The Guadalajara Reporter

Mathematics, puberty, and a steep roof demonstrate to a young girl just how chancy this world is for all of us

We were at work on the steep roof of the templo of Las Guayabas, a minute pueblo where my friend Chema Rosales‘ grandfather had been born.

The church had been burned down many times, beginning with President Benito Juarez’s War of Reform (1858-1861), ending with the Jalisco-centered Cristero Rebellion (1926-1929).   Generations of townspeople had the habit of rebuilding cheaply, hurriedly, expecting the worst to come.  Even now the reddish curved clay tiles were poorly made, the lamina (rippled tar paper) beneath them was thin, ragged.

On the steeply slanted roof, we moved heedfully, stepping only on the hand hewn wooden roof beams – careful not to mistake the tempting new or replaced used lamina for solid footing. 

Chema’s foster daughter, 16-year-old Concha, was working with us.  Below, adeptly throwing tight unbound stacks of six tile, then of four lamina up to us was her uncle, Chema’s oldest brother, Anselmo. 

Concha was supposed to be in school.  A government official had come out with a warning – three times.  Concha, after passing her most disliked class, mathematics,  hit a wall – again.  The first time had been with reading.  There, too, she was doing well.  Then suddenly she ran into some invisible obstacle.  No one understood it, certainly not the carelessly educated teachers assigned to a tiny campo school.   Concha, believing that with math she had dodged all walls, was bitter about her failure. 

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