Confessions of a Tamale Girl

tamale photoYou know who I am. You see me every week knocking on your door with my mother’s home-cooked Mexican delicacies.  Yes, you guessed it. I’m the ‘Tamale Girl.’ My birth name is actually María Rosaria Orozco, but I’ve worked as the Tamale Girl since I was old enough to walk and say, “Tamales.” After my father, Juan Pablo Orozco, left my mother with nothing more than twelve children and a secret family recipe for extra spicy tamales, I’ve spent my whole life selling corn-wrapped chicken and pork to the craziest people in the world.

You might think that my life is carefree and simple, but the truth is that this job fucking sucks. Have you noticed how miserable I look whenever I show up to your door? It’s because I’m seven years old, I don’t go to school, I have zero friends, and I live in a neighborhood filled with over-privileged, alcoholic white people. Oh, and my mom exploits my cuteness for the good of her business. I just want to play with dolls and meet kids, but I’m cooped up in my room trying to learn QuickBooks while my mother cooks tamales. On top of all this, I earn far less than minimum wage, and the last time I mentioned child labor laws to my mother she didn’t let me eat dinner for a week (dinner is always tamales, so I didn’t miss too much).

Throughout my time delivering and selling tamales with my mother, I have seen some serious shit. I’ve seen dogs shoot up heroin, fist-fights between tequila-chugging girls in spirit hoods, Gangnam Style-themed orgies, volleyball courts made out of cocaine and more, all through the 38 inch doorways of Isla Vista apartments and houses. Aren’t most of you students? Where do you find the time to play Snappa for seven hours when you have all of that course work?

As you all know, Cinco de Mayo is coming up. While I’m sure you’ll be having a blast appropriating my country’s holiday and its traditions as a pretext for getting wasted, I’ll be enduring my busiest work day of the year. Maybe you’re wondering why the price of our tamales have been increasing steadily. It’s because my mother had no other choice but to send me to therapy, since the psychological trauma I’ve been experiencing has proved too intense for her to handle. All I ever wanted out of my dismal life was to open up my own clothing boutique and call it “Rosaria’s Ropa,” but both my mother and the cycles of oppression in Isla Vista have made sure that I know my one and only place in this world—as a Tamale Girl.

Anyway, chicken or pork?

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