Bonches at Midnight
Mama had just gotten home from her shift at the 99 Cents Only Store around ten-thirty pm, the same time she always did. By then, the house was quiet. Leyla and Brianna had been fed, washed, and put to bed. I was fourteen, a freshman in high school, finishing up my homework while waiting for her return. We always started doing bonches at eleven, bundling up branches and selling them off to a man for a dollar each bundle.
The work was quiet at first. We’d sit in silence on the kitchen floor, the cold night keeping us wrapped in layers of clothing, both of us moving our hands through the branches, picking out bugs and dead leaves before wrapping them together in groups of seven. Eventually, Mama would start to talk. She usually began with stories about work, how one of the ladies was taking longer breaks than allowed, or coworker gossip. Then she’d ask about the girls, about dinner, and then, without fail, complain about my stepfather. “Tiene un hogar pero actúa como si no tuviera,” she would mutter, shaking her head. I’d hum in response, a sound I inherited from her, the kind that said “I’m listening” without interrupting. In these tangents of hers it’s better to not give a response back for the worry she might stop giving me a glimpse of her.
I kept plucking through the branches, ripping and conjoining them one by one. “Hay muchos de estos en mi país,” she said after a while, holding up a branch. “Sabías, ahí en mi pueblo es puro bosque, Sheyla.” I looked up and saw that she had already finished five bundles while I had done only three. I hummed in response. I didn’t know much of her life back in Guatemala. Whenever I’d ask she would be dismissive in sharing, like she was forbidding a part of herself to me. She never tried teaching my sisters and I her home language, Mam, nor would she let us Facetime her family back in Todos Santos. That part of her has always been challenging to reach.
I thought she would go back to speaking ill about my stepfather or remind me how many bonches are needed by the morning. But that night was different. Mama started to talk about the forests in Todos Santos which harbored coyotes, dogs, and wild horses. She then moved onto talking about her hometown. She said the nearest market was two hours away, and that it was up to her to make that trek on foot every weekend. Her home sat on a mountain by a water stream where many would play during the hot seasons. She helped her family grow potatoes in their front yard when she was just nine. She mentioned how Grandpa always made sure there was food on the table. That eating beef with a drink of Coca-Cola was a luxury to many there. She shared stories about past lovers. Old friendships. What she envisioned for herself in the future. The obstacles of crossing the border. How a lovely señora had put herself between her and a group of sleeping men when they were forced to share a bed to hide from Border Patrol. The struggles she faced the first two years here in America and how my father never showed up in times of need. She mentioned how poor we were. How there was only rice and milk in the fridge at one point. Enough to sustain baby me and my eight-year-old sister. Thankfully, a nice neighbor took her grocery shopping.
She shared all this between the rustling of branches and the snap of rubber bands. And four hours passed just like that. Her stories spilling out while my hums grew more confident and turned into questions. Who was the nicest parent? What did you usually do after school? Why did you stop going to school? Did you get in trouble? Were you ever in danger? Why did you like my father? Why did you choose my step-father? ¿Por qué no te gusta llamar a nuestra familia por Facetime? “No quiero ver cómo el tiempo ha pasado con ellos.” Oh. And that’s when I saw my mother fully for the first time. She missed her home. She missed her family. The amount of times she would ever talk about her past was none, so I grew up thinking she had no second thoughts for it. That what had happened in the past didn’t matter to her as much as what was going on now. But now I knew she had just been silent. She had a life before the US. She chose to cross with the hopes of something better. I wondered briefly if sitting on the cold tile floor at three am, making a dollar off of each bundle, was depressing to her. It had to be.
When we finally stopped at four am, a hundred and fifty bonches done, my fingers were sore and my eyes heavy. I knew I would only have three hours of sleep until school the next morning, but I didn’t mind one bit. From that night on, I stayed up as late as I could to work with her, to listen. Mama had always shared her thoughts about the present, but those long hours about her past felt like a real gift. They were proof of the challenges she has overcome to be the woman she is today, someone I finally got to meet. These nightly reminders of her struggles, of my hands developing callouses, and the appreciation from my mother after a long night of hard work, pushed me to sustain my high grades. I needed to work hard, twice as hard as my mother did, to let her see that the results of her labor would end up worthwhile.
To my Mama, I continue to strive because of you.