correspondent … or even a female newspaper reporter, for that matter. I can assure you that there are no women reporting news in my own country. Your parents must be quite proud of you.”
“My father has passed, but, yes, my mother supports my efforts. Thank you.”
My father would have been proud of me, too, I’m sure, because it was he who put in my head that women are as capable as men. I slip my hand in my dress pocket and rub his gold pocket watch. He wore it every day, and now I do the same. It gives me comfort and a feeling of security, as if he is watching over me.
I find myself sitting a tad taller, besides blushing. I’m not use to a man complimenting me for being a newspaper reporter. Most men only register surprise, but some consider it a threat to their male status or an invasion of their territory. Even my brothers were mad at me. They said it wasn’t a job fit for a lady and I would disgrace the family, even pointing out that if it was a proper job for a woman, I would be allowed to use my own name.
My mother and Mrs. Percy were the only ones who stood by me. In response to my brothers’ objections, Mrs. Percy said, “Nellie, men do not know what’s best for women. They think they do, but they don’t.”
“What features of my country are you planning to write about?” Señor Castillo asks.
Coming from a Mexican official, this is a loaded question. Stories of banditry and official corruption would appeal to the tastes of Pittsburgh readers, though I’m sure I’ll gain their interest with colorful tales of the people and their food, but unless I want my dispatches to get me quickly tossed out of the country, or worse, I know better than to emphasize the negative.
“I’m open for anything that will interest my readers.”
“Really? The preference of newspaper men I’ve known are to report about bandidos and notions of corruption in our government.”
He must have read my mind—or my expression. And I caught his emphasis on men and the fact that I might attempt to imitate their negative reporting slant about Mexico. I need to defuse his concern that I will be just another reporter generating bad news about his country. It is time to be diplomatic.
“Actually, Mexico’s colorful tales about how the people live is what really interests me. I will want to focus on the beautiful area and striking people of your land and culture. I know of no one back home who has been to Mexico, so they will be very interested to learn all about your food, clothing, customs—everything about your way of life. This probably would be boring to you, but not to North Americans.”
“Yes, I quite agree. Mexico is a large country with many subcultures, ranging from people still living little different from their Aztec ancestors to those who race across the land as we are right now in what your own native people call an iron horse. As I’m sure you know, the heritage of the modern Mexican is mostly a mixture of European Spanish and indigenous Indian blood. Both bloodlines run in my veins and I am proud of them.”
“As you should be. Even though my father was an American, his heritage is Irish, and he, too, was very proud of that.”
“I can see, señorita, that you will be most evenhanded in your treatment of my people. Feel free to ask me questions if they come to your mind.”
“Thank you, I will. I appreciate your confidence. I have to tell you, I am already falling in love with your food.”
“Then perhaps you would honor me by joining me for dinner tonight? The daughter of a British friend is traveling with me. She’s about your age, and, like you, she is experiencing my country for the first time. I’m sure she will enjoy your company. While the train fare is not considered a gourmet delight, I had the larder stocked with a few special items.”
“That would be wonderful. I experienced a bit of Mexican food after we crossed the border, but it was prepared by a Chinese cook, so I’m not
“My father has passed, but, yes, my mother supports my efforts. Thank you.”
My father would have been proud of me, too, I’m sure, because it was he who put in my head that women are as capable as men. I slip my hand in my dress pocket and rub his gold pocket watch. He wore it every day, and now I do the same. It gives me comfort and a feeling of security, as if he is watching over me.
I find myself sitting a tad taller, besides blushing. I’m not use to a man complimenting me for being a newspaper reporter. Most men only register surprise, but some consider it a threat to their male status or an invasion of their territory. Even my brothers were mad at me. They said it wasn’t a job fit for a lady and I would disgrace the family, even pointing out that if it was a proper job for a woman, I would be allowed to use my own name.
My mother and Mrs. Percy were the only ones who stood by me. In response to my brothers’ objections, Mrs. Percy said, “Nellie, men do not know what’s best for women. They think they do, but they don’t.”
“What features of my country are you planning to write about?” Señor Castillo asks.
Coming from a Mexican official, this is a loaded question. Stories of banditry and official corruption would appeal to the tastes of Pittsburgh readers, though I’m sure I’ll gain their interest with colorful tales of the people and their food, but unless I want my dispatches to get me quickly tossed out of the country, or worse, I know better than to emphasize the negative.
“I’m open for anything that will interest my readers.”
“Really? The preference of newspaper men I’ve known are to report about bandidos and notions of corruption in our government.”
He must have read my mind—or my expression. And I caught his emphasis on men and the fact that I might attempt to imitate their negative reporting slant about Mexico. I need to defuse his concern that I will be just another reporter generating bad news about his country. It is time to be diplomatic.
“Actually, Mexico’s colorful tales about how the people live is what really interests me. I will want to focus on the beautiful area and striking people of your land and culture. I know of no one back home who has been to Mexico, so they will be very interested to learn all about your food, clothing, customs—everything about your way of life. This probably would be boring to you, but not to North Americans.”
“Yes, I quite agree. Mexico is a large country with many subcultures, ranging from people still living little different from their Aztec ancestors to those who race across the land as we are right now in what your own native people call an iron horse. As I’m sure you know, the heritage of the modern Mexican is mostly a mixture of European Spanish and indigenous Indian blood. Both bloodlines run in my veins and I am proud of them.”
“As you should be. Even though my father was an American, his heritage is Irish, and he, too, was very proud of that.”
“I can see, señorita, that you will be most evenhanded in your treatment of my people. Feel free to ask me questions if they come to your mind.”
“Thank you, I will. I appreciate your confidence. I have to tell you, I am already falling in love with your food.”
“Then perhaps you would honor me by joining me for dinner tonight? The daughter of a British friend is traveling with me. She’s about your age, and, like you, she is experiencing my country for the first time. I’m sure she will enjoy your company. While the train fare is not considered a gourmet delight, I had the larder stocked with a few special items.”
“That would be wonderful. I experienced a bit of Mexican food after we crossed the border, but it was prepared by a Chinese cook, so I’m not
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