs in, 121–22, 130; getting out on bail, 133, 135; hearings in, 133– 34, 135; illnesses in, 124, 128, 132; Israel in, 7, 124, 125; El Kilometro in, 130; making money in, 121–22, 129; Mario in, 7, 72, 120–24, 125, 127–36, 139, 143, 186, 197, 204; muggings in, 125, 134; murders in, 125, 130, 131; mutiny in, 130–31; overcrowding in, 128; Paco in, 147–48; suffering in, Gregoria on, 148; visitations in, 124–25, 129, 131, 132; War on Crime and, 236; water in, 131–32; women’s, Gregoria’s visits to, 136–37. See also specific prisons Progreso, Santa Muerte cult in, 138, 141 prostitute(s): cult of Santa Muerte among, 229; Eduardo and, 44–45, 88; Mario and, 161; pilgrimage and, 161, 232; priests and, 145–46; working as, Luz on, 28, 224 psychological abuse: in prison, 121; of women, 66, 67 psychological bias: avoiding in dogme ethnography, 253; in Lewis’s Children of Sánchez, 252–53, 255n6 psychologist, visits to, 222–23

277

Public Defense Ministry, corruption of, 135 Pumas gang, 109–11 quinceañera party, 45 Quique (Luz’s son), xii, 24, 26, 154, 220–21, 223 radical real prose, 245–46, 254 rape: of children, by family members, 70–71; daughter threatened by, Gregoria on, 65, 66; of Elizabeth, 224–25; police and, 53–54; priests and, 141 rats, in Esperanza, 3 La Raza, beauty stand in, 57–58 razor’s edge, living on, vii, 47, 54 real life, vs. true life, 255n4 reflective turn in anthropology, 243 Regnar: and Claudia, 227, 229; doctoral dissertation of, 234, 238; and dogme ethnography, 239, 241–42, 243, 244; on family loyalty, 227–29; and Gregoria, 227, 251; influences on, 244–47; Mexican family of, 227; on pilgrimage to Chalma, 230–34; UN job in Mexico City, 226–27; visits to Esperanza, 234 rehab, Eduardo in, 51–53, 54, 115, 117, 118 relationships, romantic: Eduardo’s, 53, 87–89; Gregoria on, 67, 68–69; Israel’s, 90–93; Lidia on, 215; Lidia’s, 68, 83–87, 120; Mariana’s, 72–79; Mario’s, 79–83. See also infidelity; jealousy; love respect: Eduardo on, 118; fighting and, 101–6; Israel’s reputation and, 110, 111, 112, 232; Regnar earning, 232–33 revenge: against cops, 40; for Eduardo’s stabbing, 115; fight against diablas and fear of, 105–6; Gregoria’s advice against, 124, 137, 173; for Gregoria’s extortion, 173–74; Israel’s troubles

278

Index

and fear of, 193, 194, 204, 238; for stolen bike, Eduardo’s, 118–19 Rigdon, Susan, 252 robberies: during pilgrimage, 232–33. See also mugging(s) Rocío (neighbor), 4–5 El Rojo: and murder at Apocalipsis bar, 190, 195; on pilgrimage, 164; quinceañera party for daughter of, 45 Romero, Enriqueta, 230 Rosales family, 228; giving voice to, viii, 239; Gregoria as pillar of, 143, 199–200; impact of earthquake on, vii, 1–3, 250; impact of fathers’ absence on, 16, 20, 21, 26; impact of Israel’s problems on, 55–56, 194– 205, 212–13, 225, 238; recorded conversations of, viii, 239–40; safeguarding of identity of, 240–41. See also family loyalty; siblings; specific family members El Rosal neighborhood, 45, 46 rosaries, performance of: Checo and, 7, 29; at Gregoria’s altar, 138, 139, 140, 141; in prison, 136; in Tepito, 230 Roxana, xii, 27, 83, 84, 215–16, 217; and fight against diablas, 100–106; school violence and, 106–8 Rubinstein, Johann. See Don Juanito Samanta, xii, 99, 224, 225 San Juan de los Lagos, pilgrimages to: Don Mario and, 14; Gregoria and, 8, 147; Israel and, 160 San Juditas, faith in, 144, 147, 152 San Salvador Church, 145–46 Santa Marta prison, 28, 173, 197 Santa Martha Women’s Prison, Gregoria’s visits to, 136–37 Santa Muerte (Bony/Skinny Lady, La Flaquita/Flaca, La Madrina), 138–39; altars to, 140, 150, 229–30, 231; cemetery as house of, 154–55; Claudia’s interest in, 229–30; cult of, and politics, 141–42; Eduardo’s faith in, 138–39, 141, 152–53; gang

