Anna Van Dyke

                              “Madre y niño” – 1983
                                            (Oswaldo Guayasamin)

“If you violate [Nature’s] laws you are your own
     prosecuting attorney, judge, jury, and hangman.”

                                 -Luther Burbank.

“Mami! El sangre Mami, hay tanto sangre!” Mother! The blood Mother, there’s so much blood! Soledad clutched at the sheets, felt their wetness, and released them in fear. Even the bed was soaked. She could feel it covering her body, dripping down her shoulders, saturating her hair and she began to shake uncontrollably. Everything was black – black and wet and covered in blood.

“Siempre es el mismo. Cada noche se despierta. Cada noche llora y grita para su mama. Cada noche sueña con el sangre.” It’s always the same. Every night she wakes-up. Every night she cries and screams for her mother. Every night she dreams about blood. In the kitchen, Esteban sat alone, staring absently at the cracks in the concrete floor. A single 60 watt bulb hung from the ceiling, shedding its dim light across the table, into his face. His eyes moved from one crack to another, tracing and retracing how each one split and branched, following the patterns as they etched a mosaic into the otherwise plain cement floor. He had been staring at these cracks since 3:00 a.m. – when his wife had woken-up screaming about blood and crying for her mother. That was over an hour ago, now. Actually, he had been staring at these cracks, counting these cracks, memorizing these cracks for almost two months now. Tonight was the first night he had actually spoken to them, though. Up until tonight, they had simply been cracks – reminders that their house was too old and there was never enough money to make repairs. (Carajo![1] There wasn’t even enough money to keep food on the table, so how could he even begin to think about repairs!) But sometime between 3:00 a.m. and sunrise this morning, Esteban realized that the dark lines carved into the concrete beneath his feet were becoming quite familiar, rather comforting, and even friendly. See, they never changed. They never moved. Yes, they were rather consistent in that way. Consistent in other ways as well, though. For instance, they never swayed from emotion to emotion as people often do: they never became tired, or angry, or confused. And this morning, they even listened to him. That’s right, they listened. Without saying a word, they listened to how his wife awoke each night in a desperate sweat. How she imagined herself soaked not in sweat, but instead, in blood. He didn’t have to tell the part of how her mother would always come rushing in – to sing to her, to hum to her, to hold her. They already knew this part because Mama Gonzalez’s room was on the other side of the kitchen, and her bare feet ran noiselessly across the cracks each morning in order to reach her daughter’s bed. He did tell them, though, about the dreams, because they had not heard about the dreams. Not yet. Soledad had only just told him, her own husband, last week. Barely anyone knew about the dreams.

I’m always outside, amongst the roses. Yes, outside. The roses are outside, too. There are no plastic coverings, no greenhouses: just the mountains and the fog and the roses. And God, Esteban, they are the most beautiful roses – perfectly formed, all of them. And they are red. Not a single yellow or pink or white rose among them. Sometimes I’m walking down the rows . . . other times, I’m just standing still. I can smell the thick scent of the roses – their sweet, musky perfume. You know how it is, so thick that you can taste it in your mouth and feel it in your lungs. And it reminds me of being a small girl, helping our mothers sort the flowers for shipment, and suddenly, I’m young again – three or four years old. And that’s when it happens . . . that’s when the roses begin to bleed. Not the bright red blood of cartoons or telenovelas.[2] No. They bleed real blood – blood that is thick and dark, blood that dries black and becomes encrusted on the skin. At first, it drips slowly off the petals. But then it starts to drip faster, and faster. Then, it isn’t dripping – it’s pouring out of the roses, like water from a faucet. I can feel the blood at my feet and it’s wet and sticky. I realize that I’m standing in a pool of blood and the pool is getting deeper and deeper, rising above my ankles, past my thighs, up to my belly. There’s so much blood! I’m alone and I’m afraid, I’m crying and screaming and trying to get it off of me. It splashes onto my arms and hair and face and I’m covered in blood. I want it off . . . I want out. But everywhere I look – there is blood. The mountains, the fog, the roses – all of them are covered in blood and I wake up in my bed, wet and sticky and I realize that there is no place to run to, no place to run from.

