By Carolina de la Cajiga
While making countless other children happy, Dora raised her own.
“It’s not easy, but if you want, you can. You have to echarle ganancia (give it your utmost),” Dora Alicia López exclaimed emphatically.
Without a quinto (five cents, in reference to a Mexican bronze coin in use from 1914 to 1935), at 13, Dora went to Aguascalientes with her partner. It was September, there they met someone who gave them Mexican flags to sell. The young couple rented a small room and earned enough to eat, pay their expenses, and even save some money. Soon after, they returned to San Miguel and began selling balloons, multicolored soap bubbles, and small toys. Thus began their adventure together. Today, 20 years and four children later, they carry on.
From the beginning, Dora’s changarrín (a lowly stand) has been in the Plaza Cívica. Her stall is the first one, across the entrance to Iglesia de la Salud, on the fountain side. There you find Dora inflating balloons or putting together small toys. Her clients are the parents of two to ten-year-olds. The best-selling days are from Fridays to Sundays. Her partner has his own stand at fairs and festivals near San Miguel. This way they spread their exposure. Sometimes one is luckier than the other.
A thousand pesos per month are Dora’s fixed expenses for selling in the street. Without a permit from City Hall, which costs three hundred pesos, she would not be allowed. To this, she must add seven hundred pesos to rent a small space in a warehouse close to the Mercado Ignacio Ramírez, in Centro. There she keeps her tiliches (her stuff): an ingenious wire frame on wheels that becomes a display where she hangs her wares and is also the support for her umbrella. Luckily, there is a nearby bench where she can rest. In the market, she can buy food, and use the public toilets. What she sells goes from 25 to 100 pesos. Truly, hay que echarle ganancia to get ahead.
Every month, Dora and her partner travel to re-stock, either to Mexico City or to Celaya. The trip to Mexico City begins at midnight, on a bus, which arrives early the next morning. From there, they go to different shops to acquire what they need. At 6pm, they return to the bus station with their purchases. Back in San Miguel around 10pm, they go home like Santa Claus with their sacks on their backs. The next morning, they divide what they bought, and each one goes to their own stand.
When Dora started selling, she felt awkward, but since there was no alternative, she gradually learned and got used to it. She is now un hacha (an axe, superb) in the art of selling. When her children were small, she took them along, and that’s how they learned the trade without even knowing. She never left them in the care of others. When they started school, all went together to set up the stall. As the children had the afternoon shift, they had lunch before walking to school. Meanwhile, a neighbor vendor took care of the stand.
“It’s necessary to dress properly, to have a well-appointed stall, and to be kind. Otherwise, clients go elsewhere. Variety is important. The products must be in good condition. Nobody buys damaged or dirty things.” After a sigh, Dora continues, “I’d love to have a nice store; not to be out in the open suffering the heat, the cold, the rain, and the wind. My merchandise has been ruined when the rain or the wind hit before I can pack. Once, even my parasol broke. It was very sad; it makes me upset when this happens. We hardly make ends meet and having to replace what was lost is very painful. But if I make a child joyous with one of my balloons, I’m happy again, and I keep going. When a kid comes by, and I see the parents no tienen ni sal para un aguacate (are so poor they don’t even have salt for an avocado), I give them a little something, and they leave thrilled,” she says proudly.
“I go back and forth by bus from my house. It takes about half an hour. When I’m late, I have no choice but to take a taxi.” Dora raises her eyebrows, kind of blaming herself. “In the past, when I went back home in the evening, I had to do everything: prepare the food, wash dishes and clothes, or whatever had to be done. Now my daughters help me.”
Her eldest daughter is now married and has a 3-year-old boy. She works at the fairs with her father. Dora takes the grandkid with her to work, as she did with her own children. Her second son, 15, is in Texas, searching for work. The other, who dropped out of school as well has his own LED-light balloons stand. The younger daughter is in prepa (high school) and plans to join the military school.
Dora remembers her happiest days when she was a little girl. She and her four brothers went to school together, chacoteando (teasing each other) on the way. Nowadays, the family’s entertainment is going to one of the local hot springs every fortnight.
During the pandemic, le fue como en feria (she suffered financially). City Hall closed Plaza Cívica, and as a result, she was left with zero income. There was not a soul on the street—who was going to buy a balloon? The whole family started making masks, which they tried to sell walking around the streets. When City Hall allowed street vendors back again, Dora was placed on the corner of Mesones and Colegio. Sales were nil. Almost a year later, when the plaza reopened, she returned to her usual spot. It was a miracle to see anyone. “I don’t know how I survived, but I’m still here,” she says, between resignation and pride. “Enveces, (At times—very old, grammatically incorrect Spanish term), it can go well but enveces not. Perhaps, if I had continued studying, it would have been easier to get a good job, but since I only finished second grade, I have no choice but to continue with my awesome business,” Dora declares with a mischievous smile.
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