Araneg Leon We Are Hoyas

ARANEG LEON First Place Salveson Prize in Prose

We are HoyaS

We are a set of hoyas, better known as tamale steamers, passed on from generation to generation of the Velazquez family for the last 15 years or so. We are used to steam tamales, a very traditional Mexican food. Only difference is we were not just pulled out during the holidays. We were used constantly, every weekday and weekend, and the only breaks we got were during the holidays. Funny in a way, but we enjoyed being used on a daily basis and not being stored away until needed. The Velazquez family treated us well, maybe too well, and it could have been because we did a lot for them.

Our journey began when we were bought at a swap meet by the man, the myth, the legend, Luis Velazquez. Luis immigrated to the U.S. in the early 90’s and had to work in the fields and cooler because they were the only ones that did not question people’s statuses at the time. He worked in the vegetable cooler warehouses at night and came home at 10 am, with bags under his eyes, eyes which did not have much but a blank expression in them, and he made tamales all day to sell that same afternoon. The man worked two jobs all week. He taught his daughter, Genara, who would become our owner once Luis left back to his native country. Genara was also an immigrant from Mexico and had to follow in her father’s footsteps to be able to pay for rent and utilities. She would continue his legacy and go and teach Luis Jr. upon his arrival to the U.S.. To Genara, selling tamales was her entire job, she took no breaks. It was how she helped bring money into the household to help her husband, Eduardo. To Luis Jr., it was more of a side hustle to finish paying bills and expenses as he depended more on what he made in the fields.

Every one of us hoyas would be filled with three different tamales. The most popular ones, los de pollo rojo; the spiciest ones, los de rajas con queso; and the one for the kids, los de dulce, basically translating to chicken in red sauce, jalapeno and cheese, and candy ones, which were made of pineapple, red dye, and sugar.

Our smallest member was used on Monday. He only held about fifty of the tamales: twenty-five de pollo, twenty de rajas con queso, and five de dulce. He was set on the burning stove at 5 pm and taken down and placed on a caja at 6:30 pm. Our little one left the house at 7 pm only to return at 8

pm or 8:30 pm completely empty and in need of a wash. Same happened on Tuesday and Wednesday. However, on Thursday, we did not leave the house. On Thursdays and Fridays, the three largest ones in our clan and our little one were used. On Thursdays about five-hundred tamales were made, and on Friday, again the same thing. The weekends were when we went out. Saturday morning one of us was taken on a trip around a neighborhood. We The daughter’s were open every couple minutes to sell tamales ignorance did and clanked every time we were closed. We rattled not allow her in the Smart & Final shopping cart we were being to understand pushed in because the cracks in the pavement were that this was not unnoticeable. The wheels squeaked every time what kept the we went over a crack and gave us a sense of fear as it seemed like the shopping cart would collapse at family well fed. any moment. Saturday afternoon another one of us would go out again for another three hours or so and Sunday morning the last one of us and our smallest ones were taken out for joy rides.

Selling tamales was a well-paid hustle, but on some days we were not open too often.The aroma of delicious tamales was never released and we came back almost full. All the tamales we incubated would be thrown that night and become lost merchandise. Filling us up soon took every afternoon from Genara and her daughter, because if they were not making tamales for four hours straight, they were walking 10 blocks caroling “tamales” at the top of their lungs. The daughter’s face would flush red and hidden every time her mother would ask her to accompany her because she knew she would see her friends. “Hey, you sell tamales with the lady...wait, she is your mom?” This was the most frequent question she received the next day.

She was annoyed by the tamale business because it was an embarrassing thing to do and her mom would always nag about how to make the sauces and the dough. She was very demanding with how the tamales were made and sold because she had a reputation to live up to. The daughter’s ignorance did not allow her to understand that this is what kept the family well-fed. As time passed, we were used less and less.

We were then passed on to new ownership when Genara got sick. She was not able to help her husband, Eduardo, who was a construction

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. When we did

On the first encounter we had with the cops bump into while with the daughter, we had a man come out law enforceand pretend to be interested in buying. He only did ment we were this to keep the child there while the cops arrived dumped and to cite her. “Neg, I just saw a cop park, and he’s all our earnwalking towards the apartments!” The daughter ings were taken closed us ever so gently and started walking away, away.but the client insisted she stayed. Neg turned her 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.

The cop lights turned on from around the corner and Neg made her way home through alleys and small streets.

We got home in a record time 10 minutes, a walk that would usually take 30. Neg opened up the garage and shoved us in and, once inside, slammed the garage door shut. We typically left the shopping cart in the neighborhood and made our way home in the car after being picked up by Genara or Eduardo, but this time was different. Neg could not breathe or hold back the tears. Her chest rose and fell with no particular rhythm. She wheezed and struggled to catch a single breath. She could not speak either and much less cry desperately to her parents for help and comfort.

She looked like she was about to drop, but the adrenaline that surged through her body allowed her to run into her dad’s arms. Once enveloped in the warmth and only then was she able to compose herself. We were washed that night and to Genara’s surprise we were scratched, banged and dented. We were placed in the dark cabinets in the garage as usual, only this time we would not leave them for a long time. The next time we were used was during Thanksgiving, and after that we were stored away once again only to be pulled out during Christmas once more.

We are a set of hoyas, better known as tamale steamers, passed on from generation to generation of the Velazquez family for the last 15 years or so. We are used to steam tamales, a very traditional Mexican food. There is no difference between us and other steamers; we were just pulled out during the holidays. We were not used constantly; we were only used during the holidays. Funny in a way, we became a normal set of hoyas.

Judge’s Comments: Through carefully rendered details, this piece explores the connection between food, culture, and family—a rich landscape for any writer. However, what I’m most impressed by is the choice the author makes to pose the hoyas themselves as the narrators of the story of the Velazquez family. From this well-chosen vantage, the author is able to trace the family’s experience across generations, ultimately offering a poignant tale of the way traditions change, especially in response to challenge, but also how the past can be felt, even now, when we cook a certain food or use a special object passed down for generations.

—Ruth Williams Poet and Associate Professor of English, William Jewell College