And then. . .

Para Las Nietas

2020-04-03T16:53:00.000-06:00

Cuando se van las abuelitas, se va una parte fundamental. We are pulled from the brown soil. Roots exposed. We falter, droop. How can we continue without the cariño of their warm hands to support us? Nourish us con sus caricias.

Cuando se van las abuelitas, se van los almuerzos y cenas que no más ellas hacían. Las comidas that tasted of their love can no longer exist. The tacos crispy and brown, won’t taste the same. The flavor, like a duende, can’t be caught no matter how hard we try to capture it in our own kitchens.

Cuando se van las abuelitas, se nos va el lenguaje, porque ellas nos hablaban en español. Nuestros apodos como Güera, Prieta, Niña, Mima, y Mija se desaparecen. We ache to hear the sounds of our names from their lips and grasp for their words. The ones we didn’t know we would miss.

Cuando se van las abuelitas se nos va el amor duro. We lose the sharp tongues quick with consejos we didn’t want to hear at the time. Se nos pierden los dichos and the wisdom we fear we might never have.

Cuando se van las abuelitas se nos va la mama de nuestras mamas. We see our moms as lost little girls. We can’t hide from the tears that glisten on their cheeks, and the low moans of loss they don’t think we hear.

Pero cuando se van las abuelitas hay que recordar que nos quedamos con las memorias de las carcajadas y sonrisas, the warm embraces, the feel of their hands smoothing our hair, of stylin’ leopard coats and silver high heels they still wore as abuelitas.

Y, cuando se van las abuelitas, tenemos que recodar, quien somos. That they live on en el amor que todavía tenemos. The love that’s inside that no one can take from us. Que somos mujeres fuertes, y que viven en nosotras.

Ghosts of Birthdays Past

2019-04-24T19:18:00.001-06:00

Recently, I had a birthday. I never imagined being this age. The older I get, the less and less I have an image for what I thought I would be like. Is that normal? Even crazier, is that I don't think I could have ever imagined the life I have now, and I'm pretty imaginative. Seriously, though, I wouldn't have it any other way. Birthdays make one reflect though, and I've had this memory kicking around in my mind the last few weeks.

As a kid, every year for that special day, my sister brought balloons to school. I don't remember when it started, but regrettably, I do remember how it ended. Middle school, sixth grade. I know it was this grade because it was before I went full on surly grunge angsty girl. But, it was when I had already started to learn to be embarrassed by anything that was deemed remotely uncool by my classmates.

Around that time, I had stopped eating lunch. My mom and sister didn't know this. They still don't. However, I very wisely had decided to simply have a Coke for lunch so I could lose weight. (Not wise or smart at all, but don't judge me I was 12). The thing was, I don't know when it happened, but while I was busy reading Sweet Vallet High and doing kid stuff outside, my girlfriends had suddenly become aware of the fact that they were, well, girls.

I mean I knew I was one, but I'd always been a bit more something. Green? I don't know. Evidence, such as Halloween that fall when I dressed up as a court jester with full face make-up and my bff dressed up as a sexy-ish kitten with a black leotard and tights, had begun to build a case that I was indeed missing something. In a world of pre-teens, I was still a kid.

So, I looked in the mirror and saw my chubby brown cheeks and decided I needed to be more like the other girls. Thin. Flirty. I hid my reading habit. I faked it, hoping I would make it. And, when my birthday came around that April, I had already started to assimilate. I don't know if I'd lost any weight, (I'm certain the Coke diet did not work) but at least I wasn't eating lunch with all the "dorky" kids.

In my focus to assimilate, I'd forgotten my sister's birthday tradition, so when I saw her smiling face walking through the campus, I panicked. I looked at the bright red can of Coke on the Formica table and felt as if it was a bright red fire alarm that would alert her that I had stopped eating lunch and then she would tell my mom. My thoughts gathered momentum like a tumbleweed in a Spring El Paso sandstorm.

Her face is burned in my memory. She had a little bounce in her step as the helium balloons knocked back and forth against each other and a grin that was as inflated as those balloons. My sister loved this birthday tradition because she got to see my little checks turn rosy with a combination of embarrassment and glee. I mean, who wouldn't? It was my birthday.

That is until she reached my table. I just stared at her as she smiled. I didn't know what to do. My eyes darted to the half-empty can of shiny Coke on the table and back to the kids with trays of chicken nuggets and crinkle fries on them. She was going to notice I didn't have lunch in front of me. I don't know how long I stared at her, but the smile on her face was gone as quickly as if I'd stabbed one of those balloons with a scissor. She shoved them towards me and all but stalked away. My mouth hung open with words that never came.

"Who was that?" some kid asked.

"My sister," I mumbled the balloon strings warm in my clammy hand.

After school, I knew as soon as I saw my mom's face that "shit had hit the fan". (It is still one of her favorite phrases.) At that time, my sister worked at a Super Cuts in a strip mall off Lee Trevino. My mom took me straight there.

"You have to apologize to your sister, Yasmin."

That's all she said. No ifs, ands, or buts. So, I walked into Super Cuts and when the little bell on the door rang, my sister didn't look up from the client she was with. She was, in fact, in a posture I had never seen. Shoulders hunched. Face pinched. The corners of her mouth in a thin straight line. I didn't know what to do, so I walked toward her and hovered. I wanted her to see me and then I didn't. Because if she turned to look at me, then I would see the full consequences of my actions etched in pinched lines and frowns.

But, of course, she turned after what felt like ages. And when she did, my face crumbled, and I started to cry. I didn't know how to say I was sorry. That I hadn't been embarrassed by her, but afraid she would see how stupid I was becoming, so I just stood there tears running down my chubby cheeks. My sister hesitated, then hugged me. I mumbled a puny "I'm sorry" against her shoulder, and she nodded, but when she let me go, I didn't see the forgiveness I'd hoped for in her eyes.

That's the kind of things that happens when you're a kid right? That's how we learn how actions have a domino effect? Now, if you ask me why I've been thinking about this, I can't tell you. Maybe it's one of those, "If I could go back" fantasies. The older you get, the more one wishes they'd valued being young, because for real #adulting sucks.

