worker, with the bills because she would constantly be in pain. On a Saturday afternoon, we were brought home and brought down and set down in the garage. Genara and her husband called their eldest daughter, who at the time was 13, and sat her down on one of the cajas which we usually sat on. “As you have noticed, your mom has not been able to go sell as much due to pain,” her father said. “We are going to need you to start selling tamales for your mom.” The one thing the daughter despised so much had become her new full time job. Genara would help prepare us like usual, only when we left, we were being guided by the daughter. We accompanied her, as she yelled, as she sold, as she followed in her mother’s footsteps. She could not hide the fact that she was the daughter of a tamalera anymore, and that she, herself, had become one too. “Me das tres de pollo y dos de rajas por favor,” a spanish-speaking customer would ask. “Shut up already or I am calling the cops!” shouted a caucasian man from his window. “Hey, you should hide. I just saw a cop a few blocks down,” the empathetic hispanic woman would say. These were just a few of the lines the 13 year-old daughter and we heard too often. The cops were our biggest enemy and with great reason: we were not supposed to be street vendors without permits. When we did bump into law enforcement, we were dumped and all our earnings were taken away. If the cops were nice, they warned us and took off, and left the daughter with the money and us. On the first encounter we had with the cops while with the daughter, we had a man come out and pretend to be interested in buying. He only did this to keep the child there while the cops arrived to cite her. “Neg, I just saw a cop park, and he’s walking towards the apartments!” The daughter closed us ever so gently and started walking away, but the client insisted she stayed. Neg turned her
When we did bump into law enforcement we were dumped and all our earnings were taken away.
shopping cart and left through the parking lot of the apartments. As soon as she knew she had distance she ran. She sprinted her way home, holding her tears back which were clouding her eyes. We rattled so hard against the shopping cart. We did not use the accessibility ramps on the sidewalk; we were just pushed off the sidewalk, making our way home as fast as possible. SALVESON PRIZE IN PROSE
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