Amy Smyth Miller

Las Madres

Summer 1976 - Yuma, Arizona

July in Yuma, Arizona, at three o’clock in the morning, is dark unless the full moon is shining – but you can smell the bougainvillea blooming for miles. The rickety truck hits every bump in the road, and there’s no chance of napping or I’ll be thrown off the hard wooden bench. We are sandwiched with lunch pails, jugs of water, and garden hoes. The water makes a sloshing sound that provides a background to the murmur of voices. I can only pick out a word here or there because my “book Spanish” bears little resemblance to the living language spoken by the people I will work with hoeing weeds in the lettuce fields of the Wellton-Mohawk Valley for the rest of what’s left of the summer.

The truck pulls up to the side of a field, and I look out at the rows and rows of plants as the sun comes over the horizon. We’ll only be able to work until noon, when the blistering heat drives even the scorpions off to find shade. I’m beginning to second guess the idea of taking this job to earn enough money to buy schoolbooks for my sophomore year of high school. Why did my parents move to Arizona, where books aren’t provided? I can always apply for free books, but the indignity of standing in the free lunch line is bad enough. At fifteen years old, I already understand there is a penalty to pay for being poor.

“Andale, andale pues!” A man I assume to be the foreman shouts at us, and my coworkers jump down from the truck, hoes in hand and ready to work.

The woman next to me smiles kindly and hands me a hoe. She tsks tsks, looks at my soft white hands, and points to hers where the pads beneath her fingers have been wrapped in strips of cotton. Many blisters later, I’ll learn why this is so and do the same.

A few hours later, the sweat rolls down from underneath the bandana I used to tie back my long brown hair. My pale skin is streaked with dirt. “Mira!” I look over at the woman who had earlier smiled at me, standing in the next row. She points to the gallon jug of water she’s holding, says, “Bebe,” and then takes a swig. Then she points at the jug of water I’d been instructed to bring and that I keep near me as I move down the row. Every so often, she repeats the process.

As the sun moves higher in the sky, my back and head begin to hurt – everything hurts. This is a hard job. “Mira!” I hear the familiar voice and look over. She says it quietly so the foreman doesn’t notice. She shows me how to rest by leaning on the hoe and nods at me every so often, telling me it’s time to rest or drink. As we return to the truck at the end of our workday, I hear the catcalls from one of the men. While I don’t understand what he says, I know what he means. She tears into him with a lecture in Spanish. Ashamed, he barely raises his head my way and mumbles, “Lo siento,” - I’m sorry - then turns away. She knows I’m just a child, even at fifteen. I may not be her child, but I’m somebody’s child.

There are other women on the truck. I’m having difficulty saying their names because they’re so unfamiliar to me. I can’t get my Midwestern tongue to wrap around them. So I collectively call them “Las Madres” – the mothers. They care for me, making sure I drink enough water, rest when I’m tired, don’t get bit by the errant snake hiding underneath the lettuce plants, and protect me from the leering glances and comments of the men on the truck.

Through my halting Spanish and gestures, I tell them that I’m working to pay for my schoolbooks and want to be a teacher one day. “Maestra,” they say. And the word comes from their lips with awe and reverence.

On the last day, we ride back to town, the clickety-clack of tires on pavement our only accompaniment. Las Madres all have their heads down, taking rest where they can. Sandwiched by two of them, I sit pressed between their ample thighs because there is so little room on the bench. I feel protected by their presence, two silent sphinxes in the desert, with sand that blows in between the cracks of the truck bed, coating their sweaty arms and faces. The men no longer sneak glances at me or whisper in Spanish under their breath because the retribution of my protectors will be swift and sure. Finally, the gears of the truck grind to a halt, and the screech of the brakes signal that we are stopping. The foreman comes around and lifts the flap, and we pile out one by one. As I turn, I look at the woman who’d first reminded me out in the field to drink water and rest on the hoe.

“Muchas Gracias,” I say. “Por todo,” I tell her thank you for everything in my halting Spanish.

“Hasta Siempre, mija,” she says, then she caresses my cheek with her fingers and walks away. Even though my Spanish is limited, I know this is a way of saying goodbye to someone you’ll not likely see again. This isn’t the way you speak to a stranger. It’s a goodbye to someone you care about, saying you’ll never forget them.

I watch as she walks away with the other women, the punishingly hot sun rising high in the Arizona sky.

2016 Fall - Lynden, Washington

“So, you know what a movie theater is, right?” I was working with a small group of students during a reading lesson on a cool afternoon in early October. The leaves on the maple tree just outside my classroom window had begun to explode in a riot of red and gold, then fluttered down to stick to the casings, calling cards announcing that fall had arrived.

We were reading a story about a girl who got lost at a movie theater. For students to understand the story, I needed to ensure they had some background knowledge about movie theaters. They needed to know that different films were showing in a larger movie theater and that you would go through different doors depending on which film you were viewing. Everyone raised their hand except Elise.

“Have you been to a movie theater, Elise?

She shook her head. I was surprised, but then I wasn’t. I knew from a previous conversation with our school secretary that Elise lived in a shack at one of the migrant camps near our school. Her shack didn’t contain a toilet or anywhere to bathe. Instead, they had to use the communal bathroom facilities.

I grabbed my laptop, hunted for a short video clip showing a movie theater, and played it for the group. Elise’s eyes grew large. “Have all movies at same time?” she asked incredulously.

I nodded my head in affirmation. I sent the other students back to their seats and kept Elise back.

“Have you visited the grocery store with your Mama, Elise?”