There is no moral, and the gray hairs that have started to sprout have not made me wiser. However, random ghosts rear there heads now and again, and I have to remind myself, at least I gave myself plenty of writing material?

When You Care

2018-10-16T19:29:00.000-06:00

Last week, after registering people to vote, I came home and cried. Weird things happen to your body when you decide to care about things outside of your immediate vicinity. You cry. You get angry. You pick fights with strangers online. And, if you're like me, and you're a masochist, you read comments on social media posts. Because what the hell, you aren't worried enough about the state of the fucking world, and you aren't dumbfounded enough that there are so many racists fuckheads.

The thing that happens when you care, is that you can't not look at news. Whether it's online, on TV, fucking Instagram, you start to see things you missed before. Long gone are the days of watching Keeping up with the Kardashians to laugh at their rich bitch idiocy, because Kanye went and fucked that shit up, too.

My husband, he manages to turn it off. He tells me, "Yasmin, don't look. You don't need to know the news." But it's like a bite mark on my inner cheek, I can't stop tonguing. I keep trying to understand where people are coming from, how taxes are more important than LGBTQ, POC, Immigrant rights, but somehow it is. When did people become so callous? I'm not some naive kumbaya person, hell, I can be a dick with the best of them, but these people make me feel like a seven-year-old kid who realized Santa Clause is really her mom's boyfriend.

The other thing that happens, is it becomes us vs. them. Those people. Trumpsters. Cruzers. Republicans. Conservatives. Alt--wait--I won't use that word, fucking-Nazi-racist-fucks. When the fuck did Nazi's become normal? Now, I know there are spectrums of each of these, (Outside Nazi's. They can all fuck off.) and not everyone is so far in some parallel universe of what it means to be a good person, but it seems like most of them are. People are being downright, fucking horrible.

They shout things like, "Go back to your country." They try to block a person from going into their apartment. They think it's okay to call people idiots and libtards and, and, and, and- Mostly, they are truly fucking ignorant about the topics they hold on to so fiercely without any valid support. Without any knowledge. When did people get so proud of being ignorant?

So, why did I come home and cry? Because it's fucking exhausting. Because I second guess if I'm right. Because I start to read more and more trying to understand the other side, and it still doesn't make sense. Because if I see one more "thoughts and prayers" for a shooting or "natural" disaster, I'm going to tell you that you can shove those thoughts and prayers up your ass, and they are about as effective as wiping your shitty ass with your hand. Because fuck you for being a selfish asshole who thinks Latino kids belong in a camp miles outside of my city separated from their parents, because you were "here" first. Because, because, because, because--

My chest aches so much it burns, and I feel like I'm drowning, but I keep smiling and trying, because if I don't what else will I do?

Last Dance, Brussels

2018-08-09T13:26:00.001-06:00

Tonight is my last night in Brussels. I leave early tomorrow morning and to celebrate that, I came to a nearby gastropub to have a couple Belgian beers.

I didn't know from the Yelp description that it was such a happening place, but as I sit here post meal sipping on a Grimbergen, a common beer here but one I can't find stateside, typing on my phone, I know that I will miss this. Not as much as I have missed home, but I will miss this.

I almost didn't come. Did you know that? For about a week, I wavered on the decision after my initial residency fell apart, and my husband couldn't join me as planned for the latter part of the trip. What was I going to do in Europe for a month by myself?

Luckily, I bounce back quickly because I went into plan mode. Destleheide, a mutlidisiplinary artists residency, accepted me almost immediately. The rest also fell into place. A lovely, wonderful friend in Cardiff, Karen, opened her home to me and was the most amazing tour guide in Wales! I also managed to convince the peas to my carrots Sarah to meet me the last week. The final two weeks were filled with friends and lovely meals.

However, I can't help but flash back to something another friend, Sylvia, said/asked when I questioned coming. "Maybe this is what you need. Maybe this is what your book needs."

A month ago, I didn't have an answer to that. Now, I have been reminded of what it feels like to be a lone woman. I know what it feels like to feel lonely. I also know what it feels like to love being alone. I have missed my husband and my dogs and everything that makes my home, well, home, but at the same time, I've done the thing people talk about, and I didn't even realize it.

I quit my life for a month and wrote the first third of a novel, 20,000 words I am very proud of, and survived. I was gone for so long, I long for home. My bed. His smile. Dog kisses. The scent of his hair, cheeto-y, when he hasn't showered.

The initial decision to come here was lead by my bigger fear of regret. Now, I go home light, but ripe with ideas for my book Lola Coca Cola.

Ten Things

2018-07-21T09:05:00.001-06:00

1. Steps walked: 87,751
2. Visited cities: 2
3. Days I've been without my dogs and husband: 10
4. Words written: 7000
5. Times I missed spicy food: 5
6. Beers: 10
7. Books read: 1
8. Tours taken: 2
9. What's App Messages: 5064
10. Stared out the window wondering what to write: unknown

I Don't Want to Talk About Trump

2018-07-10T13:31:00.002-06:00

Because if I do, I get angry. And not that brief wave that can be dismissed with a roll of the eye, it's that deep flash I get when someone cuts me off, and I yell from my car and wave my middle finger in the air, and suddenly feel blind with rage. I don't know what I would do if one of his racists cult followers yelled something at me. I don't think I would be able to take the high road as many of the people we see on social media videos have done.

I don't want to talk about Trump, because if I do, I start to feel like there is no goodness left in the world. Because if you see the news a 91-year-old man just got beat by a brick by a woman and was told to "go back to your country. While Trump did not make people racists, that's always been around, he gave them a disgusting platform that excuses their behavior. A black man can't wear socks to the pool without a woman calling the police. You know those sock bombs are awfully dangerous, or maybe he was going to pull out a tiny tiny tiny gun. Newsflash, I was here first racist prick motherfuckers.

I don't want to talk about Trump, because I see his fucking smug orange face on TVs at the gym. I see him on flashes of local news. I'm glad I don't have cable because his face makes me want to vomit. My stomach physically turns. He makes me ill. Viscerally and miserably ill.

