The Woman Who Loved Water

Once there was a woman who loved water. On dry land, she could merely walk. But in the water, she could fly. She spent as much time as possible in the water, and that is where her husband first saw her—floating on her back in a swimming pool, completely at ease. He vowed to meet her, and eventually they were married.

The two of them were very happy, and they wanted to have many children. The woman continued to swim until her first child was born. For a time after that, the water seemed to whisper unfamiliar things to her, strange things, but she did not listen. After their second child was born, the water began to whisper again, more strongly this time, but the woman stopped her ears and said, “No, no, no!” until the whispers receded. The woman loved her children very much.

Her husband proposed that they free themselves of earthly possessions, that they live simply and concentrate on their family. They sold their home and most of their possessions and moved to a small trailer. But they were near the water, and so the woman was happy.

After the birth of their third child, the waters in her head came back more strongly. She had to concentrate to block out what the voices were saying. It was exhausting, scary. She confessed to her husband that it was hard to be with the three children all day in such a small space, to care for them by herself while he was gone, to teach them, cook for them and clean.

And so the family moved closer to his parents. A fourth child was born. The waters surged forward. In order to hold back the whispers, to keep their meaning from becoming obvious, the woman had to concentrate all her energy on the breaking waves in her head. She could no longer eat. She could no longer sleep. She could no longer care for her children. The man took her to a doctor, who gave her medicine. The doctor told the husband that the woman would be all right, that the water in her head was only temporary but that it was strongest when she had just had a child. The doctor suggested that they have no more children.

But they did. And with the fifth child, the dam that the woman had so carefully constructed between her mind and the black, surging waters finally broke. She could no longer hold them back, nor could she ignore what the whispers had been trying to tell her all along. She finally listened, and did as they told her. The woman filled the bathtub and drowned her five children.

This is a terrible story, based on an account of Andrea Yates’ murder of her children in Time magazine. “She was a person who was more graceful in the water than out of it,” said her husband, Russell Yates. Like the rest of you, I read about the case and flinched with each detail. I scrutinized her photograph in the paper to see what I could discern about her state of mind from her appearance. The whole thing seemed unbelievable.

But there was something disturbingly familiar about this tale. One day I realized why: I have been hearing this story, in one form or another, all my life.

One version goes like this: Once there was a woman who fell in love with a man. He was very handsome, and all the women desired him. Eventually she attracted his notice, and they were married. They were very happy, or so she thought, and had many children. One day the woman went to the river to get water and saw her husband with another woman. In a fit of rage and jealousy, she drowned all of her children. She was put to death for her crime but continues to haunt the river, looking for her lost children. She can be heard late at night, weeping.

This is, of course, the most famous of Mexican folk tales, the story of La Llorona, the weeping woman. Songs have been written about her, and there are many versions of the story. All echo her undying love for both the children and the absent father.

“How does a person survive who cannot speak up to explain what she wants…who cannot argue when she is pushed in a direction she does not want to go, who cannot insist that she be consulted when decisions are made about her future?” asks Rosemarie Coste in “La Llorona y El Grito” (The Ghost and the Scream: Noisy Women in Borderlands and Beyond), her exploration of the Llorona myths and their interpretation.

This seems to describe Andrea Yates, a woman wracked by mental illness, in a marriage that followed the fundamentalist teachings of Michael Woroniecki (a preacher who traveled around the country in a camper with his wife and six children). Russell Yates admired this lifestyle. He even purchased the Woronieckis’ old motor home to live in (with 350 square feet of living space) in 1998. Only after Andrea attempted suicide twice, and at her parents’ insistence, did they move back into a house in Houston. “Man is the breadwinner and woman is the homemaker,” Russell told prosecutor Joe Owmby under cross-examination at Andrea Yates’ trial. “It’s the way it’s been for years.”

Social worker Earline Wilcott, who counseled Andrea Yates for years, testified that Russell Yates believed that a wife should submit to her husband. This belief is based on Ephesians 5:22-24, “Wives, be subject to your own husbands, as to the Lord. For the husband is the head of the wife, as Christ also is the head of the church…But as the church is subject to Christ, so also the wives ought to be to their husbands in everything.” These few verses have been the subject of debate over the years, as women have struggled to reach religious and social parity with men. A more sinister view of women, however, shows up in Woroniecki’s teachings. He claimed, “All women are descendants of Eve, and Eve was a witch.” Women, particularly women who work outside the home, are wicked, wrote a contributor to an online message board devoted to the subject.

Andrea Yates worked as a post-op nurse at M.D. Anderson Cancer Center until the birth of her first child and continued to act as a care-giver for her father, who had Alzheimer’s and had never fully recovered from a heart attack. Her father, Andrew Kennedy, died a few months after the birth of Andrea’s last child, Mary, and shortly before her last breakdown.

