I was on the bus, leaving work. Two bus stops after mine, I saw a woman, probably in her early 30s. She had the smile of a Baile folklórico dancer, the shoulders of a tortillera, the slim physique of someone raised on fresh produce and lean proteins, the focus in her eyes of a Catholic upbringing, and the skin of jicama.

But other than these vestiges, she showed no other traits of a traditional life. Her clothes were modest and practical for the day’s heat—over 100 degrees. She wore stonewashed jeans and a blouse. Her wristwatch told time by hour and minute hands. Her hair was tied back. And, most importantly, she wore a backpack. A jet-black backpack.

The backpack had a water bottle in a side pouch, sharing space with scratch paper and pens. A metal keychain clanked against the flask like castanets. The shape of the bag implied that it was stuffed with notebooks, textbooks, and a computer. She entered the bus, carrying her academic load like a bail of hay, with a smile of dignity, eyes of dedication, and the gait of a misionera.

It was a hot September, the hottest on record, dry and dusty; the storms did nothing, even for the parched earth they cherry-picked and the aquifer that falls like a bucket with a hole in the bottom. These are times of thirst.

Folks here see that these are times when we can’t do what we are used to doing. In a city of drought, the dividing line is between who has the greedy green lawns or the humble, brown, and yellow lots.

When a change like this is no longer on the horizon but under our feet, I see humans doing what we are known to do. We are adapting to new conditions, and some of them, who you could picture in costume dress, in a black and white photograph, of old San Antonio, whose job was to entertain the tourists and cowboys, are going to college so that tourists and cowboys can entertain them.

Featured image from the US Library of Congress.