When she was 16, she had married Esteban Gustavo Herrera. After that, she was no longer simply Soledad Esperanza Gonzalez. No, from that day forward she would be called Soledad Esperanza Gonzalez de Herrera. They – Esteban and Soledad – had known each other since they were children. They had grown-up as vecinos,[3] their parents both working for one of the largest rose plantations in Ecuador. The plantation was located just outside of Cayambe and offered housing for its workers; the Gonzalez family and Herrera family lived side-by-side in matching concrete houses built for them by the owners. Their fathers worked together in the greenhouses, their mothers worked together in the packing rooms. Every morning the two men had walked the short half-mile together to work, their wives following close behind (just far enough behind so that their husbands could not hear their giggles and whispers). Esteban was 12 years old when his father began complaining of the head-aches. He was 14 when the vomiting began, and 15 when his father finally died. Taking over his father’s place in the family had not been easy. Now, six years later, it was he who joined Soledad’s father for the short walk to work every morning, and his mother, mother-in-law, and wife that walked close behind. He had been married to Soledad for just three years now; already, though, they had been through so much. Already, she walked with the wisdom and pain of a viaja.[4]

When she’s asleep, she looks like she did when she was just a young girl. She still is a young girl, really. Just 19 years old. And still so small – her body like a child’s. She never grew hips. And her breasts are nothing more than brown nipples. She is lying on her stomach, and I can count each bone along her spine, ending at the sunken small of her back. My daughter has never looked so small – like I could break her with my breath, with my words. Her skin is darker than mine. It always has been. Her father is a full blooded indigeno;[5] my blood is mixed, part indigeno and part Spanish. Because of this, I stand taller than the rest of my family at nearly 5’ 3”. The native Ecuadorians are a rather short people. Soledad’s husband is an exception. Though his skin is dark, he is slightly taller than I am. No one can figure it out because his father was a short man, and his mother is not tall either. If Soledad and he ever have children, they will be beautiful and tall and dark. Skin the color of coffee, hair the color of coal. Looking at her now, though, huddled against the thin, stained sheets, I doubt that her body will carry another child within it. I am amazed that her small body ever could have held life. But it did. And not just once, but twice. I remember the belly – stretched tight – looking like it wanted to tear open. We were all afraid that if it grew any larger, it would split like a melon. But the baby died at seven months, three weeks – and her belly did not split. Instead, her groin split open as she delivered the dead child, and then her heart split open – and remained open – until the second child began to grow inside of her. We never talk about or discuss the first one; we didn’t even name him – just let the doctor carry the body away without questioning what would be done with it. When her belly began to swell for the second time, we fed her everything we could, gave up our meals so that she and the child could grow large and be healthy. Then, at 16 weeks, she started hemorrhaging in the night and did not stop until her uterus had expelled everything it had been feeding and protecting for the past 4 months. It took seven days for the blood to quit running – seven days of feeling the sticky-wetness that should have been her child flowing from her body. The fetus was expelled on a Saturday and so we buried it on a Sunday. We named the second child Julian. Since then, she has bled monthly, like all young women – her stomach soft and flat, hiding its secrets, not willing to share its stories.

My child shivers in her sleep, even though the room is hot and I am sweating. The light from the kitchen filters in from beneath the door and I can hear Esteban talking to himself again. I lie down next to my daughter, winding her thick black hair about my fingers, trying to ignore the pain beginning to form behind my eyes. The head-aches have been getting worse lately – but perhaps it is because I have been getting less sleep with Soledad’s nightly awakenings. The mattress is so thin beneath me that all I feel is the hardness of the floor. Comfort is not something that we are accustomed to, though, and I find myself drifting quickly into sleep. Aware of the fading darkness outside the window, I know that my sleep will be short, and I will have to rise to yet another day of work, another day amidst the roses.

At 5:00 a.m., mothers, children, and husbands unfold themselves from their mattresses and bed rolls, ready to start another long, hot day in the greenhouses. Milk is simmered on the stove, coffee is sipped by the adults, and hard pieces of bread are passed around to be dunked and softened in their drinks before eating. Slowly, then, the small, cinder-block houses begin to empty. Dishes are left in the sink, beds are left unmade. A thick fog usually hides the tops of the mountains – not that the families look up long enough to notice; their eyes are set just ahead of them, taking in only enough to ensure the safety of their next step. They have stopped looking up at the mountains long ago. But if they did look up, they would notice the fog – white and grey and silver – pressing down upon the tops of the Andes, ready to capture the heat of the day.

