Nuvein Magazine

Border Trash
by Josie A. Okuly

How could I stand to live with this borracho another second? He came through the front door smelling like tequila which I believe might be the nastiest smell ever produced on this earth, especially when it's combined with the ripe fetidness of an unwashed body. The two nastiest odors to ever hit the human nose I've decided.

What's that? Do we have another contender to join the medley of aromas fairly oozing from his pores? Yes indeed, the smell of streetwalker cologne, two bottles for five bucks sold at El Mercado Flea Market. You can get anything cheap at El Mercado, from merchandise to human company. I've just figured out why he was so late getting home from the day labor camp.

The owner of these delightful smells is walking through our home-on-wheels like he was the king of trailer trash land. Does that make me the queen of trailer trash? Yes indeed. I am the queen, la reyna; I deserve the title because I've earned it. I live like this of my own free will; I choose to rule over this palatial pig-sty. Not that I have many choices. Some of us have royalty thrust upon us. Fourth generation trailer trash women don't have much hope of abdicating. Not if they can't read, write or hold down a job that pays more than minimum wage. The only way out for my kind of people is when we take that last ride to King Tears Funeral Home.

"Is there any of that liver left?" Prince Charming asks.

"All gone, you tore it up last night." Such witty dialogue, don't you agree?

"Then fry me up some of them gizzards."

Yeah, this is the life I dreamed of. I guess I could find some piddling job instead of hanging around the house all day. But where in the world would I put all my kids? There's nobody I trust to watch them. Sure, there's Doreen down the block. Her own kids belong to the county now. Lost them to the foster care system a few years back. Or Consuela with the blacker than black roots and the rest of her hair platinum blonde/white. Oh yeah, I can leave them with her. She spends her days yacking on the phone, doesn't even watch her own little brats. Her yard is a minefield of dirty diapers, some thrown here, some thrown there, some thrown up on the roof by the bigger kids.

Yeah, I have a choice. I can take care of my own kids and stay home. It's not exactly the lap of luxury but who cares? At least I'm alive, if you want to call it that. Maybe this is what it's like to be one of the living dead. No hope, no joy, no plans for the future, just make it through each wretched day. Keep my kids alive one more day.

Little Javier wants to be a doctor, he told me that. And Ernesto Junior wants to be an astronaut. When your a kid, you don't say 'mom I want to be a chuco', or 'a redneck', or a 'racist', or 'a no-good piece of trash like my papa, living on welfare, drinking up the grocery money, a---' you fill in the blank, I'm tired.

Maybe my little ones will make it out of the Shady Oaks Mobile Home Park. That's the name of my personal kingdom in case your interested. Maybe they will become doctors and astronauts. Maybe my girls will find good jobs or marry men with money. Maybe they won't wind up pregnant at 14 and have to take over this dynasty from me. I want the royal lineage to end when I die.

And you know what? I don't care if they never come back to visit me when they grow up. I know I'll still be here, ruling over this royal court of cockroaches. If I'm not lying in state at King Tears, I'll still be here. I don't care if my kids are ashamed of me and never come back. I'm ashamed too. I wish I could run away from everything that I am.

But I can't do that; the royal family must live up to its duty after all. Isn't that what all royals are taught? My duty is to see that my kids make it out of here. That thought keeps me alive.

Every good thing I've known in my life has packed its bags and moved on. But this one tiny, hopeful thought won't pack up and move away. This one tiny thought walks with me as I slog through the world of the living dead. This one tiny thought sits with me as I watch my soaps all day. As I try to imagine what it must be like to have the kind of self-esteem that Oprah preaches to women every afternoon at four p.m. This one tiny thought is on my mind as I fall asleep on my faded K-mart sheets next to that stinking pig pretending to be human. This one thought and nothing else.

This one thought.