Journal Entry of Celeste Maria Hernandez, circa 1868

(This is a short, fictional journal entry I had to write for my ethics class.)

My name is Celeste Maria Hernandez and I am 28 years old. I live in the Salt River Valley in Arizona. The year is 1868. I will tell you what I remember of the first part of my life. I was born in 1840 which was a few years before the United States acquired this part of land which was once Mexico. My Papa used to own acres of land and we had our own ranch. Mama would stay home with the three of us children. When I was four years old, my sister Angelica and I would stand on little stools that our Papa had made and watch our Mama make tortillas, refried beans, and our favorite, churros. Mama would let us each have one warm and fresh out of the oven. The cinnamon and sugar would stick to our fingers, and after we would eat the churros we would lick every last piece of sugar and cinnamon off our fingers. My older brother Javier would go out with Papa and help him feed the chickens, horses, and donkeys. Sometimes they would take the eggs and some of the donkeys to the market to sell them. Papa and Javier would work hard most of the day, only coming in for the daily siesta during lunch. Mama would serve them the tortillas, meat, and beans that she had been cooking since that morning. Papa and Mama would always smile and laugh as we enjoyed our meals together. Sometimes Papa would even give Mama a sugar and cinnamon sprinkled kiss and Mama would giggle as she licked it off her lips.

In 1845, our way of life changed forever. I was 5 years old. Some men with light skin who spoke a funny language came to our door. There was also someone who looked like us that told Mama these men were here to see Papa. It was the first time I had seen Mama use the dinner triangle for something other than to let Papa and Javier know it was lunch time. Papa and Javier came from the far side of the ranch on their horses. I can still remember the dust clouds trailing behind them as the horses galloped on their way to the house. Papa, sweaty and dusty, jumped off his horse and offered his hand to these strange men. The men shook Papa’s hand, and they spoke their funny words to Papa, and the man who looked like us told Papa what their words meant. He said “These men are here to tell you that this land you own is no longer Mexico. This land is now the property of the United States. From this day forward, this area will be known as Salt River Valley in the state of Arizona. We will be building a town nearby. All ranches will be turned over to United States citizens, but you will be allowed to live in a small house and work on the same ranch. You should feel lucky to be able to stay on the same land and that we don’t make you move down to where Mexico is now. ” The men rode away on their horses. Papa’s smile turned to a somber look as this information sunk in. I was too little to understand what this meant, but I knew it could not have been good when Mama started crying and Papa hugged her to his chest.

A few months later, there had been a very small house, about one quarter the size of the hacienda we had been used to was built on the far corner of our ranch. As the strange men had promised, another family with light skin in a wagon came to our ranch. This meant it would no longer be ours and the time had come to move into the tiny shack that could barely be called a home. Mama now was a housekeeper for the family who lived in what was once our house. She got up early to cook for the family and the men who worked on the ranch which included Papa. She spent nearly all day at the hacienda cooking, cleaning, and doing laundry for the family. Since Angelica was 11 years old, she was taking care of me at our house. Angelica was now in charge of making tortillas, beans, and meat for our small meals. She did our laundry and cleaned our house. I helped when I could, folding clothes or helping to make tortillas. Even though I was still very young, I understood that life had changed. Javier went to work with Papa on the ranch that was once ours. Papa, Mama, and Javier both got paid very small amounts of money for their work compared to what Papa used to make. Angelica said it was because our skin was brown, not white like the new families’ skin. When Papa, Mama, and Javier would come back to our little house after dark, Angelica and I would serve them the food we had been preparing that day. Papa and Mama hardly laughed anymore, and mostly ate their food in silence. Javier, who was only 13 years old, looked twice his age. There were no more churros, and hardly any of us laughed anymore. We were all so tired at the end of the day that we enjoyed the little time we had to eat together, then bathed and went to bed so we would be ready for the next day.