Almost one-fifth of the workers are just children, not yet 18. Here, though, a child grew up quickly – stepping into the world of work and family and money as young as 13 and 14. And so the one-fifth of the workers that are labeled by the government as children, they aren’t really children after all. They work in the greenhouses and packing rooms, alongside their fathers, mothers, sisters, brothers, uncles, aunts, and cousins. And in fact, they are some of the most productive workers on the plantation: because they are still young, they are still healthy – and do not yet suffer from the head-aches, blurred vision, nausea, and skin rashes. That will come later on, after several years of exposure to the chemicals. Only some of the children – the ones with neurological problems and physical deformities – are not as productive. The majority, though, can handle the long hours, the 110 degree temperatures, and the extreme humidity. And because they can handle it, they are loved and admired by their family members, by their co-workers, and by their bosses and employers.

“Es un negocio que gana $250 millones cada ano. Cree que no puedan pagar un poco para un medico?” It’s a business that makes $250 million-a-year. Do you think they can’t pay a little bit for a doctor? Esteban hit the table with his fist, causing the unsturdy legs to shake violently. Mother Gonzalez stood at the rusting sink, rinsing the dinner plates under a trickle of icy-cold water. Her shoulders caved inward, exposing her exhaustion. Soledad had risen just minutes before, her food untouched, to lie down in their room. I am not hungry. That is what she had told them. Fresh platanos[6] and rice, and she was not hungry! Already her arms looked like nothing more than bones, her elbows and wrists knobby and jagged where the skin was stretched taught. Esteban began to pick at the rash which had spread across his left forearm, trying not to scratch it too deeply, feeling desperately the need to do so. Everyone had rashes – and though they were uncomfortable, they were really quite harmless. It was Soledad that had him worried, and for more reasons than one.

She was moving slower and slower, now. She said that if she stood suddenly, or turned her head too quickly, she felt nauseous. And so her movements had decreased to a minimum – her steps became soft and methodical and her evenings were spent curled-up on the mattress in their room. She had even stopped crying and screaming when she awoke each night; now, instead, she simply gripped the sheets in her hands until her knuckles turned white and her fingernails dug into her palms. This scared him the most. When she had screamed and yelled and thrashed about in the bed night after night, month after month, he had known that there was life and passion still in her. Now, it seemed that that life was slipping out of her and that that passion was quickly dying, if not already dead.

It is because of the chemicals, I tell you – the insecticides, nematicides, and preservatives. In the warehouses you can see the containers, labeled “methyl parathion,” “terbufos,” “aldicurb,” “DDT.” These chemicals are fuckin’ restricted throughout most of the world, and yet there they sit, amidst our people, right outside of Cayambe! I imagine they are used all over Ecuador. Probably throughout all of South America, too. Hell, if it’s illegal to use in the United States, if it’s harmful to people – no problem – just sell it down South and let them have at it. God-damn fuckers. They haven’t seen what I’ve seen. They haven’t been called out in the middle of the night – in the middle of the morning – in the middle of the afternoon – to deliver dead baby after dead baby. They haven’t watched a woman hemorrhage, a river of blood literally flowing out of her body. And they haven’t seen the people in the market, all of them covered in rashes, suffering from head-aches and nausea – every last one of them too poor to do a god-damn thing about it. The only time their bosses want to see my face on the plantation is when a man, woman, or child is dying. And by then, it’s always too fucking late. God, just a few months ago, I had to rush out there to help a girl no older than 18 to give birth to a child – a still birth – she’d carried for eight months. Eight months! If you’ve ever seen an eight month-old fetus, you’d be amazed at how developed it is. Hands, eyes, nose, feet, hair . . . shit, they even have little tiny toe-nails. Not this one, though. My God. It was so fuckin’ deformed, you could barely even tell it was human. Makes me sick just thinking about it. It had been dead for at least a week, just sitting in her stomach, not moving, waiting for her fucked-up system to push it out. It was large for eight months and the poor mother – the tiniest thing you ever did see – had to go through full labor to get that thing out of her. Nearly split the girl in two. God she screamed. Screamed and screamed and screamed. Until she saw the dead baby which she pushed out from between her legs. She stopped screaming, then. And she stopped crying. Hell, she just fuckin’ stopped. Her husband made me take the dead child away immediately. Christ – I mean, what the fuck are you supposed to do with an eight month-old fetus that was supposed to be someone’s child? And I could just imagine how week after week she had hummed to it, sung to it, talked to it. How she had told it of the life it was going to have, of how strong and handsome its was going to be – of how beautiful the valleys were in the summer and how rich the fragrance of the roses were in the winter. Tell me, then . . . how do you simply wrap-up that child in a bloody sheet, pack-up your medicine bag, and walk out – carrying with you eight months of love, eight months of dreams, eight months of ugly deformed life? I guess you just do it. You get up and you walk out. And you as you go, you damn to hell all the fucking plantation owners, buyers, sellers, and consumers that are making you do it.

