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dressed in a bottom layer of khaki pants and a T-shirt, then the thick blanket-layer of skirt, a mile of sash, and a tentlike blouse. Juanita is finished. She steps back, turns me around, and exclaims, “You look beautiful! I will lend you these clothes while you are in my village.”
    I walk toward the door, wondering whether my expanse will fit through. Two women are passing by as I emerge. They look at me and smile and nod their heads. Then they giggle. And so do the other women I meet. Suddenly, I am not so strange. My eyes, my hair, my skin are the same; but now I am wearing the traditional clothes of the village. They are willing to accept me.
    From that point on, I am one of them. Each morning I go to Juanita’s house, greeting women by name when we pass on the path. Juanita always checks me out when I walk in. Sometimes she removes my waist scarf and does it up again. Wrapping a mile-long scarf around your waist alone is not that easy and I don’t do it very well.
    During my second visit I write a letter to the restaurant owner who sent Juanita the money. I introduce myself as a journalist from L.A. and ask about the additional money he promised. I describe José’s child and wife and say that I hope he will send her more money. I tell him that I will stop by when I return to Los Angeles. (When I visit the restaurant several months later, I am told that it has changed ownership. I don’t know if Juanita received any response to my letter.)
    On the third day Juanita gives me my first lesson in the Zapotec language. Soon I can say good morning, how are you, and how many children do you have. And I can answer the same questions and a few more. Now the mothers begin to talk to me. The children show me their favorite marbles and let me scrunch down and watch them shoot. Some of the kids point to things like trees and houses and tell me the words in Zapotec. And they take my hand and bring me to their soccer games.
    And, not least of all, with my skirt on, I can pee without mooning the world. (I do not wear underpants.)
    One morning, about three weeks into my visit, Margarita tells me that there is going to be a festival in our yard. The whole neighborhood is coming. She and José have been in charge of the neighborhood church organization (Catholic) for the past year and there is about to be a change of leadership, which means a big party.
    I go with her to buy the turkey, to a part of the village where I’ve never been. She climbs over a fence into a pen. The turkeys are running loose. One after another, Margarita picks up a turkey’s leg and pokes and pinches while the turkey squawks. Finally she finds a nice fat bird. We carry it home alive.
    That night our yard fills with people and preparations. Men are fixing the fireplace, carrying in chairs and tables, setting up speakers on the roof, and drinking. Women are bringing utensils and food and getting ready for tomorrow’s cooking.
    Once the speakers are in place, they blast with the joys of romance and the whines of unrequited love. The same songs play over and over again.
    I try to be useful, but no one wants my help. All evening and long into the night, the preparations go on. Finally I say good night and go to bed. I study Zapotec for a few minutes and turn out the light. The people noise diminishes, though the speakers are still going at full volume; and finally, there is nothing but music.
    I fall asleep for maybe half an hour. Then I’m jolted awake by a woman’s scream. I sit up and listen. I hear a slap, then more, and screams, and a man swearing. It is happening just outside my room. I move the chair to the opening above the door and climb up. It is dark inside so I am able to look without being seen. José is beating Margarita, slapping her, punching her. She is crying. He doesn’t stop. I am watching and shaking.
    I continue to watch from my blind, knowing that I will interfere if I think she is in danger. After four years of anthropological