“No Mom — it’s not only in your head. You’ve shared it with me.”
My name is Cándida Santiago Meléndez. My parents are indigenous from Oaxaca. We were nine siblings — one passed away. My mom died at 42, very young. My dad died in 2012, at 83, and never remarried. We were a family without much. Those who wanted to study, studied. Those who didn’t stayed home.
I wanted to study. My vision was clear: I want to be somebody. I looked at my dad — he had no money. But then some nuns came to my village. So at 16 I left with them, with permission and a letter. That’s where I saw the opportunity to study and work at the same time.
I swept floors with my notes taped to the broom handle. I washed dishes with my notes in the window. I wanted to get ahead — for myself and for my family. Because in my village a woman was only there to have children and stay in the house. But I wanted more.
My dad told me, “Study, mija, what I can’t give you — open your own path.”
And with his blessing, I went.
At the first convent it was hard. The other girls had aunts who were doctors, nurses, nuns on the inside who gave them better things. I had no decent shoes, no clothes, no notebooks, no soap. But I said to myself: I have to get ahead — not for them, but for myself. I worked afternoons and studied nights. I earned my things. I earned my dignity.
I moved to a second convent, calmer and more fair. There I studied one degree in the morning and another in the afternoon. I earned a bachelor’s degree in moral theology and a bachelor’s degree in ancient languages — Latin, Greek, and Aramaic. I loved Egypt, but it cost too much and I didn’t have the money.
At 21 they sent me to Spain to finish my theology degree. Then they asked if I wanted to finish the other one. I said yes. They sent me to Hong Kong, but the food made me sick. From there they moved me to a small village in China, where I spent eight months communicating with the students in Latin, because everyone spoke Chinese.
When I finished, they told me there was a job waiting in Italy —
assistant director of the Vatican library.
A library with more than ten floors, one of those grand old ones. It was the time of Pope John Paul II. I already had my papers. Everything was in order.
But first I came home to say goodbye to my dad.
I couldn’t go back to the convent or go work in Italy. The mothers came looking for me two, three times. They said: you have your daughter, we’ll take care of her and you come to work. I said no. I wanted my daughter to be free, to make her own choices.
Because I didn’t go back, the school never gave me papers for my degrees. That brought me a deep sadness. All that sacrifice — and nothing to show for it. But I had a big reason to keep going. My daughter.
The women in my village told me: abort. And I said: why would I abort? This is a wonderful gift God gave me. And I had my daughter.
In my village I couldn’t find work. I was a woman alone with a daughter. As best I could I worked my way into society. I sold at a produce stand, six in the morning until midnight. One meal a day. Sometimes I’d steal a banana, an apple — because I was hungry. And with my breasts full of milk because my baby was just born. I even got a fever from it.
One day I took my daughter to work with me and she fell. She fell headfirst. I ran to the hospital, one block away. The doctor told me: your daughter is dead. My sister arrived. And then a nurse came in from the countryside, sun-beaten and warm. She looked at my daughter lying still on the table and said: she’s not dead, wait. She made a fist and struck her right here. And the girl jumped and cried. She had been unconscious.
They started finding out that Belén’s skull was very large, that her brain was very large. The neurologist who treated her said she had an illness. The father’s family mocked her. The kids at school bullied her terribly. They told her she had no dad.
So my daughter and I made up a story together. I told her: tell them your dad went to the United States and just sends us money. And that’s what she’d say. Until she was eight years old and she told me: Mami, get pretty, get dressed, so men will talk to you and you can get married. And at night she’d pray: Dear God, let my mom marry a good man, a rich one, so I can have a house with a big garden and a bicycle. I’d hear her and cry quietly so she wouldn’t know.
A lot of men would come around. But when they’d see my house falling apart and see the girl, they’d find excuses to leave. Four times that happened. And I learned: if you want the cow, you want the calf.
But I didn’t sit still. Books are useful — while you open them and learn from them. I studied everything I could find about my daughters illness. I bought colored toys. With soda bottle caps I taught her to multiply, subtract, and add — three times four, twelve, there you go. By the time she was six she already knew how to multiply and divide.