I don't want to talk about Trump, because if I do, I get scared. I get a cold fear that no one is doing anything about an obviously ill man. I mean Elton fucking John comments? WTF? What was that? Are people so blinded by money and self-interest that this is really the leader of the "greatest" country on earth? Do you see how that is an oxymoron? The United States is a world laughing stock and if we look at history, it is the beginning of the end. We are the next Rome and Greece. Rome did not fall in one day either.

I don't want to talk about Trump, because if I do, I am in disbelief that I know people who voted for him out of fear of Clinton. I'm not sure if they thought armies of officers were going to break down their doors and steal their AR-15's, but they are okay with immigrants being separated and put into camps. They are okay with the war against people of color. If you are brown, I wonder how long you'll have that AR-15, sir?

I don't want to talk about Trump, because if I do I hate my fellow brown peeps who support this crazed lunatic. I want to ask people of color who voted for him if all the religious pro-life beliefs apply to the people living in camps or being attacked, or is it just a cluster of fucking cells they care about. I want to ask if they really think they will be accepted by those Make America Great Again people? All they see is your fucking brown, black, yellow, etc skin pendejos.

I don't want to talk about Trump, because if I do, I have to admit that I am now weary when I am around a group of white people. While I've encountered micro-aggressions, "Where did you learn to speak English so well?" I've never been told to go back to my country. I've never been called spick or a wetback. Always a social person, I now find my guard up when a white person starts up a conversation with me. Do they want to lure me away and beat me? Are they going to call the police on me? So far, the conversations have somehow lead to an apology of some sort for their MAGA counterparts. I hope this is a trend.

I don't want to talk about Trump, because if I do, I can't stop. It snowballs into this! This angry, hopeless, fucked up post. It also makes me ashamed of my home. This past December while in Colombia, I had to apologize on behalf of my country because a bartender we'd struck up a conversation asked if the U.S. really hated Latinos so much.

Finally, I don't want to talk about Trump, because for the next thirty days while I travel, if anyone asks where I am from, I feel tempted to lie for the first time and tell them I am Mexican or Colombian, or a Citizen of the World.

'Merica is the frat boy douche bag at the party right now, and everyone wants him to leave, he just doesn't know it, yet.

Goodbye, Tony

2018-06-11T12:47:00.001-06:00

On Friday, I woke up to a set of text messages in my family's What's App chat about Anthony Bourdain. I quickly Googled his name and saw a flood of information about his death. I say death because I don't want to say suicide. If I say it, the many memories of all the shows I shared with him get watery before my eyes. The ballsy man from Jersey who I wanted to be when I grew up becomes human and frail and hurt.

The days following his death, I stayed away from social media as much as I could. My habit of scrolling through Instagram was a brief reminder, then I would shake my head and close the app. Brief glimpses showed me photo after photo of him with one of his many quotes and a caption about resting in peace. I had the similar gross feeling of disdain that starts in the back of my throat after countless thoughts, prayers, and needs for God after a school shooting flood my social media. My stomach turned. I found something vulgar in all the shares and social media sentiments. I also imagined him mocking the fakeness in it all.

I didn't know Anthony Bourdain. I shared many meals with a man I never met in person. I mourned him this weekend though. I still mourn him. As I type this, my eyes fill and I blink to keep them from overflowing. The logical side, my brain asks, "Why are you sad about someone you never even met? Get over it!" The softer side, my heart says, "He seemed to be everything you ever wanted to be. He taught you tons of things about food and people and culture. He taught you how to really eat. And even though there was a screen between you, he always seemed to be talking to you."

That's the magic he had, right? I judge those social media posts and wrinkle my nose, but yet, I type this. A normal man, from Jersey, always made us feel as if a regular Joe could make it. He talked about falling up when addressing his success. If he could do it, couldn't we? Couldn't I? He touched a world of people on and off screen, this is quite apparent by the amount of digital noise. I don't want to believe he committed suicide, because if I do, then what does that mean for the rest of us?

Saturday, I drove home from my guitar lesson, and Nirvana's Breed came on the radio. Then my brain started to do a mental tick of the artists whose talent I've admired and consumed. Kurt Cobain. Ernest Hemingway. And now...

Anthony Bourdain was 61 fucking years old.

Summer Lovin'

2018-06-06T15:33:00.000-06:00

This summer, I am not teaching. While I love my job, I also love writing and it was time to take advantage of being able to take the summer off to return to my first love.

Last week, I wasn't quite sure what to do with myself though. In fact, since the semester ended, I've been restless. I can't shake the feeling that I've forgotten to do something. I have to stop myself from checking my email several times a day.

Instead, I've been reading about music, watching movies, YouTube videos, and documentaries about music. I made a questionnaire for listeners and a target one for women lead singers in bands. I am even attempting to learn the guitar. While I haven't spent a lot of "butt time" writing, my brain is churning, thinking, putting things in order, creating ideas and bridging others together. Even as I've made to do's to keep me busy, folding the-I-never-want-to-fold-laundry or cleaning out my closet, I've been thinking about music. Busy hands. Busy mind. I gave myself this week to continue this process before I start writing. Up until now, I still didn't even know my characters name, but now, in all my musing and thinking she told me. Lola.

Today, I walked home from the gym. That might not sound weird to most of you, but in Texas, the temps have already hit 105. When I left, it was cloudy, and instead of calling a Lyft, I decided to walk the little over mile home. Mid-way the sun came out. I paused under the shade of a Mulberry tree and pondered how silly it would seem to call for a 5 min ride or make the 15 min walk. I pulled out my phone, went to Amazon music and decided to listen to Lamar's DAMN for the remainder of my hike. I listened to DNA, thought about Lola, thought about my sore fingertips from steel guitar strings, and my upcoming trip to Belgium to focus even more on Lola.

Lola, like Coca-Cola.

And just like that, as the sun turned my brown skin a little toastier, summer arrived.

