Open Writing

Artesia sits smack in the middle of a desert. Land not under cultivation from artesian wells—some of it prairie, most of it scrub, mesquite and cactus—is constantly at the mercy of wind and blowing sand. The wretched landscape deepened my sadness at having to leave the mountains which were home. Artesia also marks the town in my memory where our family began to break apart in a way it never had before.

Mama and P.G. rented a little rundown cafe on the outskirts of town on the Roswell Highway. The two of them and, for a while Grandma, shared the cooking and waiting on occasional customers who stopped in. The property included a very old motel with eight small rooms identified by faded numbers on the doors. The motel's mustard colored stucco was cracked and chipped and the wood that framed the windows and doors had not seen a paintbrush in years.

Each room was furnished with a bed and dresser, sink and commode; common showers were housed in a separate building. Water stains decorated the ceiling and years of grunge soiled the walls. We moved shotgun-style into the motel rooms: Mama and P.G. in one, Willie and Jessie in the next, and Phyllis, Reita, and me sharing the third. My grandparents along with Uncle Murrel, who was sixteen, had rented a small house in town.

Moving to Artesia did not change our poverty much. Although we didn't go hungry, we barely had money for necessities much less entertainment. Jessie and I scoured the roadside and trash cans for discarded pop bottles, which we could redeem for pennies. When we had enough, we paid the fifteen cents for us and our sisters to attend the Saturday matinee at the movie theater. We would sit for hours staring up at the big screen, dreaming of lives filled with excitement and glamour. The musicals were my favorite, and my best fantasy was to be up there with the movie stars dancing in their beautiful costumes.

During those years, new clothes qualified as luxury items. My sisters and I wore secondhand dresses and shoes. Mama got some of them from a woman who ran a Laundromat and sold used clothes. One chilly day, when I could find no socks to wear to school, I borrowed a pair of P.G.'s, tucking them under at the toe, because they were much too long for my feet.

On that day Edna Pennington, a perfect little girl with bright blue eyes, asked me accusingly, "Are those man socks?" My face grew hot with shame. I ducked my head and quickly walked away, avoiding her for the rest of the day.

A couple of weeks later I was again humiliated when another classmate recognized my outfit. "Hey, you're wearing my old dress," she said, her voice blaring loud as a bullhorn.

That kind of social rejection made Jessie and me long even more to be back in the mountains. We were still grieving over the loss of our dog, Sarge. Our attempts to console each other often ended in tears. Jessie would brush them from his pale blue eyes as he remembered the things he and Sarge used to do. I would become weepy at the sight of his tears, joining him in his sorrow.

My little sisters didn't escape social rejection and persecution either.
We lived on the wrong side of the tracks. The school where Phyllis was enrolled consisted of drab ugly army barracks for classrooms. She didn't like going to classes because she was afraid of the little gang of Mexican kids who called her "gringo" and threw rocks at her after school. One day while trying to outrun the flying stones, she caught up to a couple of black girls her age who were also targets of the little mob. The girls brandished a piece of cardboard to shield their heads from the rock barrage.

"Come get behind our cardboard," one of them shouted. She had tiny pigtails tied with pink bows all over her head and it turned out her name was Jenny.

Phyllis scared and crying, ducked gratefully behind the shelter of the cardboard. "I don't know why those kids want to hurt me," she cried.
"It's cause you ain't a Mexican," explained the other little girl, whom Phyllis would later learn was named Ruby.

"We'll walk you home if you'd like," Jenny said. They did and Phyllis was grateful for the new friendship.

When she got home mama asked, "Why were you walking with those little colored girls?"

"Because they had cardboard," Phyllis explained, "and they said they would be my friend and promised to walk with me again tomorrow." Mama nodded "Well that sounds reasonable." And so they did, for as long as Phyllis was enrolled in that school.