Migrant Mother: An Extension of Dorthea Lange’s Famous Photo
by Jessica Powers ‘12
When will it end? Sometimes I think it will never end. As I look out across the vast, dusty desert, I realize something. Our family is just like the passing tumbleweed, thin and barren, and identical to every other family just moving along. So long as the dust continues to blow by, so will we keep moving and tumbling along, victim to the sways of everything out of control. But I cannot let the rest of them see my doubt. I am the woman. If I falter, so do they. Why must it be so? I am tired, in all the ways one can be tired. I am tired from bending up and down, straining my old back, doing everything in my control to get the peaches safely to the checker, and still finding at the end of the day that there is not enough money to feed the children. But more than that, I am tired of having to hold everything inside of me all of the time. Sometimes I just want to break down and let them all know that I am not the tough woman they see every day. The weight is heavy upon my shoulders to keep this family upright. In my opinion, the women have the hardest job in the family, especially now. We work just as hard in the fields as the men, but we must also worry about our composure all the time. We cannot be angry or lose spirit. It would be a death sentence for the family at such a time. I will remain strong even though I am far from it.
Death, too, has taken its toll. We started out with so many and now have so few. Granma passed away in the truck some time ago, and only I was saw that it had happened. Once again, I had to keep it hidden. I felt like bursting into tears, but I simply could not. My responsibility called for me to remain silent until the opportune moment when I would inflict the least amount of pain on my kin. I worry, too, for my oldest daughter. She treats her unborn child with such care, and already loves it with such a passion. But in our current state, it is nearly impossible for her to eat healthily enough for the baby. What if it cannot be born? What then? She will be broken to pieces, and we cannot afford that. Times are changing, and there is a lot now that we cannot afford to lose.
I had this dream when we first left. Leaving the farm wouldn’t be too horrible. We would make it to California and its lush green fields and buy a plain white house with a little white fence. The men would have jobs that paid well and the women would stay home and care for the children and everyone would be content with life. But as we drive on, staring off across the endless desert day and night, the dream begins to fade. Now I hope just for enough to keep us alive. That is all I ask. Will there be food on the table tonight? I do not know. No one does anymore.