Beatrice Cerda was born July 29, 1936 and grew up in Rosenberg, Texas, a railroad city just southwest of Houston. The oldest of four children, Bea was as tough as nails, even to me, her granddaughter. Because Bea could speak English and her parents couldn’t, she was asked to quit school and go to work at age 13. My Great-Aunt Esther would sometimes tell me how smart my grandma was and how she pondered what might’ve come of her if she’d had the opportunity to finish school.

Growing up, I saw my Grandma Bea as demanding, excitable, and often callous. On the other hand, my Aunt Esther was always tender and warm. Honestly, I sometimes wished she were my grandmother instead of Bea. I had a lot to learn about my grandmother, though, especially after she passed away in 2003.

Aunt Esther loved to tell stories from her childhood. She spent so much time talking about Rosenberg that at some point we decided to visit the town. As we walked the streets of Rosenberg, some still barely paved, the summer heat was coming up but not quite suffocating just yet. As we wandered through a cemetery, streets the children once played on, and finally downtown, Esther began to tell me about a similarly hot day long ago when she asked Bea to take her for ice cream.

When Beatrice was left in charge of her younger sister, the rules were simple: Don't go outside, and don't answer the door. Not everyone had these rules in 1949, but their father had been clear. Rosenberg was a rail hub, with a large station through which thousands of people passed every day and their father recognized it could be dangerous.

That afternoon was like any other. Bea and Esther were playing and talking, as girls will do, when Esther casually mentioned ice cream. Bea, whether she was bored (or, more likely, feeling rebellious), said “Get your shoes on.” Esther knew this was a bad idea but went along with her older sister.

As they made their way, Esther grew more uneasy the further they got from home. Cars sped past them, and though they were on the sidewalk, she didn’t like what she and her sister were doing. She knew they were going to be in trouble when they got home. Eventually they came to a café downtown, one that is no longer standing. There was a sign on the door. It read “No Mexicans Allowed.” Even a child knows when hatred is aimed their way. She knew they weren’t welcome. When she looked at her older sister she saw Bea had a look on her face that she only got when she was really mad. Bea had a temper, a bad one. As they went in and sat at a table, she could tell her sister was agitated.

A woman came to their table and asked if they could read. What a strange question, she thought. Without thinking, Esther said yes, and the woman clapped back with “Then I guess you read the sign!” Without acknowledging the woman, Bea asked for two ice cream cones. The woman walked away.

Esther wanted to run and hide, or scream, or be anywhere but where they were. People were looking, shaking their heads, and wagging their fingers. A woman kept telling them to leave and that’s all Esther wanted to do, but Bea kept saying no. She refused to leave. Faced with no good outcome, nine-year-old Esther decided to leave her sister and walk home alone, over a mile. When she told her sister she wanted ice cream, she had no way to know what the consequences would be. So, she left her sister sitting in a booth and began the long walk home.

She was guessing most of the way. It seemed to take twice as long going home as it did to get there. She was crying and scared and utterly alone until she arrived at her street and started running to her house. She was out of breath when she burst through the door, greeted suspiciously by her father. A feeling of dread and despair that she’d felt only in her nightmares came over her. That's what this was to her--a waking nightmare. She explained where her sister was. Her father Tilo spoke little English, and as Esther told her dad about the sign on the door where Bea sat demanding to be treated like any other paying customer, he knew that sign was for him.

Tilo immediately marched to the café. All the anger in Bea turned to fear when she saw her father. She hadn’t planned what she was doing, she just did it. The look on his face was one she’d never seen. He looked scared. When he went around to the back and asked, with the help of his youngest daughter, about his oldest, they told him to go get her. The only time he ever went in that café was to snatch up his daughter and sweep her out the front door in a flash. He never stopped scolding her on the way home and she never said a word.

Bea was a character for all her days; her temper never faded. She punched her brother’s fiancé on their introduction, jumping a counter to do it. But she fought for the underdog, too. She took in women and children who were down on their luck and often provided for those who couldn’t provide for themselves, keeping a dry goods pantry on the second floor of her house. In many ways, she stayed that fiery little girl. In the years that followed her sit-in, she never walked past that café without a smile, and the woman inside always knew who she was, though they never spoke again.