Let Them Eat Guns

2018-03-16T17:17:00.001-06:00

The first time I held a gun I was around seven-years-old. I remember the feeling of being at the outdoor gun range with my mom, which in El Paso is really just the desert with some wooden barriers put in the right places. It was bright. I squinted even wearing my mom's oversized aviators. The hot but cool heat of her .357 service revolver in my hand was heavy. I felt like Clint Eastwood's Dirty Harry and every other western I'd seen on TV with my grandma only I was wearing pink Converse.

When I tell this story, I get looks. I get the pursed lipped looks. I laugh the judgement off just like I've learned to laugh off the other things on the ever growing list. It's easier to judge when someone wasn't there. When they don't know. Their faces change dramatically when I follow up by saying my mom worked in law enforcement, and that she showed me how to use a gun so I understood what it was. Suddenly, I'm no longer some hellion from Texas who went around swinging guns in the air like they swung balloons and fucking rainbow unicorns.

That revolver and later the .45 she carried on her hip on a daily basis meant many things. It meant she was going to work when it lay on a stool near her dresser in her bedroom. It meant she was staying home when it hung near her bedside from the headboard. It meant she might have to kill someone who wanted to hurt her when it hung from her hip. As a child, it meant it might keep my mom safe. Even when I realized it was only the intention of the person holding the weapon that determined its use for good and evil, I prayed at night that my mom would be safe when she went to work a graveyard shift.

Guns have a lot more meanings than the ones above, though. Especially now. They mean fear, death, loss and more importantly they mean money. Now, as an adult, I like to say things to bait my gun connoisseur mother because I see how much more these metal shaped objects mean. That's why people get so angry and defensive, right? That's what gives grown men the right to call teenage girls "lesbian skinheads"? Guns have become a warped symbol of antiquated American ideals. Guns covered under the 2nd Amendment from the 1700's should not be compared to AR-15's. This is not a to-mato tom-ato discussion. This is 800-rounds-a-fucking-minute.

This past Christmas as many times before the topics of mass shootings came up while I was in Medellin, CO. "¿Pero por qué pasan esas cosas en los EE.UU?" my in-laws ask. Obviously, I don't have a response. But one has to stop and wonder, when people from one of the countries with the most violent histories is asking what our problem is, maybe there's a fucking problem. I believe that many are clinging so hard to ideals that are only filling already rich white men's pockets because they are eating spoonful's and spoonful's of propaganda. As long as we keep fighting amongst ourselves, they win. It's no longer, "Let them eat cake". It's "Let them eat guns."

I Want to Be Like Jules

2018-02-21T19:22:00.000-07:00

A few weeks ago, I went to the screening of Pulp Fiction at the Alamo Draft House. I was excited to see the movie in the theater. To be honest, I can't remember if I saw it in the theater the first time, but even if I did, I probably didn't get the subtleties of the film and really just thought all the shooting and fucks the movie used were amazing. Because I mean, they are amazing, but I'm older now. More mature. Yeah, that's it.

On an odd but serious note, I think this was apparent in the connection I felt with Samuel L. Jackson's character Jules. I know that may sound crazy. I don't shoot people for a living. Arguably, I don't cuss as much. The N word is definitely not dropped from my lips outside of singing along to Jay-Z or Kendrick alone in my car. But what rang true for me was the end.

No, not the part about the bacon. While Jules makes a point that pigs are filthy animals, I can't help but turn around and eat bacon. It's too delicious to pass up. The part I'm referencing is about walking the earth. Now, I don't have a bad motherfucker wallet to fund walking the earth, but Jules' lines about eyes being wide open about wanting to be a better person stood out.

2017 was a trying year for me. The year felt like a beautiful pair of shoes that pinched and left my feet throbbing by the end of the night. It was the year where I feel I stumbled a bit more than usual. Hell, the year started with my right leg in a boot from an actual fall. My book series was canceled. I fell prey to the third-year tenure stress, etc. Nothing was horrible, but there were only small glimmers of really good. My husband. My family. My friends. My dogs. All good. Yasmin's funk. Not so good. Because I was literally in a funky mood. Funky foot. Funky. Funky. Fucker shit funk. But fuck that funk.

2018 is about wanting to be better. If Jules can be a bad motherfucker and spare Honey Bunny and Gotta-Pee-Yolanda, then I can go back to finding a balance. I can "walk" my own earth and return to my glass half full optimism. I can be better. Right now, I don't know what that entails. I still haven't found the time to write more. I haven't read as much as I would like. But, I've been obsessed with fitness. The gym is meditative for me. My classrooms are lighter. Happier. I feel happier. Lighter. And, it's not just the lbs around my middle. I don't know if it's my excitement, or my students are better, maybe a bit of both, but I don't dread them as much as last semester. The positives have by far outweighed the negatives so far.

So in the movie's final scene. As Jules, Honey Bunny, Gotta-Pee-Yolando, and Vincent stood around holding guns at each other. I thought, "I want to be the shepherd."

Listas de Colombia

2018-01-24T13:27:00.000-07:00

Number of hours spent traveling: 20
Days spent in Colombia: 29
Cazuela de frijoles comidas: 2
Tres Cordillera cervezas tomadas: 15
Shots of aguardiente shots I turned away: 6
Shots of aguardiente I couldn't turn away: 4
Veces que usé tenso equivocado en español: unknown
Ceviches I ate: 6
Days at the beach: 4
Micheladas: 10
Showers taken: 58
Sunblock application: 10
Usos de la palabra chevre: 5
People asked why I was a brown gringa: 4
Times I was offended by this: 0
Times people thought I was Colombian until I spoke: unknown
Apologies made on behalf of United States for Donald Trump: 1
Explanation of the El Paso/Juarez border: 5
Uso de la frase, "ese man": 20
Photos taken: 88
Veces que escuchú salsa: infinito
Ramen from Formosa restaurant eaten: 3
Max number of hours of speaking only Spanish before mouth and brain hurt: 4
New tattoo: 1
Book read: 1
Books started and left unfinished: 1
Reruns of CSI: Miami watched on AXN: 20
Ubers rides: 15
Chicharonnes eaten: 12
Jaras de sangria:10
Times I saw how others view the United States: 36
Visits to the gym: 3
Yoga sessions: 2
Confused faces when I spoke Spanish: 10
Confused faces when I spoke English: 15
Montadas en metro: 2
Pedadso de chunchurria comida: 1
Most steps walked 15,534
Bags of coffee brought home: 30
Hours awake before arriving home: 22
Time needed to recover from vacation: unknown

