Corn Mothers

PHILOSOPHY

I don’t think of myself as a feminist, but I guess I am one because I do advocate for women’s rights on the basis of the equality of the sexes. I worked in a predominantly White, male industry for twenty-six years. In 1977, I became one of two women to work as trackmen on the Santa Fe Railway. And not only were we women: we were Chicanas.

I laid miles of tracks, pounded in railroad nails called spikes, and put in crossings (hard work that involves laying new track in places where the railroad intersects a road or highway). My coworker Vicki and I were the only two women. We lived in bunk cars on the sidings, next to the mainline (the main tracks between cities).

We were purposely put on a gang with the toughest foreman, because upper management wanted to run us off. Lots of people think that women can’t do heavy or complex physical labor, and the men who worked for the railroad company certainly didn’t think we could. But my philosophy is “If there’s work to do, I can do it.” I applied that during my many years of working for the company. Even that tough foreman couldn’t find anything to complain about!

Working under the hot Kansas sun, we prevailed. For nine months, we did hot, dirty work all day, including driving spikes and fixing sun kinks, places where excess heat warps the track. We were then laid off for the winter. When spring arrived, I was offered a clerk’s position and worked in four states. That required a great deal of driving, including some frightening trips, but again I prevailed. Some supervisors assigned me work that other clerks were not asked to do, including scrubbing outdoor trash cans and toilets. I toughed it out for sixteen years and worked in three divisions.

In 1995, I was going to be transferred from Kansas City, Kansas, to Fort Worth, Texas. Instead, I interviewed for a train conductor’s job out of Denver because I wanted to be closer to my mother and siblings. I was thirty-nine years old, fat, and out of shape for that physically demanding job. But I prevailed. It wasn’t always easy. I was the only woman on the Denver Subdivision, or “Sub,” a smaller run of track within the railroad line. There was no women’s restroom in Pueblo, so the railroad had to post a sign to keep others from entering while I used the only restroom. I was harassed, lied to, lied about, and sexually harassed.

In 1996, I became a locomotive engineer and ran 15,000-ton trains down steep hills. I showed all the men that I knew what I was doing. About eighteen months later, a few more women started to show up. That was a relief. I gave them advice about how to survive in that male-dominated environment. They were glad to have it.

In 2003, I tripped and fell at a store. That ended my railroad career. But it didn’t slow me down. I enrolled in the local community college in Flagstaff, Arizona, at age forty-eight. In 2012, I got my English degree from the University of Northern Colorado. I’ve put it to good use and have become a well-known poet in the Greeley-Brighton-Denver area.

In 2020, I lost my daughter Sonya Romero. It was a hard time, but I persevered with the help of my family and friends. She was a lot like me – artistic and outgoing. We had even gone to clown school together. It was one of many times that Sonya and I were silly together and loved it.

My Two Corn Mothers

My Grandma, Elena

I am my Grandma Elena’s namesake. Mom said I was the only child that my father let her name. Grandma Elena was a formidable woman. Her presence made you stand at attention. My older sister Gloria said that Grandma would hug us sometimes, but I have no recollection of that. Although we were poor and lived in the poorest-looking house in the little town of Sugar City, Colorado (made of adobe, with only one bedroom and an outhouse), Grandma was always generous to others. For a few years, a poor White family of migrating farm workers would stop in Sugar City. Their clothing was threadbare, so Grandma always gave them a sack of beans and a sack of potatoes to help them out. I thought that no one could be poorer than us, but this family sure was.

As an adult living in Redlands, California, I followed Grandma’s lead by feeding neighborhood kids at the complex where we lived. I was a single mom with two kids, but I always managed to feed an extra kid or two. I had a sewing machine, so I would mend their clothes or hem their pants. I think Grandma would have been proud of me!

My grandma raised many children in her little adobe house. Along with being a wonderful mother to her own five children, she adopted two more. She raised my Aunt Cora’s son after Cora died, and she also raised my brother Tony. When my parents divorced, four of my mother’s children were headed to an orphanage until my Grandpa Ramon said, “No, we will take them in.” Eight of us then lived in that little adobe house, but we never went hungry. I don’t know how Grandpa and Grandma did it. They didn’t have much money, and Grandma worked long hours without complaint, cooking meals for so many people. She always made us feel deeply loved and cared for.

My Mother, Bea

My mama told me if I fell off a horse, I had better dust myself off and get back on. She didn’t raise any sissies. I’m living proof of how toughness and persistence can pay off!

When my mother was young, she competed with her brothers when they worked in the fields. If they topped (cut off the tops of) ten bags of onions, she was going to top ten bags too. She was never afraid of hard work. I inherited that quality, and it served me well working on the railroad.

In 1970, my brother Tony was murdered in Vietnam by his own man. He had only three months left to complete his tour. Mom turned to liquor for solace. It took her three years to kick that addiction. But when she did, she did it wholeheartedly. She went to school at forty-seven and got her associate’s degree. Then she became a drug and alcohol counselor and got a job at the local rehabilitation center. She also listed her number as the local Alcoholics Anonymous number.

I remember her getting calls at all times of the day and night. She would patiently talk to the callers about going to the local A.A. meetings, or just offer a listening ear, which they deeply needed. A.A. became her life. She opened the meetings for over thirty-five years, until she couldn’t do it any longer. Her hard work and selfless dedication were an inspiration for me.

Mom showed tenacity in overcoming her sadness and alcoholism. I like to think that our tenacity has served both of us well – how she recovered after Tony’s death, and how I persevered and was tenacious in my years of laying tracks, fixing them, pounding spikes in, putting in crossings, and dealing with institutionalized distrust and sexism.

I remember taking my daughters Sonya and Amanda to go with my mom to buy doughnuts for the meetings. She would then go to the hall to make the coffee and set up the table and chairs. She was so dedicated that if no one showed up, she’d still stay the whole hour just in case someone did at the last minute.

I took care of my mom the last three years of her life. She died at the tender age of eighty-eight. She had dementia and many physical ailments, so it was quite difficult caring for her. But nothing I might do could ever fully repay her for all she taught me about persevering and caring for others, and that she did for me.

I miss watching westerns with her and “Murder, She Wrote.” She lived long enough to see me graduate from college and write for the Brighton Banner and Local Color. In the end, she didn’t remember much of what I had done, but her pride in my graduation and writing stayed with her.

Like my mom, I love to dress up and put on lipstick. I don’t go out without my earrings, lipstick, and a flower in my hair. Being determined and persistent, and having worked a hard job for years, doesn’t mean that you can’t leave room for beauty and softness. I also carry copies of my poetry in my purse because someone will usually ask me to recite a poem or two.

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