Andrea’s friend Debbie Holmes testified that when Yates was hospitalized with postpartum depression, Russell could not understand why his wife couldn’t keep up with taking care of the children and home-schooling them. He admired another woman in the neighborhood. “She’s got nine kids, teaches her kids T-ball, and she does just fine. I don’t know why Andrea’s having so much trouble,” he said, according to Holmes.

Rosemarie Coste continues:

La Llorona weeps wordlessly, “unspeakably/’ expressing her longing for the precious things she has lost and cannot find: her home, her family, her body, her life. The many versions of her story differ as to what her losses were and how they occurred, but they unite in judging her to be certainly miserable and probably dangerous, jealous of those who still have the treasures she long ago lost.

In “La Frontera” (Borderlands), Gloria Anzaldúa writes extensively about attempts to silence the Chicanas, the mixed-blood Latinas near the border between Mexico and the United States:

En boca cerrada no entran moscas. “Flies don’t enter a closed mouth” is a saying I kept hearing when I was a child. Ser habladora was to be a gossip and a liar, to talk too much. Muchachitas bien criadas, well-bred girls don’t answer back. Es una falta de respeto to talk back to one’s mother or father…hablar pa’ trás, repelar, hocicona, repelona, chismosa, having a big mouth, questioning, carrying tales are all signs of being mal criada. In my culture they are all words that are derogatory if applied to womenI’ve never heard them applied to men.

Anzaldúa is one of the few people who has attempted to rewrite the Llorona myth, in her children’s book, “Prietita y la lloron” (Prietita and the Ghost Woman). A benevolent Llorona guides a lost girl, first to a medicinal herb for her mother, then to rescue. Interestingly, this ghost woman is completely silent.

While there are many differences between the lives of Andrea Yates and those of Latina women, both adhere to the fundamental Christian belief system that values the wife who submits to her husband. Frank Ochberg, MD, a psychiatrist and the author of “Post-Traumatic Therapy and Victims of Violence,” said in a recent talk that the first sign of trauma is speechlessness. Most violence takes place in the home, he says, and so is especially difficult to treat. “If the language of the victim or advocate is too strong, ears close. If it is too soft, it is not heard.”

Sandra Cisneros also retells the Llorona myth in her story “Woman Hollering Creek.” In it, Cleofílas finds the voice to tell a health worker of her abusive situation and is rescued by a woman who, “when they drove across the arroyo…opened her mouth and let out a yell as loud as any mariachi.” She told her startled passenger, “I like the name of that arroyo, makes you want to holler like Tarzan, right?” Cisneros shows that the silence of abuse can be escaped and the legend re-imagined to show a woman who stands up for herself.

There is no indication that Andrea Yates ever complained about her situation or even saw herself as abused. The worst that was put in writing was a note by social worker Norma Tauriac, “The patient’s husband might be a little bit controlling.” According to Sergeant Eric Mehl, the officer who responded to Andreas 911 call and took her confession, she would sit in 15 seconds of stone-cold silence if he asked too much. She could give only short answers to simple questions in their 17-minute conversation as she twice recounted the order in which her children were born and died.

A man and a woman fell in love and married. They were very happy but very poor. They did not have enough food or money to feed their children, and so the man left their village to look for work. The woman was left alone with the children, and after the man had been gone a long time, they began to starve to death. Finally the woman drowned her children in the river rather than watch them starve. To this day, she grieves and can be heard calling for them along the river-bank, looking for her lost children. You can hear her there, calling late at night, and if she mistakes you for one of her children, she might take you, too.

I was told this version of La Llorona in the 1970s by a college classmate, now a lawyer for the Mexican American Legal Defense Fund.

Three weeks after the murders, Andrea Yates told psychiatrist Phillip Resnick that she had been failing as a mother and believed she had to kill the children to keep them from going to hell. She drowned her children to save them from eternal damnation. Because she had been a bad mother, Andrea reasoned, her children were also turning out to be bad. Only by drowning them while they were still young and innocent, by sacrificing herself to the laws of secular man, could she assure their eternal salvation.

After her imprisonment, Yates told doctors that the death of her children was her punishment, not theirs. It was, she explained, a mother s final act of mercy. According to Matthew 18:6, it was better to be flung into the sea with a stone tied to one’s neck than cause little ones to stumble. In the few days before the murders, Yates wanted to shave her head so she could see the mark of the beast she was certain was emblazoned on her scalp. Only her execution would eliminate the evil inside her—a state-sanctioned exorcism by which George W. Bush, the former governor and now president, would save her from the clutches of Satan.

