Her parents were fifty feet across the border when she was born her mother Graciella was lying in the dirt screaming her father Jorge was trying to figure out how to keep them from dying. Jorge had a pocketknife. He cut the cord, pulled the placenta away the baby started crying, Jorge started crying, Graciella started crying. They each had their reasons. Life pain fear relief opportunity hope the known the unknown.

Crying.

They had tried four other times to make it over. They had been caught twice sent back twice, Graciella had gotten sick and was unable to continue twice. They were from a small farming village in Sonora that was slowly dying, the farms disappearing, the people leaving. The future was to the north. Jobs were to the north. Money was to the north. Someone in their village told them if their child was born on American soil that the child would be an American citizen. If their child was an American citizen they would be allowed to stay. If they could stay there might be a future.

They were cleaning her off when Border Patrol pulled up, one man behind the wheel of a jeep, a pistol on his hip, a cowboy hat on his head. He stepped out of the truck looked at them saw the child, saw the blood running down Graciella’s legs, saw Jorge petrified. He stood and stared at them. No one moved. The blood ran.

He turned and opened the back door of the jeep.

Get in.

No hablamos Ingles.

Usted aprende mejor si usted desea hacer algo de se en este país.

Si.

Get in.

He motioned towards the backseat, helped them inside, made sure they were safe, closed the door, drove as quickly as he safely could across the desert. Jorge shook with fear he did not want to get sent back. Graciella shook with fear she couldn’t believe she held a child in her arms. The baby screamed.

It took an hour to get to the nearest hospital. The jeep pulled up to the emergency entrance the man helped the new family out he led them to the door. He stopped before they entered looked at the father spoke.

Welcome to America.

Gracias.

I hope you find what you’re looking for.

Gracias.

They named her Esperanza. She was small, like both of her parents, and she had a full head of curly black hair, like both of her parents. She had light skin, almost white, and dark eyes, almost black, and she had exceptionally large thighs, almost cartoonishly large, as if her upper legs had somehow been inflated. She was an easy baby. She constantly smiled and giggled, rarely cried, slept well, ate well. Because of complications related to her birth in the desert, which had partly been caused by her giant thighs, Jorge and Graciella knew they would never have another child, and it made them hold her more closely, carry her more gently, love her more, more than they thought they would or could, more than they imagined was possible.

The family drifted through Arizona for three years, Jorge worked as a picker at citrus farms tangelos, oranges and nectarines, Graciella, who always had the smiling, giggling Esperanza with her, cleaned the houses of the wealthy white upper class. They lived simply, usually in singleroom hovels, with only the bare necessities: a bed they shared, a table, a hotplate, a sink and a bathroom. They saved whatever they could, every penny nickel and dime was coveted, every dollar counted and kept, they wanted to own their own house, make their own home. That was the dream, an American daughter, an American home.

They drifted north into California. There were always citrus farms, there were always houses that needed cleaning. There were always communities of Mexicans in the same position, with the same dreams, the same willingness to work, the same desire for a better life. Two more years and they went to East Los Angeles, which is the largest Hispanic community in the United States. They lived in the garage of a man whose cousin was from their village. They slept on a mattress on the floor, went to the bathroom in buckets that they poured down the sewer. It would be temporary, they hoped, they were ready to find their house.

They didn’t know what they could afford, if they could afford anything, how to buy, where to begin to looking, all they knew was that they wanted, they wanted a home, they wanted.

They didn’t have a car, so they took the bus all over East LA, looked through Echo Park, Highland Park, Mt. Washington, Bell Garden, Pico Rivera. There was nothing they could afford, they went to Boyle Heights, which at the time, in 1979, was the most dangerous area of East LA, and they found a small dilapidated house with a ramshackle garage, the previous owners had tried to light it on fire because they thought it was possessed by a demon. It didn’t burn, they tried three times and it wouldn’t burn, so they changed their mind and thought it might be protected by God. Either way, they were scared to live there and wanted to get rid of it. When they saw Esperanza, they marveled at her thighs, which were almost adult-sized, and they were charmed by her smile and her giggle, and they proclaimed her to be a child of the Lord and Savior, and sold the house to Jorge and Graciella for $8,000, which was every cent they had to their name. As they walked out of the house, after agreeing on final terms, Jorge fell to his knees and started crying. American daughter. American home. American dream.

They moved in a month later. They had their clothes and a couple of worn blankets, Esperanza had a doll she called Lovie. They didn’t have any furniture, no beds, no plates knives, cups, pots or pans, no means of transportation, no radio, no TV. On their first night in the house, Jorge bought a can of grape soda and some paper cups, Graciella picked up a Hostess fruit pie. They had soda and pieces of the pie. Esperanza ran around the house asking what they were going to do with all of the rooms, she wanted to know if it was a house or castle. Jorge and Graciella sat and smiled and held hands. They slept on the floor of the living room, the three of them under one blanket, father mother and daughter, together under one blanket.