She dropped her head and whispered, “No.”

“Do you have a TV?”

Again, the same whisper, “No.”

Now I understood why learning anything was an uphill battle for Elise. She had so little background information to help her understand any new learning. I knew her Mama didn’t speak English, so this meant Elise’s only English language exposure was at school.

I went to speak with the secretary at the end of the day and shared what I had learned.

“I’m not surprised,” she said. “You know they are Mixteco.”

“What’s that?” I responded.

“The Mixteco people are indigenous peoples, mostly from the Guerrero and Oaxaca areas of Mexico. They’re original natives of Mexico, related to the ancient Aztecs. They’re very poor and live in houses made of adobe or bamboo sticks with dirt floors. Their language is hard to understand. It’s a tonal language, sort of like Mandarin Cantonese, and it has no written form. Many of the families who migrated here came to work in the berry fields and stayed. Some of them, like Elise’s mama, don’t have papers. They’re always afraid of getting deported, so they keep to themselves. Single mothers, like Elise’s mom, come here to have their children so they are American citizens, but they risk getting deported and are never able to see their babies again.”

“Then why do they come here?” As a mother, I couldn’t imagine anything worse than being separated from my children when they were young.

She looked at me patiently, understanding that my ignorance wasn’t judgment but a sincere desire to understand the situation.

“They are mistreated in Mexico. They come here to have a better life for themselves and their children. There is no opportunity for them in Mexico.” The secretary turned her head to the side and looked at me squarely in the eye. “Wouldn’t you do whatever you could to get an education for your child and to make sure her life was better than yours if you were in a bad situation? Elise’s mama’s a single mother. That alone makes her a target in Mexico, without even considering she’s Mixteco.”

I just shook my head. I’d grown up knowing poverty, but it was a very different kind of poverty than the secretary described. It was another reason why Elise was struggling to learn in our classroom. I knew that children from impoverished families learned at slower rates than those who had their basic needs met. Engaging in the kind of exploration and activity that leads to learning when you are hungry or afraid because of unstable living situations is challenging. I knew I needed to do a better job using the techniques that helped English Language Learners in the classroom so that Elise could learn and grow.

The scene outside my classroom continued to change. By the beginning of December, all the leaves were gone from the maple tree. The branches stood bare and forlorn in the now constantly darkened sky. The arborvitae trees in the distance remained green, providing the only color to the barren landscape. Almost-winter pelted the window with icy cold fistfuls of rain and sleet.

Inside, my fifth graders were also changing. “The pilgrims immigrated.” Me and my mama immigrated too!” Elise said proudly. All the songs and chants, vocabulary games, cooperative learning activities, and the modeling of language by her peers had firmly taken root in Elise. I was thrilled with the improvement in her English language abilities. I could tell that she was proud of herself, as well.

The class was getting ready for an evening presentation about Colonial America. They pretended to be travel agents from each of the three regions of Colonial America, with parents stopping by their “agency” to listen to their presentations. Elise placed the gathered, white colonial women’s mob cap on her head. “I wear this tonight, Mrs. Miller?”

“Yes, Elise, you will wear this tonight. You look just like a girl in Colonial New England!” She smiled, her golden-brown skin glowed, and her warm brown eyes snapped brightly with anticipation.

7:00 p.m. came and went, but there was no Elise. The “Travel America” presentation went on without her. I stopped several times to wonder where she might be, but no one seemed to know. I was deeply disappointed. She’d worked so hard and was excited about the event. Elise didn’t return to school the following day or the day after. I asked the secretary, but no one had heard from her mother, and her cell phone had been disconnected.

The last day of school before winter break was finally over. Bits of popcorn littered the classroom floor. Stray pieces of tape with snowflakes were still affixed to the edges of desks, and cookie crumbs littered the carpet. I went along the groups of desks, tearing off the tape and wadding it into a ball in my hands.

“Mrs. Miller.” I turned as my name was called out from the doorway.

“Elise! Where have you been? I’ve missed you!” She ran to me, and I enveloped her in my arms.

“I miss you too, Mrs. Miller. I go to live with my aunt now.” Elise pointed to a woman standing just beyond the doorway.

“Where is your mama?”

The look on Elise’s face was hard to describe - abject despair would maybe have been close.

“They take Mama away. The Border Patrol come to her work. They send her back to Mexico.”

I looked over at Elise’s aunt. The tears in her eyes gathered on jet-black lashes, perched precariously on the tips, and dropped in little balls that rolled down her face. She stepped forward with a brown paper bag and handed it to Elise.

“Here, Mrs. Miller. This for you. My aunt make you tamales. She and my Mama say thank you for help me. I have go to new school in January. I hope my new teacher nice like you.”

I took the brown paper bag and could feel the warmth of the just-cooked tamales against my hand. The fragrant smell of the corn masa and chile wafted up from the top. I knew what a precious gift this was from a family that had so little and had lost so much.

I hugged them both, and there we stood, las madres, holding Elise close in the warmth of our arms and our hearts - because even though she was not our child, she was somebody’s child. As they wiped their eyes and turned to go, I said, “Hasta Siempre, mija.”

Elise turned back with her teary face and chocolate brown eyes and smiled.

Amy Smyth Miller is a nationally recognized elementary school teacher working as an intervention specialist in a rural public school district. She currently holds National Board certification, as well as certification in the education of students who are multi-language learners. She lives in northern Washington State with my husband, "Captain Crusty," and her sons, daughter-in-law, and grandsons.

“Las Madres” is excepted from Amy’s forthcoming memoir, Writing My Way Home.