This is an important point in Yates’ system of belief. It had been Andrea’s job to instruct her children, both in secular studies and in religious studies, since the family did not attend church. They held Bible studies three evenings a week. In “The Devil and Andrea Yates,” Time magazine reported that she had:

Earmarked pages in her Bible about a mother’s obligation to raise her children or face the consequences. She came to believe that she had failed so badly to measure up to her own extreme ideals of motherhood (she thought the kids should say their ABCs by age 2) that, as she told the psychiatrist, the kids were destined to perish in the fires of hell.

Only by making sure that her young children were well-versed in the beliefs of their elders could they become warriors for Christ. If they could not read the Bible, this would not be possible.

“They did a lot of silly stuff and didn’t obey,” Yates said. “They did things God didn’t like.”

After Yates’ arrest, Michael Woroniecki tried to downplay the influence he had had on the family through personal correspondence and through his publication, “The Perilous Times.” In it, a poem laments the disobedient children of the “Modern Mother Wordly,” ending with the question, “What becomes of the children of such a Jezebel?” Woroniecki wrote a letter to Newsweek denying responsibility for Yates’ actions. But it is undeniable that his views of women influenced Russell Yates, who believed his wife’s mental illness was an indication that her resistance to evil had been compromised.

At one point when the court-appointed psychiatrist, Phillip Resnick, interviewed Yates, he asked her how she felt about her children.

“I didn’t hate my children,” she responded.

“Did you love your children?” Resnick asked.

“Yeah,” she responded after a long pause. “Some. Not in the right way, though.”

According to Rosmarie Coste, folklorists see, in the hundreds of variants of the La Llorona tale, “Mexican American cultural attitudes toward mothering activities and…the conflicts and stresses that Mexican American women experience in relation to the mother role,” as well as “insight into the interpretation of the infanticide motif as a psychological device related to the frustrations of child care,” showing that “contemplation of infanticide provides a momentary ‘escape’ from the problems of child rearing.”

Like all living mythology, there are newer versions of La Llorona. Coste discovered “the first signs of a merging of the traditional La Llorona legend and the contemporary stories of babies found abandoned in trash dumpsters, a more modern method for disposing of children than drowning.” She also cites research that La Llorona is known to the female inmates of juvenile hall, even by those who do not know her by name. Of 31 ghost stories collected by researcher Bess Lomax Hawes, 28 were about adult women, most of whom were threats to the living. This is in contrast to ghost lore in general, in which most ghosts are males, and indifferent to the living. The girls’ stories varied in many details, but all featured ghosts that were female, vicious and very much inclined to attack. The most frequent themes were infanticide and other aggressive crimes committed by women, punishment or aggressive crimes against women, inconsolable grief or loss, and mutilation, another kind of loss.

Of the two versions of La Llorona I have recounted here, I suspect that men are more likely to tell the first version—the woman who drowns her children for spite—and women the second—the woman who drowns her children to spare them suffering. One is a story of jealousy, the second a story of desperation. One could argue that if La Llorona killed her children out of spite and jealousy, she did it for the wrong reasons; if she killed her children out of pity and mercy, she did it for the right reasons—still wrong, but motivated by compassion.

“Even though she knew it was against the law,” said psychiatrist Phillip Resnick, “she did what she thought was right in the world she perceived through her psychotic eyes at the time.”

Which version is closer to the truth? And which model did the jury have in mind when they took less than four hours to deliberate before convicting Andrea Yates of murder?

During the deliberations, the jury requested an audiotape player and may have listened to the 911 recording of Andrea Yates’ call to the police and her taped confession. This suggests that they concentrated on her actions the morning of the killings rather than the extensive testimony describing her history of mental illness.

“The way she did it and the way she acted afterward was inconsistent with somebody who didn’t know what she was doing,” said Rusty Hardin, a former local prosecutor who watched closing arguments. In the Llorona tales, the townspeople feel the same way. In some versions she is stoned or hung by the other villagers when it is discovered what she has done. In others she stays by the river and wastes away on her own, until only the wail is left.

“The loving act of a mother was to leave [Noah’s] body floating in the bathtub,” said prosecuting attorney Raylynn Williford, sarcastically, in closing arguments. “She made the choice to fill the tub. She made the choice to kill these children. She knew it was wrong.”

What is La Llorona trying to tell us? And why is the Andrea Yates case so eerily similar?

Tales of the supernatural persist because they portray a situation that we continue to understand over the passage of time and place. They carry some universal meaning that allows them to be adapted to current circumstances, always timely, always applicable. The specific characters may change, but as editor Rob Johnson says in the introduction to “Fantasmas: Supernatural Tales by Mexican American Writers,” these stories “never forget there is a spiritual side of life, but even more importantly, don’t ignore social reality.”