Dear People Who Hate Us

2017-08-26T11:38:00.003-06:00

Last night, I spent the evening laughing and talking with a group of women writers I'm proud to call friends. At the table, our conversation bounced around in English and Spanish about books and shows and general gossip. As we laughed, the music, a combination of cumbias and current pop Spanish hits, at times drowned us out, so we talked louder. We ate our nachos, enchiladas, and chimichanga. I felt safe. I got to forget just for a moment about the rest of the world. As soon as I got home, my phone overflowed with notification of the president's latest blunder. The warmth I had just felt faded just a little. The reality of the hatred many feel for people of color burst my bubble. I feel the weight of it on my body. I feel it chipping away at my usual hopeful demeanor.

I want to say,

'Dear People who Hate Us,

What have we done to you? Where did you learn to hate so hard? What have I done to you? Do you even know my family has probably been here longer than yours? Do you know that the United States of America was never white? Do you know that you are probably not as white as you think you are?

Do you know when you tell African Americans to go back to Africa that it might have been your ancestors who forcibly brought their ancestors? Do you see the irony in this? Do you know that the world is laughing at ashamed of us right now?

Do you know that this country was built on immigrants and unless you're Native American you are the product of immigrants? Do you know that there is already a giant metal fence on the border? Do you know that instead of blaming brown people for your problems you should probably look in the mirror first? Do you even know why produce is so cheap? Do you know that crops are rotting because no one wants those jobs you were complaining were being taken?

Do you know that you spend hours in the sun just to be my color?

Do you know that knowing two languages makes us smarter? Do you know that everywhere else this is celebrated and the United States of America is one of the only countries who snub their nose at it?
Do you know that there's power in being able to call someone a fucker and an hijo de puta without a blink of an eye? Do you know that I think you are hijos de putas for hating us just for being brown?

Do you know how petty it is to hate someone for that reason? Do you know that while you're busy hating us, we are working harder to be creative and love and be positive? Do you know that even though sometimes I cry because of how you feel, treat, act out on fellow people of color, I still get up the next day and ready myself for a new fight? Do you know that I am educating your children on diversity? Do you know there is an army of educators fighting right now?

Do you know that even though I want to hate you, I can't?

And to you, yes you, the person reading this who doesn't hate but is silent in the wake of this chaos, what will you do when they come for you?'

No, I Didn't Mean Turns, I Meant Tiendas

2017-07-18T12:24:00.002-06:00

I've been thinking a lot about being bilingual lately. In June, my sister-in-law visited, and at the beginning of the visit I tried to speak mostly Spanish, later it was more Spanglishy-English because I was tired. My brain got tired, and also, I'm going to be honest, I got lazy. For those of you reading this who are bilingual(ish), you know what I'm talking about. I'm grateful that my husband lets me be lazy. (Also, it's hard to talk to someone in a different language if you're used to speaking in another. Try it. It's weird.)

I have a friend who is Puerto Rican, and I while I envy the ease in with he seamlessly switches back and forth between the two, accent free, I doubt my discipline in practicing enough to get there. I want to. I really want to. I promise, but it's like going to the gym or eating better, everyone is always better in the beginning.

Last week, my editor and friend in chief sent me a text with a translation project suggestion. I didn't understand where she was coming from until she said, "You should do more with your bilingualism." Así lo dijo. No, beating around the bush. Just there, do something, Yasmin. That's the thing though, right? I take for granted that I understand a whole other language because it's how I grew up. That was/is my normal.

In the age of Trumpism, my kind of bilingual isn't special, though. Spanish is being spat upon. If I spoke French, Swedish, or German, I'd get the special treatment. Intelligence and skill are being shadowed by willful ignorance. And in this age, I realize I have to stop being lazy. Even if it's in little ways.

One of those ways to combat my laziness and lack of knowledge of accents in Spanish is that I added the Spanish keyboard to my phone. I can switch back and forth between languages with a quick slide of the button. Easy, right? Nope. In my haste to type a funny response to a dog meme my sister-in-law sent me, I often forget to switch the keyboard. So I type tiendas and my phone's auto correct makes it turns. Turns? I'm not sure how it got there. I understand the switch of fuck to duck, but not turns. (How many times do people type duck, anyway?).

But, there's a metaphor in there, isn't there? Even with the necessary tool to assist my Spanish skills, it's a simple flip that hinders my fast response. At Lowe's this weekend a woman stopped me and asked where I had found a plant on my cart, and my brain froze. How the fuck do I say aisle??

"Lo encontré contra la pared en la primera," I said gesturing with my hand.

The woman smiled and nodded. She was polite and didn't point out my loss for words. I walked to the car and racked my brain for the word. How many times does one use the word aisle in any language anyway?

My husband told me about a student he has from Iran. He is taking Spanish class with him. Spanish will be his fifth language. It begrudgingly made me look at myself. No mames, Yasmin.

So where is this all going? I'm not sure. I thought it would come together here, somehow, but it really hasn't. Has it? Maybe that's the thing. It's almost like having two differently formed thoughts, and it's sometimes hard for them to come together. In my head, I speak super good Spanish, but then ladies come up to me a Lowe's and I forget the word for aisle.

Ducking aisle!

Tough

2017-06-28T19:09:00.002-06:00

Nine days ago I went into my first ever surgery. While minor, I was still nervous, like peed six times before they gave me the good drugs nervous. Something about losing time with anesthesia really bothered me.

