The story of a 14-year-old indigenous Triqui girl - living in Northern California-- whose father was first accused of trying to barter her for beer and money and later charged with the felony offenses of procuring a child for sex, aiding and abetting statutory rape, and child endangerment, made me think of my niece, my goddaughter and other young women around me who have grown up in different circumstances and with different expectations.

I had recently seen my 6-foot 200 lb. Amazon-like niece as we strolled through the colonial town of Veracruz, Mexico. She had just turned 15 and despite her imposing frame, she couldn't have looked more childish prancing and showing off a large metallic balloon she asked me to buy her as a birthday present.

With that notion of her innocence etched in my head, I promised her to take her on a trip around the world if by the time she turns 20 she remains unmarried, has no children and is still in school.

I have five years to feed my piggy bank.

I suspect the reality of the Triqui teenager is starkly different.

Although I have no details about her specific circumstances, I have enough knowledge of Oaxacan indigenous groups to know that she was not coddled, nor ever expected to go off to college and promised a trip around the world.

The region she hails from and the indigenous group she belongs to are among the very poorest in Oaxaca, one of the poorest states in Mexico. About 72 percent of the state's 3.4 million residents live in poverty, according to Mexico's National Institute of Geography and Information. Twenty-one percent of residents older than 15 are illiterate, compared to 9.5 percent nationwide. Thirty-four percent of homes have no indoor plumbing, 13 percent no electricity, 54 percent no sewer. For the indigenous population, the statistics are even worse.

So imagine, if you will, how this girl has spent her life. She has likely had to work since she was 7 or 8 - if not younger - taking care of her siblings, fetching water from the nearby river and grinding corn to make her family's meals. If she migrated with her parents to some of the agricultural operations in northern Mexico that employ many Triquis, like the tomato farms in Baja California, she likely helped filled her mother's or father's 20 gallon bucket by roaming around the tomato plants and plucking the fruits for no pay. Many Triqui women have told me the buckets are often heavier than they are.

Police first heard of her father, 36-year-old Marcelino De Jesus Martínez, when he reported his daughter missing in January. At first, the police believed Martínez had sold his daughter and arrested him, but they then realized the man was expecting a dowry from the groom's family. Conflicting testimony from all parties - confused even more by the fact that Martinez doesn't speak Spanish well - led to other explanations of what happened with the 14-year-old and her 18-year-old would-be groom. At first, the girl said she eloped. Later, during her father's trial, she said she had been kidnapped. The authorities believed at first she had been "sold." Later, they realized her father had been promised a dowry by the groom's family. Whatever the story turns out to be, Martínez is facing trial.

Joe Grebmeier, police chief in the Monterey county town where Martinez lives,  is ready to believe that Triqui immigrants break the law out of ignorance. But, alas, he  has a job to do.

"They don't break the law because they're bad people," he said. "In the vast majority of cases, they don't know what the law is or they're confused. We have the benefit of an education but for a stranger in a strange land, some things aren't just like home."

Grebmeier understands well the perils of cultural translation. For the past eight years, he has spent most of his Wednesdays sitting at meetings where he understands hardly a word. Perched on the stage of a high school gym, his feet hanging from the ledge, he quietly observes as advice on what's considered acceptable behavior in the United States is first explained in English, then translated into Spanish, and then translated again into two or three indigenous languages of Mexico that are now spoken in Monterey County. Community outreach workers bring messages to the indigenous residents: how to open a bank account, how to avoid being robbed, how to get car insurance, the laws of California and the nation.

The irony of this story is that there isn't another city in California - or perhaps anywhere else in the country - where the immigrant population has developed such strong ties and effective lines of communication with local authorities. When Chief Grebmeier, tall and light-skinned, shows up for the weekly community meetings, he gets high-fives from almost all the dark-skinned, short, indigenous men filing into the auditorium. If there are two words the Oaxacan Indians know in English, they are "Hi chief." For the past three years, the Oaxacans have put together an annual celebration to honor politicians and community leaders, people who are teaching them how to survive in the United States.

The meetings are no magic potion, though. The Triquis are still preyed on by thieves who know they insist on carrying cash, and they still get arrested when they drive inebriated.

The tragedy of the Triquis, like the tragedy of all poor ethnic groups - here and in Mexico - is that we want them to perform to our standards, but we also deny them access to the tools to meet those standards. We want people to stop crowding themselves into single-family homes, but we don't pay them enough to afford it. We want them to follow the rules of the road, but we don't allow them to get drivers' licenses - and the education that comes with it. We want their presence to be lawful in this country, but we don't allow the laws to change. We want them to be like us, but we don't tell them how.

And when they fail to meet our standards, we point our fingers and say "See, they're not like us." And that provides enough reason to keep them where they are.

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Related: "Greenfield father says daughter was kidnapped" from the Monterey County Herald