The Weaver's Daughter

By Sylvia Patience

“Sometimes people disappear into the North and are never heard from again.”

When her papá doesn’t return, twelve-year-old Ixchel, a Maya from the Yucatan, resolves to leave home and make her way across the treacherous border into the United States to find him. Chel relies on an inexperienced smuggler and faces unknown dangers in a border tunnel.

Frightened, but resourceful, she is driven by hope, love for her father, and her dream of going to school.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Paper Angel Press
• Release date: Aug 10, 2023
• ISBN: 9781959804000

Sylvia Patience

Sylvia Patience lives in Santa Cruz, California with her family and Toto, her little dog, too. She is a poet and author of four other middle grade children’s novels, including Shell, Crossing the Border and Wandering Time.

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The Weaver’s Daughter

Sylvia Patience

copyright © 2023 by Sylvia Patience

All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, except for the purpose of review and/or reference, without explicit permission in writing from the publisher.

Cover design copyright © 2023 by Kelley York

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Published by Paper Angel Press

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Acknowledgments

I have many people to thank for their help over the years I spent writing this book. If I fail to name anyone here, please know that your gift of time and your feedback is appreciated.

My two culture consultants and sensitivity readers gave me invaluable support by reading and correcting my errors in Spanish and Yucatec Maya languages and culture. Thanks to Linda Medina Martinez, who crossed the border herself as a child with her family, and to Edber Dzidz-Yam for his expertise in and advice on the Yucatec Maya culture and language.

As with all my books, The Weaver’s Daughter wouldn’t have been what it is without the support and valuable critiques from my two writing groups. Thanks for reading, commenting, and suggestions to Carol Brendsel, Kate Bowland, Wilma Chandler, Louise Loots, Jackie Pascoe, Jen Pittman, Barbara Riverwoman, Eve Bunting, Carol Foote, Eric Hoffman, and Diane Landy.

Thanks to Lee Fitzsimmons and Desert Palm Press for the first publication of The Weaver's Daughter.

I couldn’t be the writer I am without the support of my family and friends. Special thanks to my daughter, Taica Patience, my brother, Bill Bortin, and my friend, Katy Perlman, for reading earlier drafts and giving me their suggestions.

1

Sometimes people disappear into the north and are never heard from again. No one knows what becomes of them. Every spring, Papá crosses the border to los Estados Unidos, the United States, to spend half the year working there. It’s been nearly a year this time and he hasn’t returned. At first, his letters came further apart. Money came less often. Now we hear nothing.

I try not to think about all the things that can happen to someone across the border. I speak to him in my thoughts. Papá, I miss you. Please come home.

•          •          •

When I was little, Papá and Chiich, my mother’s mother, took care of me. They loved me when Mamá could not. Even now, if Mamá speaks to me, she looks past me or through me, as if I am a ghost to her. She doesn’t look at me the way I see other mothers look at their children.

Today, when I come home from selling her weaving in the plaza, she is working at her backstrap loom as usual. She kneels on the floor of the patio, one end of the loom tied to a post and the other held by the strap around her back. She works the shuttle back and forth between threads of many colors. All her attention is on her work. Does she even know I’m here?

Chiich is cooking in her outdoor kitchen. "Hola, Chel, ba’ax ka wa’alik? A comes?" She’s asking how I am, if I’m hungry, in Mayan mixed with Spanish. Although hundreds of years have passed since the conquistadores came from Spain, we Yucatec Maya are still proud to speak our language. Chiich is Mayan for grandmother.

"Yes, gracias. I’m hungry." I watch Mamá. Her dark hair, in its usual braids, is wrapped around her head. Her eyes are far away. I feel the familiar tightness in my heart. I want her to notice me. As if she hears my wish, she removes the strap of the loom from around her back and stands, motioning to me.

"Mija, daughter, come inside. I must talk with you."

"Sí, Mamá." My heart soars. Will she talk to me as a daughter? Has she heard from Papá? I follow her inside the house. She sits on a cushion and motions me to another.