I'm home, mostly in my bed, for the last nine days. I'm lying. Today, I'm on my couch. The doctor told me the recovery for a tonsillectomy for an adult was rough. He definitely downplayed "rough." Last Thursday, four days after the surgery, I went back to his office convinced I'd developed an infection because my neck was so swollen my jaw line was almost gone, and the pain so bad it brought tears to my eyes. He told me I needed to be tough and this was normal. I cried in his office.

Tough.

I find this word interesting because for a large part of my life people around me have used this word to describe me. I'm not sure what makes someone tough. Because I often cry. In fact, I cry for almost each of my emotions. Happy cry, angry cry, sad cry, I do them. So what makes someone tough?

As I've been slowly healing, I don't feel tough. I feel pain. I feel a burning pain each time I try to swallow. More than a few times, I thought I wouldn't be able to swallow. I felt like I would die. Literally. I felt like I was going to suffocate because I couldn't will the muscles in my throat to contract. When they finally did, the burning pain started in my throat radiated up into my ears and more than once brought tears to my eyes.

Is that tough?

Part of me wants to laugh at how silly it sounds. Why is a surgery that children often get so painful for an adult? But then I get a twinge of pain as I try to swallow cold water through a straw. So, I'm trying to be tough as I spoon baby food into my mouth. I'm trying to be tough when I go to bed with an ice pack on my neck.

Next month, when I can finally eat solids, and this will be a long-ago memory, I will be glad the tonsils were taken out. I'll be glad that our bodies aren't capable of remembering pain. I'll be glad I can hold a conversation for longer than a few minutes before my tongue starts to ache. And I'll say, yeah, "Fuck, tough."

Everything I Never Told You Bares All: A Book Review

2017-05-31T18:05:00.001-06:00

I gave Everything I Never Told You by Celeste Ng four stars because it was really good. In fact, it was so good, it hurt. I don't know if I could read it again, though. I felt a lonely ache each time I read it, but I would encourage anyone to read this at least once. I didn't want to give it four stars. I wanted to give it less, because while I would devour the book in lengthy segments of time, it hurt to read it, so it took longer than usual to read. This is a testament to Ng's talent.

I loved the omniscient narrator who gave readers insight into each of the characters innermost thoughts without influencing in anyway. It hurt to read because all the characters were so silently raw and unwilling to speak when needed. There were several times that I wanted to shake any one of the characters, "Say something! Say what you mean!", but I had to remind myself they were not real. Ng made them real. She made the hurt real and while reading, I became almost like the youngest character, Hannah, joining the narrator in "watching" the family.

I would recommend the book for several reasons. For writers, this is a wonderful book for reading an exceptional omniscient narrator as well as how to build flesh and blood characters who will annoy, love, anger, feel sympathy for. As just a reader, it gives a wonderful sense of otherness. If anyone has never felt different or like an other, the novel does an amazing job of showing how a family of others still feel so alone.

Review of Helen on 86th Street and Other Stories by Wendy Kaufman

2017-05-10T10:58:00.001-06:00

This is an odd book. At first there doesn't seem to be any link between the short stories, but then a common thread starts to show in seams of the pages. The narrators are all women who want to be brave even in the most seedy of situations. They all want to "fake it till the make it". While some of the stories are stronger than others they all have small slaps of reality that linger with you after you've put the book down. Definitely worth a read.

For more book reviews check out my Goodreads

From the Center of the Rounder

2017-04-20T16:31:00.000-06:00

When I was a kid, and my grandma took me shopping downtown, I used to hide in the rounders filled with clothes Now, I know they're called rounders. Then they were just a giant circle of multi-colored fabrics I could sit in the center in and feel safe. It was always cooler in that shaded center. Less fluorescent. Less department store noise. When I looked up it's center and saw the tunnel of light, I had view of the outside, but inside I was safe. What is that? As children we liked to be surrounded by over stuffed pillows or rainbow quilted forts. I wonder if it's reminiscent of the last womb we felt safe in.

Today, when I got home from work, I sat on the floor outside my husband's closet saying hi to our dogs and telling him about my day while he sat at his desk. Behind me was a pile of dirty clothes, and although I knew they held his musky scent from the gym, I flopped back into the t-shirts and track shorts, jeans and colorful socks, and looked up into the row of hanging clothes and flashed back to my childhood.

Above me hung green and blue and red and pink t-shirts and dress shirts. The bottoms all faced me, wrinkled from being pressed together. The tile floor was cool on my back and the clothes beneath cushioned my head. For a moment, I was six again. I was safe.

The Church of Rock and Roll

2017-03-03T11:53:00.000-07:00

Last night, I saw Green Day live at the County Coliseum. It's the second time I've seen the band. The first time, was in the early 2000's when they toured with Blink-182, and I was too you to know all the small things really wasn't going to matter.

When we got there, the place was already packed and the super fan music-heads were sprinkled in with their newer fans who sported updated 2017 grunge wear. I pointed to D and laughed. Flannel and El Paso didn't work in 90's and climate change hasn't made it any friendlier.

I really didn't know what to expect from the band, though. When I tried to think back to that first concert, I didn't really remember it much. Now, I've gone to a fair amount of shows in my life, so they do start to run together, but I usually remember at least one thing, but with the 2002 show, well, I really couldn't, which in retrospect was maybe a good thing. I was going in with a clean slate.

Thirty minutes in, after the crowd cheering to things like " No racism. No homophobia. No sexism. No fucking walls," the energy was reaching peak levels. Green Day's mission, and they said it several times throughout the show, was to make us feel joy.

Joy.

It's a really simple word, but not one we use often. I can't remember the last time I said it or wrote or felt it. That's odd, isn't it? I feel happy, a lot of the time. Content. Happy. Upset. Sad. But, joy? When he first asked us to show him joy, we all screamed and cheered at the top of our lungs, but even as I did it, I just felt like I was screaming. I wasn't feeling joy. I was trying to be loud. Billie Joe crinkled his nose and nodded unconvinced. I didn't know where it was going, but Longview was coming up, so I quickly forgot.

Fast forward thirty more steamy minutes and Tre Cool did leg kicks a la Vegas showgirl while singing Jame Brown's "Shout." We all sang along, and when Billie Joe and Tre switched places and they got us to all sing "a little bit softer now" Billie Joe withered on the stage and said,

"Rock and roll is going to set us free."

