THE TIAS – by Vee Lind

As my VW van rumbles towards Zacatecas, Mexico, Jimmie rolls down the window and shouts, "Fantastico." I look. All I see is the forever ribbon of the road surrounded by empty land dotted with tumbleweed. I squint, see nothing. Then, I glance at Jimmie's hands, his fingers whirling to echo the dance of the tumbleweed. I fell in love with Jimmie's contagious joy and magnetism the first time we made love in Golden Gate Park—just three weeks ago.

I adjust the band on my tin wedding ring so it won't fall off. Jimmie's father, Juan Gutierrez, said we'd shame him if we arrived unmarried at his family ranchero. We'd taken off with a few clothes, a battery-driven record player, and a gallon of peanut butter and jelly. I'm twenty and I've only had quick free-love explorations—usually once or twice. Even though I abhor traditional American marriages, I'm hungry for love. Jimmie will be with me every day.

We're finishing our last sandwich when we spy a lopsided sign, "Ranchito utiérrez," missing the G! An old woman, with a dried-apple face looks up from an outdoor clay stove. She stares at us, puzzled. Children swarm around the van, wide-eyed to see their first white woman. Stranger yet, one in the driver's seat. We inhale the scent of tortillas and horse dung. I see a row of stucco rooms, windows without glass, and dirt floors.

With gestures and his limited ability to speak Spanish, Jimmie conveys that he's Juan's son, who they last saw thirty years ago walking toward the border, sustained by the dried chicken and tortillas they had packed for him. The women point to themselves and exclaim, "Tia Maria" and "Tia Gracia." Hearing the commotion, Jimmie's cousin Pablo, his wife Blanca, and a gaggle of children join us. Everyone is ecstatic to hear that Juan married and has five children. We omit that Jimmie, the youngest, dropped out of school in the seventh grade to live wildly as a hippie in Haight-Ashbury.

They ask if they can touch my brown-blond hair. Their gnarled hands pet it. They tousle Jimmie's black wavy hair just like his father's.

Tía Maria indicates we'll sleep in her room. She'll sleep in her chicken shed.

I start to protest.

"My chickens will be happy," Tía Maria insists. "Amos, Noemi, Perla, Dulce, and Deybee Reeynolds."

I look at Jimmie, who explains, "Debbie Reynolds."

He nods. I grin, "We'll have a bed."

I shake Jimmie and blow kisses into his neck. He rolls over on the straw mattress, yawns, and opens his round eyes. "My first morning as part of your big family," I say. I am thrilled to become like my idol, Margaret Mead. As an anthropologist, she lived with native girls and women who were never constricted like us—first by corsets, then by girdles, and now by diet pills.

The table has two chairs and a long bench. I expected the walls to be decorated with native art, maybe lush flowers like those that adorn Frida Kahlo's work. The walls are bare except for a carved crucifix of Jesus in his skimpy loincloth. I'm pulling up a chair when Jimmie pokes me and nods toward Blanca, who is scowling. I don't pause before scrunching next to Jimmie on the hard low bench. Everyone makes the sign of the cross. I do too.

"Huevos," Blanca says, plunking two heaping scoops onto the plates of the men. A hollow pulls low in my stomach as I watch their food disappear before my lonely egg is set down. When my plate is empty, I glance at Jimmie as if he can protect me from going hungry here. He whispers in my ear, "You'll get to lose weight. Guys will notice you when we get back."

"If. If we go back." I smile tightly. 

Blanca cups something in her hands which she extends to show me. It's a ceramic horse, about three inches high. As if it's a family jewel, Blanca says, "My brother brought it for me from America."

"Bello," Jimmie says, hoping this means "pretty."

"Bello," I repeat, wondering if Margaret Mead lied to fit in.

After breakfast, the Tías come into my room and point to Jimmie's dirty jeans and T-shirt. Jimmie bundles them into his arms. They laugh, showing their few remaining teeth, grab the smelly clothing and put it in my arms. "You go," they say, to Jimmie, "with the men who ride their horses to town. Get a beer."

The Tias hands me a bar of soap and leads me to the river. They leave me with half a dozen women who beat pants and shirts on the rocks. Stains dissolve. Spots disappear like in an ad with the woman in permed hair and high heels, touting the bleaching power of Twenty Mule Team Borax.

The women laugh, even when it sounds like they're complaining about their husbands. I rub Jimmie's Grateful Dead T-shirt with yellow stains under the arms. The stains remain. I press one harder against a sharp rock. It tears. The following days, the women settle me on a rock to absorb the sun, watch their capable hands, and mock my gringa ways.

"Unfair!" I exclaim. "It's been two weeks." I plant my feet on the dusty ground. "I want a horse too." I stamp my feet. Hearing the ruckus, Pablo, two other men, and the Tia gather around us.

Pablo shakes his head. No. One man stares at me as if I'm a two-headed animal. Another, Jimmie translates. "Horse will throw her to the ground. Women are not strong."

"It's their culture," I whisper to myself.

"Sí, sí," Tía Gracia says nodding yes towards me. With her hands on her skimpy hips, Tía looks the men in the eyes. She points to the white horse in the corral.

"Sí, sí," echoes Tía Maria, "Esperanza will love her."

And she does.

*This is creative non-fiction. The basic facts are true but I dressed them up with imagined details.