Daughter, I have something to tell you. When I work at my loom, I leave this world. I become one of the ancestors, weaving in the long-ago Maya city, before the Spaniards built Mérida.

Why is she telling me this? As odd as it sounds, it isn’t unexpected. I see how Mamá disappears into her weaving every day.

After you were born, I bled so much I almost died. I had an operation, a bad infection, and another operation. A month passed before I saw you.

I look down at the swept, white earth floor to hide the tears that come to my eyes when she speaks of my birth. Though she has never talked to me about it before, I know she almost died. I believe that is the reason she doesn’t love me.

When I finally returned to my weaving, I began to find myself in that other place. Mamá’s hands move a little, as if she’s weaving. "Now I become that woman as soon as I kneel at my loom.

Today, while you were gone, I was at my loom in that ancient city, thinking only of the pattern. Suddenly, the goddess Ixchel rose before me out of the cloth. She was as beautiful and fierce as the jaguar.

My name is Ixchel, after the jaguar goddess of weaving. How frightening it must have been for Mamá to see the goddess appear in this vision!

Imagine how I trembled. Mamá’s eyes open wide and her voice strains. I bowed my head before her. In a terrible voice, she said, ‘Woman, I am not pleased. I want better things for your daughter, my namesake. You must send her to her father, or I will no longer bless your weaving.

It takes a moment to realize what Mamá is saying. A chill shakes me and my heart begins to pound.

So you see, hija, you will have to make the journey to the north.

Her stern tone allows for no argument. It is perhaps as terrible to me as the voice of the goddess was to her. Mamá’s dark eyes look straight into mine. I am not yet twelve. I shiver to think of leaving home, although I miss Papá. Is it possible for me to travel so far?

We Maya take dreams and visions seriously. But I’m just a girl. It’s a long way to the United States. My legs feel weak and I don’t think I can stand. Mamá has never behaved as a mother to me. Now she wants me to leave!

The only words I can find at the moment are, "Sí, Mamá."

2

That night, i dream of being lost in a great city. I knock on every door, searching for Papá. The people speak words I cannot understand. They slam their doors. I wake up in fear, tangled in my blanket, and nearly fall from the hammock when I try to sit up.

In the morning, still thinking of Mamá’s vision, I take the bus to el centro, the center of Mérida, to sell her weaving. With the big bag slung over my shoulder, I walk to the Plaza de Armas, where tourists come from all over the world to see our churches and museums, and to tour ancient Maya ruins. They buy souvenirs and gifts made by Maya artists. Because my dreams woke me, I arrive early. No tourists walk around the plaza yet, none sit on benches using cell phones.

The air is moist, smelling of flowers, but it isn’t raining. In Mérida, we never wake up in the morning to see frost on the leaves or a skim of ice on top of a puddle, like I read about in books. I’ve never seen snow. If I go to el Norte, perhaps I will.

I sit on a bench, thinking. Papá, I pray, please come home. If he returns, I won’t have to go. Every year, when he goes to the United States to work and send us money, I stop attending school because Mamá doesn’t think school is necessary. She tried to teach me to weave, but I have no talent, and no love for it. Instead of school, she sends me to sell her weaving. In other years, when Papá comes home, he’s upset that I haven’t been in school.

Dolores, he tells Mamá, Chel is a smart girl. She must have an education. He sends me back to school and I work hard to catch up.

Mamá doesn’t listen. She never lets me go to school when he’s gone. The school teachers tell us many interesting things. For example, our city of Mérida is built above the Chicxulub crater, formed millions of years ago by a huge rock that fell from space. It caused changes which made the dinosaurs extinct. Chiich laughs and shakes her head when I tell her about it. I love school. And I love stories. My dream is to become a teacher, to help children learn through stories like this.

I’m waiting for my friend Rosa. I take everything out of the bag, so my arms are full of beautiful huipils, embroidered dresses and blouses, tzutes for wrapping and carrying things, narrower fajas, and cintas, for belts or headbands. As I arrange them, my mind is full of Mamá’s vision and my fear of the dreadful journey.