Growing roses is a fragile business. Everyone in Ecuador knows that the quest to grow the “perfect” rose is both tedious and complicated. The flower must be exposed to consistently warm temperatures, as well as extended periods of sunlight. Because of this, tropical South America – Ecuador, specifically – has become the largest exporter of roses in the world; plantation owners in Ecuador do not need to invest in heating systems and lighting systems for their greenhouses during winter months, unlike many other growers in the much colder, much darker North. Here, outside of Cayambe, roses grow 365 days a year. The bushes – cycling on a 6-8 week schedule – produce about six crops per year; rose bushes outside of the greenhouses produce only one crop per year. Inside the plastic covered, metal skeletons, roses of all colors and varieties bloom. They all have long, beautifully shaped stems, tightly pressed petals, and flawless leaves: not a sign of insects anywhere. This is expected, though. Demanded, in fact. Exportation laws are strict and the discovery of even one insect in a plane-load of packed roses could mean the cancellation of the entire shipment. Large sums of money are lost when these “accidents” happen – and growers must compensate for these losses by keeping their production costs very low. Growers also do everything they can to ensure that insects are not found on their roses.

1. Rose producers in Ecuador use an average of six fungicides, four
insecticides, and three nematicides (nematode poisons) – along with several
herbicides – to ensure the “safe” exportation of their products.

2. Some of the toxic insecticides and nemacides, including methyl parathion,
terbufos, and aldicarb are restricted heavily in the United States because of
the health hazards they impose.

3. Methylbromide, an ozone destroyer and a category one acute toxin, is also
heavily used and is among the most dangerous toxic substances known.

4. Some fungicides used, such as mancozeb and captan are suspected
         carcinogens, and such herbicides as paraquat, are extremely toxic through any
         route of exposure, whether absorbed through the skin, inhaled, or somehow
         ingested.

Esteban stood alongside his father-in-law, sweat pooling beneath both of their base-ball caps. The temperatures reached well above 100 degrees in the greenhouses on an average day. Today was an average day, and both men stood sweating in the heat. They walked slowly up and down the long rows of bushes, dowsing the leaves and roots with methyl parathion. The air was muggy and thick, the smell of the insecticide was overwhelming. For as far as one could see in either direction, under each of the covered plastic roofs, men and women moved slowly, methodically – spraying and sweating, sweating and spraying.

He couldn’t stand the heat anymore. Stumbling toward the nearest door, Esteban felt the rush of cool air. Actually, the air today wasn’t very cool – but compared to the muggy greenhouse air, outside felt unbelievably refreshing.

