The Dirt Eaters
Whenever we grew tired and bored of curb ball, of encircling the scorpions we found under rocks by the mother-in-law tongue within a fiery circle of kerosene and watching as they stung themselves to death, we ate dirt; soft, grainy, pretend chocolate dirt, in our fantasies sent to us by distant relatives in El Norte. Fango. We stood in a circle, wet the dirt under our bare feet, worked with our fingers to crumble the clogs with our nails, removed the undesired twigs, pebbles, and beetles. Dirt—how delicious. How filling. We ate our share of it back then. Beto, the youngest, warned us not to eat too much; it could make us sick, vomit, give us the shits, or even worse, worms. We laughed. We ridiculed him. We chanted after him: "¡Lo que no mata, engorda! ¡Lo que no mata, engorda!" What doesn’t kill you makes you fat, and stronger.