The day Dona laid down in the field to give birth to what would be her last child, curses were on her lips: curses for her husband, who had promised a house as big as the crumbling hacienda they had left behind in Mexico; curses for the foreman, who would call immigration if she was more than one day out of the field; and curses for the child pushing from her body, another mouth that would divide her too-few pennies. When Chica was born, sliding into the hands of Papi, who immediately pressed her against his heart and kissed her small head, it was his voice she first heard, his whisper that told of the gift his journey from Mexico had given her: birth on American soil, where just to be born was to be equal.
If you know me, and by now you probably do, you know that I love my sisters. This is an excerpt from my sister Judith’s book, In the Fields of Another. I read her book before and loved it. Then she rewrote it. I tried to remain unbiased, but boy is that hard to do. On her blog, she talks about things that I don’t hear anyone else speak of. She is poignant, funny, and bold. I learn something new from her almost every day. I hope you can too.