Dreams never came true in my part of Mexico. When I was four years old, I started hiding under the cabinets, because I was scared of being beaten again. In my tarnished universe, hell was close. I was an unwanted child and the demons of that realization hit harder than my drunken mother’s rage-propelled striking hands.
Back then, 1973 Mexico was such an unprincipled place. Living during those times was menacing, since drug and human smugglers were destroying everything I loved, including children who were bought and sold like cheap cutlery.
For the possibility of a better existence, people braved crooked agreements to see America. There, an exploding culture was consuming more drugs than the baleful smugglers could supply.
Money meant freedom if you could hire a transporter to sneak illegals across state lines. Money was everything, and greed was numbingly cold and distant like the stare in my mother’s eyes.
Mexico had discovered her own gold rush. Men were mad with ambition on how to exploit her. She could not carry the weight of their cruelty without sacrificing the innocent. Innocence was made part of the exports. I was an innocent victim of her downfall. I tried to be a child worthy of a parents love. There was no time for the liberty of compassion. The world around me swelled like a bruised lip every time Mexico's lack of love came harsh against my backside, arms, and legs.
Children during those depressive times were looked upon as extra baggage that could be bought or sold if the price was right. Daughters got the worst of these deals. Most were sold before the age of sixteen. Also, the majority of those sold were made into prostitutes before they were old enough to vote for any change to the injustice.
Insanity became the new normality, transfixed upon our lives like a bad virus left over us to help our inner fight submit.
My parents had no sons to pass our legacy on to. A brother would have been nice but, knowing what I know now, it may have made things worse. We girls were united like the moons love for the coyotes in the fall. That was one thing they could never completely rip from us. Dead or alive, we would rise or fall together.
That realization of commitment would be delayed till after I waited out the worst years of my life. I was a forgotten being on a planet that would not let me come to grips with my own inner radiance. I would have to fight for every breath, kick and scream if need be, to silence my soul from acting out. I wanted to strike out every time injustice came my way, but knew I could not do so until I was absolutely ready. Till then, I was crushed and fragmented beneath the storm of thunderous wrongs slamming their way through the valley of our dreamland. I watched transports carry sold lives up and down the roadways. I felt pain with everyone as if my spine was being prodded by something foreign and jagged.
Pain let me know I wasn't dreaming. For years pain and I danced as equals trying to outwit one another. I would learn to run on empty while being faced with the hell of greed's commitment.
Dreams rarely came true in the tunnels that transported people into the Americas. I watched an old woman die after being left in the sun for too long. I did not want to end up like a statistic. I did not know at birth that I was already there, displayed on a page for some educated individual to analyze. Times would prove to be so chaotic that they almost seemed normal. I died a little inside each time the weight of my reality hit home emotionally. I suffered each day the sun went down, tormenting me about another day held against my will without a glimmer of hope to pull me through the endless tunnel of my subconscious fall from Eve’s original ideology of how our lives should reflect greatness. I did not learn this from my father’s lessons about the book of Genesis.
Women are strong.
It burnt my heart up to be abandoned like a rag doll, thrown aimlessly to the desert hounds for the evolution of blind oppression, and the rooftops of the upper apartments would help me become balanced, but they too wanted a blood sacrifice. I looked down from the brick ledge and thought about recklessly jumping to my death, yet death seemed so far and cocky and easier than turning back to the cocaine addicted pimps and prostitutes, killers and thieves that awaited the alien packages I had been trained -like a monkey piloting space-craft- to transport. I stood on the edge of self-discovery and self-annihilation. It hurt so much to be alive. If I looked down long enough I could see enough despair to kill any dream. Death was everywhere. I am Alexia.
© Copyright 2017 g horten winterborne. All rights reserved.
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