Most days, our creature lounges on her dimply stomach sprawled out on a mattress. Cracked open window and a fan blasting through the hot room. She’ll wear her shortest shorts and maybe a bra, flip-flops are her slippers. Such is the case today. Next to her, a domestic cat (Felis catus) rests with its belly up to the popcorn ceiling. In a few minutes, her furry companion will begin to paw at her face, little trills of hunger. That’s when the Latina (Homo sapiens?) will make her move. Slowly, her legs will flail as she slides her warm body down the bed until her feet hit the hot laminate flooring, then she rolls over, the cat jumping away just in time. Slow steps, evidently to support her voluptuous hips, lead her to the kitchen. In a small dish, she deposits approximately twenty-seven circular kibble pieces. The cat chows down.

Santiago’s beauty queen is coming to Canada! From Panam to Canadian Pacific, her pretty little heels strutted off the final plane into the humid continental climate of Edmonton. She leaves behind an obnoxious coup that challenged her free spirit, to the true north strong and free! Ready for her were four feet of snow and not one employee who spoke Spanish. Oh, but those lovely Canadians did their best, ‘sorry, Señora. No parle Mexican!’. Funny, wholehearted Canadians; they aren’t all Mexican.

           Timidly, the foreign creature crept out of the airport. Tan skin like her own is not well adapted to these frigid conditions. Near instantly, goosebumps blast up her arms and the ends of her hair split. Silly woman, does she not know she has no habitat in Canada? There is no papaya, nor are there avocados or chirimoyas this far up North. She’ll have to make do. The human body can survive off potato if they eat the skin. Wait- what is that? A sob. Ow- it’s so high pitched! It can’t be… no… four little offspring follow behind her! What will the beauty queen do? Get to work, missy!

Beach days were a staple during the summer. In the van we’d fit the whole family stuffed between coolers filled with Coca Cola bottles and marinated meats. Beneath my feet would go the portable barbeque with two little canisters of propane, bitter gas fragrants the vehicle until the sea salt makes its way in through the air vents. Youngest sister always got the middle seat. Older sister would stick her face against the window, squished cheeks while her earphones blasted punk music, almost loud enough to tune out the Top-40s radio station. I sat behind the driver.

           “Mira, ‘no swimming today’,” says dad.

           I groan first, then my younger sister follows suit.

           Mom lowers her sunglasses, “eh? It’s that damn oil spill in the gulf.”

           “No—what’s it say? Eh-colia?” Dad slows the car down.

           “E. Coli, they’re dumping shit into the inlet,” pipes up my older sister.

           “Gross! I’m not going to the beach!” says the youngest one.

           Dad continues into the parking lot, reverse parking into the only spot with shade. Not many other cars today. At this point, all three of us are whining about the poop water. Mom’s the only one quiet. My dad turns down the radio. He mutters something in Spanish to mom, who turns around to us:

           “Listen, we are still going down and we’re gonna have a good time. Dad’s working the rest of the summer,” she says.

           More bickering. Three little protestors taking a stand against the filthy beach.

           “We come back another day,” suggests dad with a shrug, “you take them alone.”

           Mom doesn’t talk, we don’t talk. So dad pulls out of the stall in silence. Drive home feels longer. Mom didn’t talk to us for the rest of the day, but dad took us to Dairy Queen that evening to make it up.

The Latina has since returned to the mattress, the cat elsewhere. At this time of the day, the sun’s azimuth directly hits her sleeping quarters. A logical organism would transition to a shaded locality, one with a cooler breeze and some ice water to tranquilize her hot temperature, but instead, she lounges like a lizard. Could it be that she is, in fact, cold blooded? Exotic thing.

           Most of her lumbering body is stationary, except two of those nimble digits tap away on a small screen. She laughs. A sly grin slapped on her face as her body heaves with giggles. Then her fingers swipe up. Smile quickly goes away. She tosses the little object to the side and goes to a desk, books and paper laid out. So much writing- who could have known she was capable of such a thing?

My father rests in a hospital bed with dried blood on his forehead caked into his curly hair. Stitches that’ll leave a gnarly scar crawl up his sweaty face. My mom, with her favourite kitchen rag brought from home, dots his face. Usually, my dad showers twice a day. Can’t do that now. God, he must hate this.

           “Bah! Ain’t quiet hours starting soon,” bickers the old man in the bed next to my father.

           “No, sir. It’s still noon,” responds the nurse.

           He sits there in silence watching my family gather around my father. Three daughters and a mother. Our backs to the old man. Big blue eyes cutting our necks off. He’s muttering to himself about a war. The nurse asks if he wants to go for a walk. He mutters some more. My sister leans closer onto the bed, mom slaps her arm.

           “Cuidate, niña,” she shakes her head.