The first time Mamá sends me to sell her work, I am only six. I sit on a bench, not knowing what to do, too shy to talk to anyone, until another girl appears. She sits next to me, her arms also full of weaving.

My name is Rosa. Is that your mother’s weaving?

Since then, we are friends. We meet each day in the Plaza de Armas to sell our mothers’ weaving together. When she asks the tourists to buy, she looks at them and smiles. Often, they ask to take her picture and give her a few pesos for it. Rosa is two years older than I am. She’s beautiful and confident.

I have my mother’s round face and body. My straight black hair is pulled back in two braids. Although my mother’s weaving is something to be proud of, I’m embarrassed to ask people to look at what I’m selling.

Rosa likes to tell the tourists I’m her sister. She’s the only girl in a family of many boys. When she stands beside me with her arm over my shoulder, I feel like smiling for the photographs too. Now I smile because I see Rosa hurrying toward me across the plaza.

"Hola, Chel." She smiles back as she sits next to me.

"Hola, Rosa."

My worry must show, because she asks, Is something wrong?

I shake my head. Nothing’s wrong. I don’t want to talk about Mamá’s vision. Speaking of it will make it real. I hope it won’t rain today.

But soon it does begin to rain, and few tourists come. Rosa and I put the weaving inside plastic bags. We don’t sell much. I go home early, my head still filled with worries about the journey.

At bedtime, I hang my sleeping hammock beside my grandmother’s in the palapa. I often sleep here when it’s hot. The peaked roof of palm fronds keeps it cooler inside than my parents’ house.

Grandfather Puch built the oval-shaped palapa behind our cinder block house when he and Chiich came to help take care of me. It’s a traditional Maya house. The walls are made of sticks and adobe.

I wish I could remember my grandfather. The ancient Maya would say he’s gone to the underworld, called Xibalba, the place of fear. But the Catholic Church teaches us he is in heaven, which sounds like a nicer place.

I lie awake a long time, wondering how I will travel so far alone. People say crossing the border is dangerous. We don’t even know what happened to Papá. What if I can’t find him? It may seem strange, but I’m not surprised Mamá tells me to do this. She’s not like other mothers. Every day she spends many hours kneeling with the strap of her loom around her back, lost in another world. Beautiful patterns and colors grow under her hands. Anyone can see the goddess blesses her weaving. When she isn’t weaving, she is always sad. It’s even in her name, Dolores Puch. Dolores means sorrows.

Papá told me how Mamá almost died when I was born and that is why she can have no more children. He smiled and stroked my head. I’m fortunate to have you. You give me so much happiness, I don’t miss having another child.

I think Mamá doesn’t feel this way. Because of the trouble she had when I was born, she is sad and empty, like a shell. I used to cry when I reached for her and she pulled away. Chiich would pick me up and comfort me. I wish Mamá would give me the love of a mother. I no longer reach for her. I try to understand her sadness, but I can’t help feeling angry at how she ignores me.

She says nothing more of her vision in the days that follow. I begin to hope she has changed her mind, until one evening she asks, Ixchel, have you been thinking about the journey to find your father?

"No sé, Mamá." I don’t know. I want to say I can’t do it. Travelling alone to the United States seems impossible. I tremble to think I might have to go.

3

When i’m in the plazas, I listen more carefully now to the American tourists, especially the ones from California where my father went. I imitate their words like Pretty and How much? and I practice English with them.

Beautiful cloth, made by my mother. You like to buy?

About a week after Mamá tells me of her vision, my grandmother greets me as usual when I come home. "Ba'ax ku yúuchu', ooloj? How are you, child? Come sit with me." She motions me to the mat beside her and hands me a cup of hot chocolate.

Your mother told me of her vision of the goddess, she says with a serious look. "Will you go to los Estados Unidos?"

Chiich … Tears spring to my eyes. I’m afraid. It’s too far. How can I go?

"Little one, if it is the