“Dios mio! Si continuamos así . . . ahorita, nos vayamos a morir!” My God! If we continue like this . . . soon, we are all going to die! Collapsing onto the plastic that covered the ground and formed a walk-way between greenhouses, Esteban untied his soak-drenched handkerchief and inhaled deeply. He wasn’t stupid and – whether his bosses liked it or not – he wasn’t ignorant, either. Most of the workers weren’t. Only a few actually believed their bosses, who continuously told them that the chemicals wouldn’t hurt them or cause health problems. But the ones who didn’t believe, what could they say or do? They had work, and work was not easy to find in this country. And so instead of leaving, and instead of speaking out, they entered the greenhouses silently each morning, covered their mouths with handkerchiefs, and nodded their heads when their bosses told them not to worry. Que mierda![7] Even if the doctors didn’t visit them every few months and continuously warn them of what they were being exposed to, the diseases and deaths he had seen with his own eyes were evidence enough. Hell, his own father had died when he was just a teenager – coughing and vomiting up blood for months before finally giving in to whatever it was that he died from. Not that it mattered, really. Everyone here was suffering from something. Himself. His wife. His mother. Most of his friends – and friends’ children. Raising his eyes from the ground, Esteban turned his glance upward, to the rising peaks of the Andes Mountains. He had not noticed them for years, and he realized – again – that they were beautiful. Looking at their snow-capped silhouettes, he thought of his own two children – and he thought of how even they had suffered . . . and how even they had not even been spared.

There really isn’t much we can do about it. It is easy to sit in judgment, condemning what goes on down here. But I tell you, what we use on the roses is what is necessary – if you wish to see them in your flower shops and stores in North America, that is. See, your country won’t allow us to ship flowers that have insects on them. Do you understand how difficult it is to ensure that not even one insect is in an entire plane full of roses? Let me tell you – it is extremely difficult. And the only way to successfully do it is to spray the bushes . . . thoroughly and continuously. And the only way to get rid of the insects is to use something toxic – something that kills. So we do. And as far as the herbicides and fungicides and other chemicals . . . we supply what you demand: beautiful, perfectly-shaped roses. Don’t tell me you’d walk in to a florist shop and pick out a very plain, perhaps even ill-formed, rose for your sweetheart? No. Because you want perfection. You want nature to look like what you think she should look like – not like what she does. And so roses which are grown naturally, without chemicals, just don’t cut it any more. The stems aren’t long enough, or straight enough. The leaves are too bunchy – or perhaps to sparse. And of course the petals might not be symmetrical, or well-formed. Mother Nature has a way of doing that, you know? Of looking like whatever the hell she feels like – of not looking exactly the same time and time and time again. But that doesn’t sell. Oddly shaped, various-sized roses do not sell. For weddings, concerts, plays . . . girlfriends, mothers, graduating seniors . . . you want the perfect, long-stemmed, partially opened rose. We all have priorities in life: beauty and perfection is a top priority for your country. Our priorities are different: we wish to have a pile of cinder blocks to shelter us from the rain and food on the table to fill our stomachs. And we’ll do whatever we can to achieve that. Even if it means selling you chemically laced roses. Even if it means exposing ourselves, and our families, to those chemicals. Because where we live, we either work – or we die. It is a concept that your country cannot understand. You are so concerned with what is legal and right and moral and just . . . and yet all you have to do is pull out a plastic card at the local grocery store, sign a piece of white paper, and you can take home more food than you could eat in a year. No, we don’t have time to be concerned about morals or justice or legalities. We are trying to survive, trying to make it through another week. We don’t think about 10 years from now, or even 10 weeks. We live day to day. When we sell you what you want, we get to live for another day. Comprende?[8]

Some of the plantations issue gloves, masks, and protective gear to their workers. They do everything they can to protect the people from the harmful insecticides, fungicides, and pesticides. And the chemicals do not get absorbed through the skin. And the chemicals do not get inhaled into the lungs. Instead, the chemicals leech into the earth, working their way deep down into the soil. And when the heavy rains fall – which they do, daily – the rain-water carries the chemicals downhill, into the streams and cow pastures. Hidden in the water and grass, the chemicals kill even the people that are covered in masks and gloves and plastic suits. Because the chemicals do not disintegrate, nor do they disappear. They leak into the water that is pulled from the streams and wells for washing dishes, cooking rice, and drinking. No amount of boiling kills DDT. And the chemicals are sucked from the ground by the roots of grass – the grass in turn eaten by the cows. Mothers, fathers, grandparents, children . . . all of them eat the cows, dependent upon their beef for survival. And so it doesn’t take long for the “protected” workers to experience the same nausea, head-aches, and rashes that the unprotected experience. The chemicals will find their way into their bodies, under their skin, into their lungs – one way or another, it always happens.

