Stories of Lotería

Emilia Medina enjoyed the lively play and laughter of her children as they walked home from the small theatre. As a single mother in the early years of Jalisco's twentieth century, she did not have many opportunities to take pleasure in her children’s amusement, let alone something as frivolous as a live stage production. The audience had dispersed quickly, leaving only the children, Emilia, and looming darkness on the long stretch of road. Amidst her daughter’s delighted high-pitched squeals, she thought she heard a man’s heavy footsteps behind her. Three times she looked back sure to find someone following her, but saw no sign of another person nearby. At home she put the children to bed and made herself comfortable for the night. Sleep was difficult to come by ever since her husband, Amado, had left them without much regard or resources. He had lost two of his fingers in an accident that involved firecrackers and it left him incapable of playing professional guitar - the only le

The occasional drive to my mom’s childhood home in the El Sereno hills was always a special treat. These jagged hills did not proudly display grand edifices purchased at high prices for their luxurious picture-window views. Recklessly strewn together, the neighborhood instead braised quick-tempered young citizens who were born into poverty and resided somwhere between American and Mexicano. After breakfasts at Nena’s Mexican Restaurant I’d beg my parents for the short detour that took us through narrow spiral roads and the retelling of countless adventures featuring hooligan rebellion. With eleven children and two adults packed into one small house, it is no surprise that the living energy behind its walls would push forth and conquer the surrounding hills. There was no shortage of stories my mom could tell. Each driving tour ignited a new memory. Here is one of my favorites… In 1976 my mom was 24 years old with 8 and 9 year old sons. While she worked night shifts at the post office, t

The gush of blood surprised him. It came as quickly and unexpectedly as had the rage. Eight seconds after the last blow, hand sent message to head that it was in pain. Nothing too bad - he had felt it a dozen times before. Deliberately, he released the tension in his right hand, regarding the white knuckles. His fist must have been tightly clenched because its color was just now returning. He considered the speed of his reflexes and began to feel grateful. His mind thought something and without having to be asked twice, his hand reacted. No explanation necessary. At 16 years old he was sick of explanations. Mom. Counselors. Judge. Girlfriend. They always wanted answers, justifications, tell me one good reason why I should . When nothing else went his way at least he knew he could count on his dependable hands. His mom used to tell him and his brothers that if they refused to go to school they’d be forced to work with their hands for the rest of their lives. Not a horrible alternati