The Children of Sanchez by Oscar Lewis

a
burro
and a dog. This teamster, they say, had killed his partner up there in the mountain, and had turned to stone. Later, we passed “The Corn-padres,” some rocks in the middle of a river. These were
compadres
who had sinned by fornicating right there in the river, and they, too, were turned to stone. And there was another curious rock formation that looked just like a priest, with
sombrero
and cape, his hand on his cheek, as though he was thinking. Who knows what sin he committed, but he too had been punished by heaven. The old people believe that these rocks turn toward the Church, once a year, and when they finally reach the Church, they will be disenchanted and transformed to their original selves.
    We saw the Penitents, people who had vowed to walk the rocky road to the shrine on their knees, or with their ankles tightly tied. They moved slowly, helped along by
compadres
, and arrived bleeding,with their skin worn off, and sometimes with their bones showing. That sight impressed me most.
    My
mamá
and all her family went to Chalma regularly. They were also very devoted to the Virgin of San Juan de los Lagos, but that pilgrimage took longer; we went with my mother every year. My
papá
accompanied her only once; but he never went to Chalma. He didn’t like religious pilgrimages and that was another thing they quarreled about. My
papá
has always said about my
mamá
’s family, “They are very saintly, but they drink all the way to the shrine.”
    It was true that my mother’s brothers, José and Alfredo and Lucio, drank a lot, in fact, they all died of drink. My aunt Guadalupe also liked to drink her daily
copita
. But I do not recall that my mother’s mother, my grandmother, drank. She was the kind of sprightly old lady who always walked erect, and was very, very clean. She never wore anything dirty, even her shoes were kept polished, and she dressed very severely, in a black silk blouse and long black skirt.
    My grandma used to live with my aunt Guadalupe, in a room on the Street of the Painters. Grandma would come to our house every day at breakfast time, after my
papá
had left for work. She helped my
mamá
by washing our faces and necks and hands. She scrubbed us so hard with the
zacate
I felt like screaming. She’d say, “You grimy rascals, why do you get so filthy?”
    My grandmother was steeped in religion, even more than my
mamá
, and she was like a godmother to us, teaching us to cross ourselves and to pray. She was devoted to the Archangel San Miguel, and taught us his prayer, and the Magnificat, which she said was the best medicine against all ills. She had an hour for prayer on all the festival days, the
fiesta
of the Palms, the Pentecost, the Day of the Dead … all of them. On the Day of the Dead she lit the candles, put out the glass of water, the bread of the dead, the flowers, the fruit. After she and my mother died, no one ever did that in our house. My grandmother was the only one who was rich in tradition and who tried to pass it on to us.
    My father’s family lived in a small town in Veracruz and we knew almost nothing about them. When Roberto and I were very small, my
papá
’s
papá
sent for us. My grandpa was alone because my grandma and uncles had died, I don’t know exactly how. My grandpa had the biggest grocery store in Huachinango and many people in the village owed him money. He said the store was ours and myfather finally sold it. But an uncle of mine, my grandfather’s half-brother, had my father put in jail to get the money away from him. I think they wanted to kill him or something but at night my mother sneaked out and went to the jail. It was only a country jail, and she hit the guard with a club. I’m not sure what she did but she got
papá
out of jail and we beat it as fast as we could, back to Mexico City. As a result, my father didn’t get a single penny out of my grandpa’s store.
    I was six years old when Consuelo was born. Roberto and I saw the midwife come