It is not so difficult a thing to do when it is all that you know. But there comes a moment in your life – a time of awakening – when you realize that it isn’t this way for everyone and that suffering to this extent is not normal. Perhaps that is when it gets unbearable, when you understand your pain in relation to others’ pain, and see how yours is worse. The television, of course, is to blame for much of this newly gained insight, this comparison of one way of life with another. Soledad grew up watching television and has seen into the rest of the world. So has Esteban. So have I. It is difficult to live the life of an oppressed people – to be fully aware of our own oppression – and not be able to do anything about it. We have knowledge, yes. But we also barely scrape by from day to day, eating rationed white rice, potatoes, onions, beef, and pork. So what good does that knowledge do us – except worsen our pain and maximize our sufferings?

Each night, Soledad lays her boney body down on a mildewed mattress that is so thin her hips bruise during the night. Her husband crawls onto that mattress with her, pressing his small body against hers, trying to protect her from the cold mountain winds that creep into the valley after dark. My own husband does what he can to protect me from the winds as we huddle together on our own paper-thin mattress. Through the blackness of the night I can hardly make out the shapes of my other four children, all huddled together on the one real mattress we own. It stands against the far wall of our room and the sounds of my children breathing during the night comfort me. Where there is breathe, there is life. I have learned to worship their breaths: that soft vibration of air across the throat.

When a person is praying for breathe, when a person is pleading with God to fill the bellies of her hungry children – and keep them warm enough to sleep through the night’s chill, how can she find the strength to fight against her oppressors? I have asked myself this often – and I have not yet found an answer. To stand up against my oppressors would mean losing my job, guaranteeing a quick death for my family. To not stand up against my oppressors would mean keeping my job, guaranteeing a slow death for my family. When given the option, a mother will always prolong the inevitable; a mother will do whatever she can to hear the breaths of her children – her sacred mantra – for just one more day. You may not understand. You may say you disagree. But if you were to wake up each morning into the nightmare which is my reality and life, I doubt that you would do any different.

The dreams have changed, Esteban. The dreams have changed, and yet, they have not. Because there is still so much blood. Yes, there is still blood – and there are still the roses. The fields are the same: filled with beautiful red roses. I am walking through row after row of them: admiring them, touching them. Always, there is one more beautiful than the rest – and I am drawn to it. And even though I know I should stay away from it, I walk up to it and pick it. I know that I should put it down and walk away. But I don’t. Do we ever? I’m holding it, looking at it, smelling it. And I prick my finger on its thorny stem. Just a small cut, really. Nothing serious. At first, only a small trickle of blood. Then, more. And more. I want to drop the rose and try to stop the bleeding. But I can’t drop it. Instead, I grab it tighter. And the thorns tear into the palm of my hand. More blood. And then I feel a sharp pain – down there. I reach between my legs and feel the thorny stem of another rose. The rose is inside of me and I try to pull it out. I feel flesh tearing. The insides of my thighs are covered in blood, and then it begins to drip heavily down my legs, pooling at me feet. Then, the blood begins to flow down the rows, watering the roses with my fluids. I watch as it seeps into the ground, sucked-up by the flowers’ roots. On the bushes, the tightly formed rose buds begin to grow plump and beautiful, stretching themselves into full bloom. They are redder than before. They are more beautiful than before. Through my anger and hatred, I cannot help but to admire them. I am still holding both roses: the one I picked – and the one I pulled from my insides. They are bloody. And their colors mix so that I can’t tell the red of the rose from the red of the blood. Even they, oddly enough, are beautiful. And I stand there, Esteban, with the roses in my hands, bleeding: bleeding, so that the roses can be beautiful. I am bleeding, Esteban, bleeding for the roses.

[1]Shit
[2] Soap Opera
[3] Neighbors
[4] Old woman
[5] Native American
[6] Plantanes – a banana-like fruit which is often fried or grilled. It
is a typical dish of Central and South America.
[7] What shit!
[8] Understand?