another grave, smoking his last cigarettes. We were hungry but expectant: in the morning, we would take buses to the train station in Arriaga, Mexico, where we could climb on top of The Beast. The border crossing between Guatemala and Mexico was dangerous, Ernesto whispered. He had made the journey to America twelve times. (This was his thirteenth.)
His first time, he said, was with his father, who worked picking oranges in Florida. Ernesto hated the groves, hated the tiny motel room shared with twenty men, the way his father drank beer and cursed at him. On rainy days—and sometimes the rain lasted for weeks!—the menwatched television all day long, packed into one room, growing agitated. It was terrible, said Ernesto. When I asked him how old he had been during his first year in America, Ernesto gestured toward my sleeping six-year-old brother with his cigarette. “His age, about,” he said. Still, Ernesto’s father had thought him big enough to climb ladders into orange trees, grabbing fruit as fast as he was able, holding a large and heavy sack over his shoulder.
In Florida, Ernesto had missed his mother and sisters, who had remained in Honduras. One night while his father and the other men were out at a nearby cantina, Ernesto ran away. The money he had stolen got him a bus ticket to Los Angeles, where he hoped he could find a family like the ones he saw on his favorite television show, Beverly Hills, 90210 . But before he reached the state he had dreamed about, someone on the bus reported him as an unaccompanied minor, and he was deported.
Life in his Honduran village no longer fit Ernesto. His mother was strict, and Ernesto bridled at her rules, talking back, even hitting her. Within six months, she hired a coyote to bring him back to his father, where he could earn money and be out of her hair. They did not ride The Beast, but traveled by combi all the way to the Texas border, where fake papers got him into Laredo and on a bus to Florida.
Upon his return, his father beat him until he cried, gave him one day in the motel room to recover, then handed him a sack and brought him back to the groves. “I ran away again,” said Ernesto, “and this time I reached Los Angeles. It was not, of course, like the television show. But after a bad time, I found my family. My real family.”
“Your real family,” I repeated.
It had begun when Ernesto was ten years old, and a boy he thought was a friend carved the words “El Santa Muerte” into his arm with a sharp knife while other gang members held Ernesto down. Ernesto rolled up his sleeve to show me the crude tattoo. “I had no choice once I was marked,” he said, gazing at the scar in wonderment. After a moment, he lifted his head. “But it was all for the best,” he said.
I did not ask him about the gang, about what he had to do to remain in the gang. I did not ask him how he ended up bleeding in my house.
“What will you do now?” I said.
“Whatever God wishes,” said Ernesto. In the light cast by stars, his face was smooth, and I could imagine how handsome he would have been were it not for the number on his face. But then he laughed, a hopeless, strangled sound. “Or El Santa Muerte,” he said.
I did not mention that I believed in God (and not in the Saint of Death, though her name frightened me). I shut my eyes and said a silent prayer: Please, God, watch over me. Please bring me safely to my mom . Before long, I was asleep.
In my dream, I wore a black dress. Humberto stood at my side, also in midnight-colored clothes. I saw my mother, Stefani, and Gabriela. We seemed to be standing at the edge of something, but as I peered down, Humberto said, “Look up, only up, mi amor .”
I defied him. Below us was a grave, a deep earthy hole. At the bottom was a small coffin. One by one, those aroundme dropped roses on the coffin. “Goodbye, Junior,” said my mother, and then I understood.
I woke gasping for breath, knowing even as I gazed at my
His first time, he said, was with his father, who worked picking oranges in Florida. Ernesto hated the groves, hated the tiny motel room shared with twenty men, the way his father drank beer and cursed at him. On rainy days—and sometimes the rain lasted for weeks!—the menwatched television all day long, packed into one room, growing agitated. It was terrible, said Ernesto. When I asked him how old he had been during his first year in America, Ernesto gestured toward my sleeping six-year-old brother with his cigarette. “His age, about,” he said. Still, Ernesto’s father had thought him big enough to climb ladders into orange trees, grabbing fruit as fast as he was able, holding a large and heavy sack over his shoulder.
In Florida, Ernesto had missed his mother and sisters, who had remained in Honduras. One night while his father and the other men were out at a nearby cantina, Ernesto ran away. The money he had stolen got him a bus ticket to Los Angeles, where he hoped he could find a family like the ones he saw on his favorite television show, Beverly Hills, 90210 . But before he reached the state he had dreamed about, someone on the bus reported him as an unaccompanied minor, and he was deported.
Life in his Honduran village no longer fit Ernesto. His mother was strict, and Ernesto bridled at her rules, talking back, even hitting her. Within six months, she hired a coyote to bring him back to his father, where he could earn money and be out of her hair. They did not ride The Beast, but traveled by combi all the way to the Texas border, where fake papers got him into Laredo and on a bus to Florida.
Upon his return, his father beat him until he cried, gave him one day in the motel room to recover, then handed him a sack and brought him back to the groves. “I ran away again,” said Ernesto, “and this time I reached Los Angeles. It was not, of course, like the television show. But after a bad time, I found my family. My real family.”
“Your real family,” I repeated.
It had begun when Ernesto was ten years old, and a boy he thought was a friend carved the words “El Santa Muerte” into his arm with a sharp knife while other gang members held Ernesto down. Ernesto rolled up his sleeve to show me the crude tattoo. “I had no choice once I was marked,” he said, gazing at the scar in wonderment. After a moment, he lifted his head. “But it was all for the best,” he said.
I did not ask him about the gang, about what he had to do to remain in the gang. I did not ask him how he ended up bleeding in my house.
“What will you do now?” I said.
“Whatever God wishes,” said Ernesto. In the light cast by stars, his face was smooth, and I could imagine how handsome he would have been were it not for the number on his face. But then he laughed, a hopeless, strangled sound. “Or El Santa Muerte,” he said.
I did not mention that I believed in God (and not in the Saint of Death, though her name frightened me). I shut my eyes and said a silent prayer: Please, God, watch over me. Please bring me safely to my mom . Before long, I was asleep.
In my dream, I wore a black dress. Humberto stood at my side, also in midnight-colored clothes. I saw my mother, Stefani, and Gabriela. We seemed to be standing at the edge of something, but as I peered down, Humberto said, “Look up, only up, mi amor .”
I defied him. Below us was a grave, a deep earthy hole. At the bottom was a small coffin. One by one, those aroundme dropped roses on the coffin. “Goodbye, Junior,” said my mother, and then I understood.
I woke gasping for breath, knowing even as I gazed at my
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