Then we sang along to him to Rolling Stones, "Satisfaction."

"This is unity," he said while we sang.

And it was. I looked around for a moment and saw all the raised hands and the voices singing as loud as they could, and I saw it.

Joy.

The kind I've never understood that people get by going to places like church. Even as I saw the word church, I wrinkle my nose. I find organized religion odd and stifling. And when I've seen that weird kind of elation on TV, it's never quite made sense to me. But last night, in the damp, dank seats of the Coliseum, a sea of people felt joy as they sang along to their favorite songs with arms raised and voices going hoarse. That's when he smiled.

"This is joy," he said.

And it was. And it was rock and roll that took us there. And it was freeing and wonderful not thinking about anything other than that music, singing that word, moving my body to the music.

Today, my throat is a little raw, but the feeling remains. It lingers in my mouth like the last taste of something delicious.

Joy.

As the World Goes Crazy

2017-01-27T09:41:00.000-07:00

As the world goes crazy, the essay I wrote for Entropy magazine swims in my head. The title, "All They See is Brown" is on repeat in my mind. And when I feel a panic bubble up through my chest from all the talks of Mexico and walls and anti-abortion marches and pipelines andandandand the title repeats.

Alltheyseeisbrown Alltheyseeisbrown Alltheyseeisbrown Alltheyseeisbrown Alltheyseeisbrown Alltheyseeisbrown Alltheyseeisbrown Alltheyseeisbrown Alltheyseeisbrown Alltheyseeisbrown Alltheyseeisbrown Alltheyseeisbrown Alltheyseeisbrown Alltheyseeisbrown Alltheyseeisbrown Alltheyseeisbrown Alltheyseeisbrown Alltheyseeisbrown Alltheyseeisbrown Alltheyseeisbrown Alltheyseeisbrown Alltheyseeisbrown Alltheyseeisbrown Alltheyseeisbrown Alltheyseeisbrown Alltheyseeisbrown Alltheyseeisbrown Alltheyseeisbrown Alltheyseeisbrown Alltheyseeisbrown Alltheyseeisbrown Alltheyseeisbrown Alltheyseeisbrown Alltheyseeisbrown Alltheyseeisbrown Alltheyseeisbrown Alltheyseeisbrown Alltheyseeisbrown Alltheyseeisbrown Alltheyseeisbrown Alltheyseeisbrown Alltheyseeisbrown Alltheyseeisbrown Alltheyseeisbrown Alltheyseeisbrown Alltheyseeisbrown Alltheyseeisbrown Alltheyseeisbrown Alltheyseeisbrown Alltheyseeisbrown

A Toast to the Stayton's

2016-10-17T15:39:00.000-06:00

(tapping on glass to get guests attention)

Hello!Good Evening,

For many of you who don't know me, I 'm Yasmin, one of Sarah's closest friends. In fact, if we had had the chance to chose siblings, I would have chosen Sarah. And, I know that if Sarah had decided to have a maid of honor, that would have been my role. And now, for the sake of sparing my feelings, I know she won't deny that.

(pause for audience laughter)

So, I want to say a few words about Chris and Sarah. I want to make this quick. because this night isn't about us. It's about this couple and everything they've done to organize this celebration. Many times, weddings lose focus, and I want to bring the focus back on them and the path that led them here, together, with us this evening. First, I want to thank you for having us be a part of your celebration.

(Sarah and Chris nod and smile at guests)

When Sarah first told me about Chris, we were sitting in my living room drinking margaritas. She showed me a website he'd made for her. It was quirky and funny. It was Sarah. I thought it was one of the most thoughtful things that anyone had done for her. Now, I didn't meet Chris until much later, but the website stuck out to me, because I thought, "If he took the time to do that for her, and he's just met her, he'll do much more."

When we finally did meet, I could tell he was a little nervous, and I tried not to give him the steal-y Sally eye. After some time, though, there wasn't any need for the eye. And, Sarah can tell you I have the eye.

(Yasmin gives the eye to the crowd they laugh)

But, in all seriousness, when your best friend gets married, you hope and pray that he will be a good guy for her. You hope and pray that you get along with him, because in order to be a part of her life, you have to share her with a man you don't know very well. (yet!) Mostly and most importantly, you just hope that she will be happy. And when I see Sarah with Chris, I know she's happy. I see the way he looks at her. He treats her like the most delicate thing in the world, and I know that I don't have to worry anymore. I know that he will protect her. Take care of her. Cherish her.

Finding love with someone isn't easy. I think everyone in this room knows that. The path is bumpy and sometimes loops and turns and loops again. The fact that Sarah and Chris found each other isn't something we should just be happy about. Tonight, we aren't just witnessing a wedding, we're witnessing a blossoming bud of a new family. And if that isn't something to marvel about, I don't know what is.

So, I hope that you all will join me in celebrating the Stayton's and watching them blossom.

(Yasmin raises her glass and mouths 'love you' to Sarah)

Switching Hats

2016-08-23T13:39:00.000-06:00

All summer long, I've been a writer. I developed a schedule where I woke up at 8am every day, went to my boxing gym, came home by 10:15, had a protein shake, and wrote. I would write until almost 5pm. Some days were more productive than others. Even when I couldn't write, I refused to leave the seat in front of my computer. This often caused the hubs to hate my writer's block because I often You Tube'd DIY home improvement projects for us to complete on the weekend.

Now the summer is over. Now, I am no longer a writer. I am a professor. Repeat. I am a professor.

We all play different roles. For example, I am a

daughtersisterauntwifeniecefriendwomansisterinlawbestfriendcoworkerreaderelpasoan

writer.