members’ faith in, 139–40, 150–51; Gregoria’s faith in, 7, 14, 24, 123, 138, 142, 146, 147, 148, 154–55, 172, 174, 187–88, 191; Israel’s faith in, 138, 148–50; Luz’s faith in, 138, 140, 153, 154, 202; Mario’s faith in, 121, 138, 139, 151; narcotraffickers’ association with, 147, 150–51; prayers to, 146, 149, 150; robes for statues of, 7; sacrifices/offerings to, 150–51; scary images of, 153; statues of, 7, 138, 139, 140, 143. See also altar(s) Santería: Checo and, 7, 158–59; Eduardo on, 153; Enrique and, 173–74; Gregoria’s belief in, 147; Luz on, 154; Mario on, 150, 159–60; rituals in cemetery, 155. See also Palo Monte savings: community savings cycle (tanda), 41, 261; Gregoria and, 12–13; Mario and, 35; Patricia and, 41, 42 school: Alfonso and, 212, 213; barriers to staying in, 16, 211; Desiré and, 211; Irene and, 216; Karla and, 221–22, 224; problems in, dealing with, 221–22, 223; skipping, 16, 20, 107; Telesecundaria, 107; value of, realization of, 107, 210, 211, 212, 213, 216, 218, 223; violence in, 106–8 security racket: Alianza gang and, 46, 193, 238; Eduardo and, 46; in Esperanza market, 42–43, 46; Israel and, 46, 236 Seguridad Pública (Secretariat of Public Security), 235 Seguro Social (public hospital system): Ernesto’s work at, 73; medicine from, reluctance to steal, 34 self-esteem classes, 75 sex: Gregoria on, 68; vs. love, Eduardo on, 89; on pilgrimage, 161. See also infidelity; relationships, romantic Shangó (saint), 156

Index

shoplifting, Lidia and, 36 siblings: Eduardo’s relationship with, 22–24, 117–18, 199; family split-up and, 20; Lidia’s relationship with, 18–19, 92–93; love for, 16–17, 19, 93, 117, 197, 199, 200, 202; Luz’s relationship with, 27, 202–5; Mario’s relationship with, 16–17, 97–98; violence among, 17, 19, 96, 97–98, 118 Six Pack. See Israel skeletons, praying to, 155, 156 Skinny Lady. See Santa Muerte smoking, Gregoria and, 103, 155, 174, 187 smuggling. See contraband merchandise Social Security, 61 social workers, 71, 207 Solomon (Baptist pastor), 4, 5 Sponge (nephew), 31 stabbing incident, 115–16, 152 stability: lack of, 71; longing for, 21; ritual to bring, 159 stealing: Checo and Lupe and, 7, 28, 29; Don Robert’s fear of, 6; Eduardo and, 23, 36, 51; in Esperanza, 5; Israel and, 31–32; Lidia and, 36; of watches, 31–32, 44. See also mugging(s) steam rooms, 14, 17, 20, 60 Strathern, Marilyn, 244 street peddlers, in Esperanza, 39 streets, living in, 16, 20, 31, 217–18 strength of character: barrio life and, 99; Gregoria’s, 1, 16, 17, 26–27, 66 strip joints, 44–45 Sunrise bar, kidnapping from, 189–91, 193–94, 199, 202 supermarket, looting of, 40 survival instinct, Israel on, 30 suspense, in dogme ethnography, 250, 251 tanda (community savings cycle), 41, 261 technology, Mario on, 212