One day I sat down under a tree — it was a Wednesday afternoon — and I said to God: what was all that studying for, if I’m here selling tamales? I wanted to be somebody. I wanted a house. What am I going to do? But I said to myself: I chose to have my daughter. I chose to stay. I have to grab the bull by the horns again. Just give me strength, Lord.
As best I could I kept opening doors. I was secretary to a bishop, then to a high school. Then I walked into the municipal building — in my sandals, my braids, my skirt. Poor, yes. But rich in my intelligence. They gave me a week’s trial. The other candidate grabbed the computer. I grabbed folders, pens, and paper, and organized the entire filing system by hand — years of school records, scholarships, financial support — in four hours. I didn’t even go to lunch, because nobody told me I could. At the end of the week they said: you’ve got the job.
I’ve always said: secretary comes from secret. Whatever was said in that office I heard, and I played dumb. The less I knew, the better for me.
They promoted me to director of the library. That’s where Belén learned computers at five years old. I taught courses in embroidery, painting, computers, bookbinding, crafts — for the whole community. Then I became a music teacher. My ensemble won second place.
That was around the time I met my husband. My dad was very sick and I was going around without a phone. A man sold me a cheap one with a borrowed SIM. On that phone a call came in, in English. I hung up. They called back. That went on all day. That night they called again, this time in Spanish. It was the nephew of a man sick with cancer who needed someone to care for him. Who lived in San José. I thought it was a village in Oaxaca. I said yes. Another job, I thought. More money for my daughter’s university.
The man asked me to marry him so there wouldn’t be any legal problems. And the pay, he said, is the house. I said: deal. And I’ll wipe your backside, I told him. We got married in 2012. He brought Belén too.
My dad died and I had to go back to Mexico. With all the paperwork, I came back in 2014. And when Belén was 16, I brought her here.
The Lord is getting worse — he’s already had a heart attack, a stroke. Sometimes he forgets my name. But I say to God: Lord, where is everything I studied? Maybe it’s just going to stay in my head. And Belén says: no, Mom. It’s not only in your head. You’ve shared it with me. Because I’m up until two, three in the morning talking with her. The tradition I’m giving my daughter is oral. Because I’d like her to remember me.
Other parents say: mija, I’m leaving you this gold necklace, this house, this car. Not me.
I say: I don’t want to leave you a house, or a car, or money. I want to leave you memories.
Because a house burns down and it’s gone. A car gets wrecked and that’s it.
But this you will never forget. You’ll carry it in your heart.
And she says: that’s why I know English, Japanese, Chinese, Mom. Because if you could do it being poor, I who have more — I can too. You are my role model.
It’s not just from having studied or having a degree that makes you a person. No. You need failures. You need stumbles so you can turn to your children and say: careful, there’s a rock there — go around. Life has taught me that.
Why did I come here? Because my daughter could see I was very stressed, crying at every little thing. She said: Mom, I found a place especially for you. She brought me and prepared me along the way: don’t say this, don’t say that. And I’ve learned from my daughter too.
I’ve learned so many things here. This is a family. It’s a hand — in one hand all the fingers are different, but if we all work together, it grabs. You have your role. Don Alfonso has his role. We all have our role.
I’d love for there to be more places like this one. Not for the piece of bread — no. But to make me feel that I still matter. Not for my knowledge, but as a person, as a human being. Because when I’ve needed — the arms here are like this — wide open.
I came here to find my peace, my calm. And it doesn’t matter that I didn’t do anything with everything I studied. Without love I have nothing.
Not even in the convents I lived in did I feel this. God isn’t here — the human being is here. And to get to God we need to be human. We need to have empathy. And here I found it.
Thank you for opening the doors of this place. I wish many women could have a happy ending. I have one — with my daughter and with all of you here. Because here you don’t just feed my body. You feed my spirit.
Life is a train. The cars get on and off. Right now in this car it’s you and me. In a little while I’ll get off, or you’ll get off first. That’s how it goes. My dad used to tell me: don’t worry, mija. I’m going. But others will come and they’ll help you. You’ll never be alone — as long as you treat people well.
Leave memories. Because money, the car, and the house all run out. Memories will always be here.
Thank you so much for listening to me.