This health promoter from the East Los Angeles Women’s Center had to endure years of poverty, harassment, and sexual violence. (Lulu Romer
Since the age of 5, María de Lourdes Romero, known only as Lulu Romero, would prepare every day to help her mother arrange flowers that she would later sell on the streets of Guadalajara.
“We distributed buckets filled with flowers, and I stood at a traffic light from 4 pm to 2 am. My mom kept an eye on us, but it wasn’t enough. I suffered and lived through many stories where they tried to kidnap me and sexually harassed me. From a young age, I had to learn to survive; I had a very difficult childhood,” says Romero.
This health promoter from the East Los Angeles Women’s Center had to endure years of poverty, harassment, and sexual violence.
Since the age of 5, María de Lourdes Romero, known only as Lulu Romero, would prepare every day to help her mother arrange flowers that she would later sell on the streets of Guadalajara.
“It was very difficult during the pandemic. Latinas already suffer a lot of violence, and the arrival of Covid made it worse. The lockdown was hell for many. They lived through a pandemic within a pandemic,” she says.
“I am a survivor of sexual abuse by an uncle. No one paid attention when I reported it; they said to forget about it. Besides, my father was absent. He wasn’t violent, but he was an alcoholic and didn’t contribute to the household expenses,” says the leader of a support group for victims of violence and, during the pandemic, ‘una promotora’ who, risking her life, knocked on doors in East L.A. neighborhoods to convey information about the pandemic and the support available.
“It was very difficult during the pandemic. Latinas already suffer a lot of violence, and the arrival of Covid made it worse. The lockdown was hell for many. They lived through a pandemic within a pandemic,” she says.
Romero, like other ‘promotoras’ at the East Los Angeles Women’s Center, understands these issues very clearly because they have lived through them.
“Now that we are reviewing the statistics, they told me that I could have helped 20 thousand women just from October to December. I think it’s much more, but I am proud to have reached so many people, to have helped them,” adds Romero.
“It was very difficult during the pandemic. Latinas already suffer a lot of violence, and the arrival of Covid made it worse. The lockdown was hell for many.”
Since childhood, she had a way with words. She could communicate with people, and selling flowers was not difficult for her.
“My mom was very violent, especially after my brother was born. I thought a lot about that; she had a very tough life—poverty, my dad’s alcoholism, and depression. I think she suffered after giving birth; it didn’t go well. Everything was quite frustrating. She took it out on me,” she says.
Romero says she has erased many childhood memories, perhaps as a way of self-protection. She recalls some happy moments, like going to the zoo, outings when her parents were doing well, and playing, albeit rarely, with her friends.
“There were no dolls in the house. There was no money. My friends lent them to me; they were good to me,” she says.
At the age of 13, she got a job in a shoe store. That’s when her life began to change. She had an income for herself and earned commissions. She helped her mother with household expenses but could keep some money to buy clothes and other necessities.
“I remember for a long time I only had one bra that I wore every day. Having the possibility of buying others made me feel good,” she says.
In those years, she also confronted her mother.
“No more beatings! I am growing up and am stronger than you. I won’t hit you, but I won’t let you hit me,” she says. “On one occasion, I went to a gathering with my friends. When I arrived, my mom was furious. I didn’t hurt her, but she yelled and yelled at me, ‘¡El diablo te va a llevar!'” she said.
Meeting the father of her children changed her life. At 16, some cousins introduced them, and it has been a relationship that has lasted to this day.
“At 17, I had my first child, and some time later, when I was expecting a second child, my partner had to migrate to California. A cartel wanted to recruit him. It was either joining the group or getting killed. So, he had no choice but to leave. He promised that as soon as he gathered money to take us with him, he would come back for us, and he did,” she says.
“Visualize me as a ‘mil usos.’ I do everything, I’m into everything. Sometimes, people ask her husband if it’s her they saw in the photo or in a newspaper, and he replies, ‘Yes, it’s her. ¡Ella es bien chingona!.'”
Together with her husband, she crossed a mountain, walked for two days to reach Los Angeles. She was already 21 years old and had a new life ahead.
“It was hard for me to adapt, and I questioned if I had done the right thing. At first, we rented a small space in a living room, where we slept on a sofa, all of us, my husband, me, and our two children,” she adds.
On one occasion, while pregnant, she was cleaning the entire house as part of the lease agreement with the owners. She fell and started bleeding, losing the long-awaited girl they were expecting. They were kicked out of the house, and they had to spend four months sleeping in a car until they could rent a new space.
“I got involved in the community, participated in school activities, helped the teachers. I realized that after leaving my children, I had a lot of time left. I decided to dedicate it to the community,” she says.
She started as a volunteer, and later she was offered to be the leader of her group as the person in charge was leaving that position.
“I doubted it; at first, it was 30 hours, but my husband wasn’t very happy about it. He didn’t like to see me out of the house, especially when victims of violence called me at night. I am a survivor; I know there are many forms of violence. I put myself in their shoes, and I know what they suffer,” she adds.
In 2018, when she started as a promotera, it was very easy for her to adapt, learn the materials, and attend every workshop offered to her.
“Visualize me as a ‘Mil usos.’ I do everything, I’m into everything. Sometimes, people ask her husband if it’s her they saw in the photo or in a newspaper, and he replies, ‘Yes, it’s her. ¡Ella es bien chingona!.'”
She decided to take the job, and at first, it was difficult. Her husband, who also suffered a lot of violence, wanted to impose his machismo. He even went to talk to the program supervisor to complain about why “she was brainwashing his wife.”
The supervisor told him to really think about what bothered him. Days later, Lulu had to go to a hospital to attend to a victim of violence. Her husband insisted on going with her but stayed in the car. He saw how Lulu argued with the police, how she talked to the woman, and when she returned to the car, he said, “I didn’t understand why you wanted to do that, but now I understand.”
“My husband became a promoter; now, he carries my business cards, and if he sees someone in danger, he gives them to them,” she says.
Her commitment to the community is absolute, “when you are in these waters, you learn to swim.”
For her, one thing is very clear, “you have to know the community, if you don’t know them, it’s better not to get involved. You have to be with them, interact, get to know them, let them know us, that’s how I am. When you have to survive, you learn all this,” she adds.
And now?
“Visualize me as a ‘mil usos.’ I do everything, I’m into everything. Sometimes, people ask her husband if it’s her they saw in the photo or in a newspaper, and he replies, ‘Yes, it’s her. ¡Ella es bien chingona!.'”
“I had to make changes, help in the community, dependence fosters abuse”
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