279

Telesecundaria, 107 Tenocttilán 40, 227 Tepito, altar to Santa Muerte in, 229–30 Three Kings’ Day, 17, 24, 27, 39 thug(s): Adán as, 85; Eduardo as, 36–38; Gregoria on, 38–39; growing up as, 30–31, 33; Israel as, 31–32; Mario as, 33–36, 97–99, 121; quinceañera party for daughter of, 45; reputation as, and family protection, 106, 109, 110, 111–12; uncle Jorge as, 75, 97 Tijuana, Lidia’s flight to, 50, 86–87 Tijuana cartel, 227 time: dogme ethnography and, 249–51; future, concern about, 143–44; past, dismissal of, 8, 234; present, living in, 8, 187, 234 tortilla women (lesbians), in prison, 137 trial, Mario’s, 122, 123, 127 Trier, Lars von, 245 El Troll, xi, 78–79; attempted muggings of, 109; and grandchildren, 209; hex on, 158; illness of, 157 trucks: with contraband merchandise, 39; hijacking of, 33–36, 38; looting of, 40 true life, vs. real life, 255n4 Tulipán, 218, 219 Turrati, Marcela, 255n3 TV: Claudia on, 235; Gregoria’s refusal to go on, 141–42; Israel on, 189, 191; Mario on, 121 El 21 bar, Alcatráz gang and, 44 underground economy, in Esperanza, 236–37, 239 United Nations Office on Drugs and Crime for Mexico and Central America, 226–27 United States: contraband merchandise from, 39; gangs in, 227; Lewis’s concept of culture of poverty and debate in, 252; remittances from, 65

280

Index

vacation(s): APAC (Association for People with Cerebral Palsy) and, 61; Israel on, 32; Mariana on, 13; pilgrimage as, 161 Valdez Cardenas, Javier, 255n3 Valentine’s Day, 39, 228 Victor, xi, 214; contraband merchandise and, 39; and extortion of Gregoria, 171–72 Vinterberg, Thomas, 245 violence: toward children, 14, 16, 19, 20, 21, 36, 38, 75, 216; domestic, 16, 66–67, 75, 76, 85, 93, 162, 207; in Esperanza, 30–31; gang, 43–49, 54, 55, 95, 237; police, 22, 121, 124, 126–27; in prison, 117, 121–22, 129, 130–31; in school, 106–8; among siblings, 17, 19, 96, 97–98, 118; street fights, 97, 99–106, 108–12. See also beating(s); murder(s) Virgin of Guadalupe: church of, 144; Gregoria’s devotion to, 147 Virgin of Juquila, devotion to, 138, 151–52 Virgin of San Juan, devotion to, 138, 152, 160, 165. See also San Juan de los Lagos Viveiros de Castro, Eduardo, 244 wages, government vs. street peddlers’, 39 Wagner, Roy, 244 War on Crime, 236, 237 War on Poverty, 237 watches, stealing of, 31–32, 44 waterboarding, 126 Winslow, Don, 250 The Wire (TV series), 245, 255n4 women: abandoned, vecindad for, vii, 4–5; abandoned by husbands, 65–66,

207; association for protection of, 207–8; domestic violence and, 16, 66–67, 75, 76, 85, 93, 162, 207; drug dealers, 49–50, 53–54; fights between, 92–93, 97, 99–106, 107–9, 111; and inter-gang violence, 45, 48; menopause and, 157–58; need to provide for families, 16, 20, 28, 49, 54, 56, 211; paying price for what men owe, 225; plastic surgery and, 82–83; in prison, 136–37; psychological abuse of, 66, 67; tortilla (lesbians), 137; visitations to prison, 72, 125; working, Gregoria on, 70 work: Don Mario’s, 6, 15; Eduardo’s, 62–63; Enrique’s, 94; Ernesto’s, 73; Gregoria’s, 6, 16, 20, 26, 56; Luz’s, 57–58; Mariana’s, 60–62, 75; Patricia’s, 59–60. See also business World War II, Don Juanito’s experience in, 11–12 Xilocatepec, Santa Muerte statue in, 138 Xochimilco, visits to, 8, 209 Xochimilco hospital, 184 Xochitlán, 44; drugs and guns in, 54; police raid of, 54; security in, 46 Xochitlán gang: Eduardo and, 44; pilgrimages by, 161; rivalry with Alcatráz gang, 43–44, 45–46, 237 Yazmin, murder of, 44 Yeh, Rihan, 255n6 Yemayá, 153, 157 Yolanda, Israel and, 90, 91–92 Yolis, xi, 110–11 Yudy (Youdyne Torres Sánchez), 239–40, 241 Zero Tolerance policy on crime, 236