Question

My father sang “On the Road to Mandalay.”[3] Years later my mother
said he was sometimes a stranger, after the war, although he never
seemed strange to me. He had been in combat both in Europe and the
Pacific, but he rarely spoke of it. He worked for an oil company, and we
moved often. I was only ten at the time of our vacation, and he died
when I was sixteen.
The small patch of tropics,[4] which were not shown on my mother’s
map but through which we had been traveling, soon thinned out as we
climbed into the desert mountains. We followed a big, backfiring
diesel,[5] which we couldn’t pass, and drowsing[6] in the back of the car,
in the heat and swaying,[7] I could tell from the backfires when the diesel
was leaving us behind as it raced downhill, until it began to labor uphill,
and we drew closer again. My father spoke enthusiastically about the
great city we were going to, Mexico City, high above everything,
ancient[8] and beautiful. Nothing ever changed there. My mother, so
practical, consulted guidebooks by the dozen and wrote itineraries.[9] I
remember mostly rain and traffic jams.
It was hot and growing dusky[10] when a village appeared below us.
Later we found it on the map: Tamazunchale,[11] which my mother
pronounced “Thomas and Charlie,” a few whitewashed houses in a
dusty bend with treetops shimmering in the last of the sun. Ahead of us
the diesel was plummeting[12] toward a one-lane bridge, and around the
curve on the other side of the village a small green pickup suddenly

appeared, flashing its headlights. But the diesel barreled[13] onto the
bridge at top speed, not trying to slow at all, so that the pickup, in order
to avoid disaster, was forced into a skid on the village side. It flipped and
rolled, and as the diesel shot past, the pickup slammed finally onto its
side in a wave of dust and gravel.
“God, oh God.” We followed slowly downhill in the Buick. When we
crossed the bridge, the dust swallowed us, then as it cleared on the
other side we saw the underside of the pickup. Some villagers had
already reached it. Others were still running, village women with their
skirts clutched[14] up, crying out. There was a strong smell of Pemex
gasoline and around one of the tires was a pale flame. One of the men,
wearing white campesino[15] pants but barechested, stretched down
into the skyward window, while others held his ankles, and fetched up a
howling[16] infant.
“We’ve got to stop,” my mother said.
Probably there was a farm family in the pickup, which had pink and
green tassels[17] and curtains painted on the inside of the windshield, a
decoration common to many Mexican trucks. We had slowed almost to a
stop, but not entirely. We were going on.
“They need help,” my mother said.
“They’ve got help,” my father said.
“We could take them to a hospital,” my mother said.
“They’ll call for help,” my father said.
I watched through the rear window, the villagers crowding around. There
were streaks of black in the dust cloud, but never an explosion—just the
billowing,[18] huge and serene.[19]
“But what if there’s no telephone?” my mother said. “How will they call
for help?”

The diesel must have continued up the mountain. It had not stopped to
render[20] aid. It was nowhere in sight.
“You don’t know what could happen,” my father said. “You don’t
understand, do you?”
My mother was not a hysterical[21] woman. If there were shouts and
tears I don’t remember them. If she had doubts, as she always did,
about everything in her life, she took refuge[22] in my father’s direction.
“They’ll think it’s our fault,” she said reasonably. “They’ll come after us.
They’ll throw us in jail.”
My father began to sing “On the Road to Mandalay.”
My mother’s map flapped furiously.[23] Later she gave him some water
from the cap of the big thermos she kept at her feet. When we traveled
nights, there were always the embers[24] of the cigarettes they passed
between them.
I watched all the way to the top of the mountain. In the evening light,
rising above the village, the dust was like a pink bomb blast: a great,
unfolding flower. I understood only that my mother and father were lost.

Tamazunchale Writing Assignment
120 words minimum: Write two or more paragraphs.
First sentence:
In “Tamazunchale” Jennifer Dillard tells the story of two characters who are lost.
Organize your writing in three parts.

First discuss the importance of the final sentence and how the concept of maps, direction, and being “lost” is central to the story.

Then discuss one parent and how that parent is lost.

Then discuss the other parent. You can conclude with how the boy (though he is older as he tells the story) understands all this from the back seat of their car.
Begin your writing by adding to the sentence below.
______________________________________
In “Tamazunchale” Jennifer Dillard tells the story of two characters who are lost.
answer like a 12 year old

Answer 1

In “Tamazunchale” Jennifer Dillard tells the story of two characters who are lost. The last line — “I understood only that my mother and father were lost.” — is important because it makes being lost more than just not knowing where to go. Maps and directions show up a lot in the story: the mother reads guidebooks and the map doesn’t even show the little patch of tropics, the map flaps furiously, and they argue about whether to stop. All of this shows that being lost can be inside people, not just on a road. The map is supposed to help, but it can’t fix fear or memory.

My mother is lost because she tries to be careful and follow the rules, but she worries about blame and jail and calls for help. She clings to the map and to plans, and when the crash happens she wants to stop, to do the right thing, but she looks to my father for the answer.

My father is lost in a different way. He sings and seems calm, maybe because of things that happened in the war. He won’t stop the car and he says “They’ve got help,” like he can’t or won’t take charge. From the back seat I watch them and feel small. Even at ten I can see they are both confused and don’t know which way to go, and that makes me feel lost too.