La Llorona is, in part, a story about power—power over our own circumstances. What control do we have over what happens to us, over what happens to the closest thing to ourselves, our children? The song versions of La Llorona, in particular, tell us that she was dark:

Todos me dicen el negro, Llorona

Negro pero cariñoso

And so, most likely, lower class and powerless. Some versions of the Llorona story, those that fall into the jealous-woman category, also say that she is lower class and her husband/lover is of the upper class.

But what does a middle-class Anglo woman, supposedly living in comfortable circumstances, have in common with a poor, dark woman from Mexico? These questions haunted me as I traveled to Texas and Mexico, closer to the origin of the Llorona stories.

In Saltillo, Mexico, I asked my cousin, Amalia Moreira Narro de Heede, who is in her 70s, about her version of La Llorona. It turned out to be quite different from that recounted in the United States. She heard it from her great-grandmother on her mother s side. In this pre-Hispanic version, a woman had a premonition that the Spaniards were coming to Mexico and would slaughter her children. She began to cry, “Ay, mis hijos! Ay, mis hijos!” She appeared in a long, white dress, with long hair to the ground.

On the plane to Houston, I asked a man who appeared to be in his late 30s if he had heard the Llorona story. He put down his book and thought a minute. He said that his grandmother used to read a lot and liked to tell him stories. Yes, he said, he had heard about a woman in a white dress calling, “Ay, mis hijos, ay, mis hijos,” because her children had died. He could not remember why they had died, or how.

As I thought about it, the long, white dress gave me a clue: The priests and holy people in the court of Moctezuma wore long, white gowns and were not allowed to cut their hair. It was caked with dried blood due to their almost daily ritual of bloodletting. The image of the woman was a warning to others, like the warnings of the dreamers, disregarded by Moctezuma until it was too late. This Llorona starts to sound a lot like the dreamers in Ana Castillo’s “Massacre of the Dreamers: Essays on Xicanisma”:

Moteuczoma (sic) called upon the thousands of dreamers who were sharing the same premonition: the prophesied arrival of Cortés and the subsequent annihilation of the Empire. Moteuczoma’s order to have the dreamers murdered en masse did not stop the landing of those alien ships that were already on their way...

Moteuczoma, who relied heavily on mysticism and having received various ominous omens about the fall of his empire, also consulted with his greatest wizards and magicians. These, unable to advise Moteuczoma as to how to prevent what had already been divinely decreed, were imprisoned. But being magicians they mysteriously escaped. Moteuczoma avenged them by having their wives and children hung and their houses destroyed.

The entire time that I was in Texas and Mexico it rained. They told me it had not rained for months, and my relatives began to call me Tlaloc, the rain god, because I had brought rain from the Northwest. It occurred to me, as I jumped across puddles in my sandals, that the drowning of her children, in Andrea Yates’ universe, might have been a sort of baptism. Romans 6:4 encourages us to be “buried with Him through baptism into death, in order that as Christ was raised from the dead through the glory of the Father, so we too might walk in newness of life.” In her attempt to save her children from her own madness and powerlessness, Yates may have taken the only tangible step that promised salvation at the time.

After a spectacular lightning storm the night before, my last morning in Saltillo dawned calm and sunny. I turned on the shower to warm up the water before getting in. When it still seemed cool, I gave it a few more seconds. That’s when I heard a noise near the ceiling and instinctively ducked away from the open shower door. An enormous crash followed. When I looked around, the shower was filled with the wet, sparkling shards of a huge light fixture that had detached from the ceiling and broken to bits on the concrete shower floor.

“We have, at this point, some hope and expectation that Ms. Yates will receive the same or better care than she received before she was arrested,” said Joe Lovelace, a public-policy consultant for the National Alliance for the Mentally Ill of Texas. “That’s not saying a lot.”

I may never fully comprehend why a woman who loved water drowned her own children, but I will take Coste’s warning that “it is not [La Llorona] who will ‘get’ us if we are not careful, but our own ordinary and dangerous lives.” I suspect that Andrea Yates’ story will be added to the La Llorona lore of Texas. The old stories persist because the old ills persist. And the old ills persist because, in the end, human nature does not change.

About the Author

Kathleen Alcala

Kathleen Alcala is the award-winning author of a short-story collection, Mrs. Vargas and the Dead Naturalist, and three novels set in 19th-century Mexico. She is a co-founder of The Raven Chronicles, a magazine of multi-cultural art, literature and the spoken word, and has been a writer in residence at Seattle University, Richard Hugo House and a visiting lecturer at the University of New Mexico.

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