           My dad’s shoulder is so swollen that it’s as if his skin is about to burst, filled to the seam with blood and pressure. Beneath those aging muscles and tired tendons are smashed bones, so fucked up you could probably feed them to a pig. He’s waiting for surgery, but first, doctors want to make sure his brain’s okay. Unfortunately, Canadian doctors don’t know Spanglish. His accent may either be a lack of intelligence, or brain damage. My sister backs away.

           He stays in the hospital for two weeks, even though by the end of his stay, he can hardly move and after eight years, still suffers from daily pain. Family doctor said we shouldn’t have let him come home so soon, I say I didn’t know we were allowed to make such a request. Not like we’re paying for healthcare; beggars can’t be choosers. Didn’t want to be a burden.

La Señorita found herself a job at a hotel cleaning rooms. Good paying job for a good working lady, she even makes tips! Scrub those toilets, change those sheets. The more rooms she cleans, the more cash they’ll pay. Shifts are at night and on her way to work, she is blessed with shows of the northern lights and drunk drivers trying to find their way home. Ah, beautiful Edmonton… the perfect place to raise her little ones. Surely, they’ll do much better here than at home.

Our slumberous Latina has transitioned to the living room. On a large television plays a game of soccer, volume so loud that the windows shake each time the audience cheers. What is our fine specimen doing? Next to her is an older man- oh God, he’s hideous! His skin droops so low and looks so splotchy. One of his legs rests up on a chair. Why is one arm smaller than the other- what’s up with that scar?

           In her lap is a plate of stewed beef (Bos taurus) and potato. She counts under her breath. One, two, three… twenty. Wow, so high! She scoops up a bit of both into a large spoon and with a napkin ready, feeds it to the old man. Bah! Look at this lazy old man! Haha! Can’t even feed himself! Can’t work! Useless!

Back in high school, a group of twenty decided to start a Spanish club. Once a week, they would meet in the Spanish classroom where they would paint Aztec symbols on flowerpots while listening to Despacito. I guess it was fine, but I was kinda upset there were no actual Latinos in the club. Like, I was seriously the only student in the Spanish language class not invited to join. I complained about it to mom, but she thought I was being a crybaby. To be fair, mom had her own issues to deal with. Her back had been hurting and with her knee problems, it’s a no brainer to say she’s going through a lot of pain. Her and dad got it both pretty bad. I made the mistake of complaining about neck pains once- never been roasted so fast in my life. My parents do got it bad. Jesus. They aren’t even that old. Doctor said do physiotherapy. You know you gotta pay for it? MSP don’t help.

            A friend of mine goes hiking every weekend with her parents. They’re almost sixty. Think they’re accountants or something. My dad isn’t even fifty. Fuck.

She scrubbed those toilets for almost twenty years. By the end of her reign, Edmonton was the shiniest city in all of Canada. She put that elbow grease in, atta’ lady!

            Pretty South American missy found herself a little community in the north. She gathered up some of her kind and now the kids get to keep their Spanish. She’s grown accustomed to Albertan beef and frozen out-of-season vegetables (anything with enough merkén tastes good enough). All by herself, she done it: her offspring were free from South America! They got an education, they eat McDonalds, they speak English! Now what?

            All that work put a toil on the body. Pretty no more, where did her hair go? Ah, how sad. She never got to eat the fruits of her labour. Oh well! Fortunately, there are four left to take her place.

The Latina has returned to her natural habitat of the mattress. An awful rumble comes from her mouth. Her eyes are closed and lips parted, arms stretched messily over her head. How can she possibly be sleeping?

            Wait- is there condensation on her cheeks? Nonsense, the moisture in her room is at an adequate setting. Her hand graces her face and wipes under her eyes and now her lips are moving- oh, what is she saying? It speaks! Shh, listen!

            “How am…”

            Huh?

            “Supposed to do…”

            Louder!

            “All this?”

            Oh my god. Get to work! Can’t you see how hard they worked to get you here? Get up! Find a job! Go, hurry!

I am supposed to be happy to be in the developed world. But why? It rains too much. It’s always raining here. So damn wet all the time. Rain, yes, the rain is the issue.

           Last month, fifty-one Latinos (they say ‘at least’ fifty-one, actually) were found dead in a blood boiling truck north of the Mexico-USA border in Texas. Don’t know why there’s uncertainty in that number. Maybe some died in the hospital. Heard they haven’t even identified them all. Men, women, mothers, fathers and their children, brothers, sisters, kids with Elmo plushies, paid to be smuggled into the promised land. Been happening for too many decades. Nameless bodies. They would have had the luxury to live in illegal basement dwellings and work the jobs no one else wants to do, grinding away in deadly conditions so we can have fresh fruit on our plates. Lazy people. Your big, juicy Californian strawberries hand-picked by brown callous hands. It happens here too. They don’t want you to know. You hear of the foreign workers program? Who builds your skyscrapers, who picks your blueberries? Say it.

           You wouldn’t understand why they do it. I wouldn’t understand why, not the way they do. I was born in Canada. La primera generación.