I am always all of these things. But this summer my main focus was being a writer. I've never had that opportunity before, and I liked it. It sort of made me re-remember why I wanted to be a writer in the first place. And although that isn't over, I have to switch hats. I am a

professor

now. I have to put that first. Not only because I have students who rely on me and a job who allows me to be a writer only in the summer, but because I truly like it as well. Today, I taught a class and the energy was just there. It was perfect. They laughed at all my well-placed jokes and after watching The Art of Storytelling they left feeling a bit inspired. (Their words not mine). And when I walked out of the classroom, I was floating on air. I felt taller. I felt like I'd made a difference and laid great groundwork for a thought provoking class.

That was at 8:30am this morning. It's 1:30, and I'm sitting at a table on campus to help lost students find their classrooms. I am writing this. I am thinking about my roles. I am thinking about how I will balance these roles. I'm praying that professor does not become so tall that writer becomes a short squat shadow at high noon.

Repeat this: I am a writer. I am a professor. I am a writer. I am a professor. I am a . . .

I only found myself

2016-07-08T17:56:00.000-06:00

Last night, I dreamt you. I dreamt you were an old man. You were the kind of old man I’d never imagined, though. Your hair had gone white and your barrel-shaped body thin, deflated.

You came up to me in a Kmart, a place I never shop, and asked if I recognized you. I didn’t. The only thing that gave me a hint it was you was the stark difference of your brown skin against a straw like white beard.

“I’m sick,” you said.

“What do you want me to do?” I asked.

“Be with me. Be there. For me," you said.

How could you ask that of me? Laughter bubble up at the base of my throat. How could you? Even in a dream, why would you ask that? My breath heaved until I was bigger. Full of anger. I looked up as if looking for God in the sky, but I only found myself. I created this dream.

“You stopped being there for me 30 years ago,” I yelled.

The words oozed from my mouth and held all the black fetid water that comes with anger. My voice quivered, and I grew taller than you. Bigger. You were in my shadow now.

You shrank from me as if I’d raised a hand to you. The words were enough I suppose.

I just did the math. It was actually 22 years ago. Twenty-two years later, and I still dream you. I dream versions of you because I haven’t seen you in fourteen years. I don’t know what you look like, and even in a city where six degrees of separation is smaller, I’ve never run into you.

I like that. I don’t like that.

The brave version of me wants to prove I don’t care. It thinks I would act as if nothing happened after. Maybe you wouldn’t even recognize me. The real version of me knows I will be brave but cry in the car like the day I left your house when I asked why you didn’t take care for me the way a father should have.

Last night I dreamt you. In the dream your family tried to make me feel guilty.

“Es tu Papá,” they said, “Lo debes de cuidar.”

I sneered, “You should take of him. You’re his family.”

My sister told me I should forgive you. She’s said those words in real life after Ita died, too. She said she didn’t want me to have regrets. My dream tells me if you die, that it will be sudden. I imagined the phone call in the dream. My mom calls. I feel sad, but then I don’t know the rest because you are a stranger.

I am angry at a stranger.

Last night, I dreamt you. It showed me that my subconscious thinks of you. It wonders what you have become. It wants to know if you care who I’ve become. It tells me that even though you are a stranger, the little girl in me foolishly loves you. It also tells me that the adult me wishes she didn’t exist anymore.

Sunday en Segundo

2016-06-29T17:09:00.002-06:00

Sunny spring Sundays always brought the people out of their red brick apartments. The rows of doorways popped open and screen doors kept the flies out. Opened windows let in the fresh breeze and sunlight. The neighborhood knew to take advantage of it because there were only a few days like this in El Paso’s spring before the winds came.

El Freddy walked down 3^rd Street toward Stanton. He’d just left from La Bowie where he ate a warm empanada. He’d passed on the cafecito even though he thought it always made the piña of the empanda taste sweeter, but it was too warm for café.

As he walked, he passed some vatos who were riding around the barrio on their tricked out chrome blinding bikes. El Freddy nodded as he passed them and he heard their laughter as one of them hit the curb and almost wiped out. El Freddy didn’t laugh but just smiled. In the alley, he heard the sounds of chavitos as they kicked a worn soccer ball shirtless and barefoot up and down toward makeshift goal posts. He liked the sounds of his gente as he made his way to his compa Beto’s house. Cumbias spilled out of the windows and mingled with the vatos and chavitos laughter. La Señora Lupe was sweeping the sidewalk in front of her door and she nodded at him as he passed. Her eyes were steely and even though El Freddy hadn’t done anything wrong his gaze moved down toward his feet.

Esa Señora era bruja, he thought and walked faster.

El Freddy found Beto outside, like everyone else, sitting in his dark green Oldsmobile wiping down the dashboard with Armor All. He wiped around a black sticker with white letters that said “Raza is Love”. Beto’s ruca had stuck it there one evening after they’d smoked because she thought it was beautiful. He heard the easy notes of Malo’s Suavecito flowing out of the car.

Laaaa-ah-ah, la-la, laaaa-ah-ah

That’s what today was. Suavectio. El Freddy leaned against the side of the car and shot the shit while Beto made sure the inside of his ride gleamed so bright it hurt the eyes of anyone walking by.

Suavecito, mi linda

Suavecito

The feelin’ I have inside for you

Suavecito, mi linda

They checked out the chavas as they walked by and laughed when the girls rolled their eyes at them. They were laughing so hard that El Freddy almost missed her. A mamacita he’d seen around a few times but never talked to was getting out of an old Buick across the street. He stared as she bent at the waist, arms against the window frame, to talk to the driver. Her tight bell bottoms hugged all her curves and he couldn’t stop staring at the jean clad corazoncito facing him.

“Ay,” he said to Beto and jutted his chin in her direction.

Beto turned to look, shook his hand fingers flapping freely and said, “Esa ruca, man. Tiene un culo,” then bit his lip.

As she straightened up, she turned to look behind her and saw El Freddy and Beto staring. El Freddy froze, lips parted, but no sound came out. She smiled at him, flipped her dark hair, and disappeared toward the corner tienda. The Buick roared off.

Never, I never meet a girl like you in my life

I never, no, no yeah

I never meet a girl like you in my life

“Andale,” Beto said toward the store.

El Freddy looked at Beto, smoothed his hands on his faded Levi’s, and nodded.

She was Fierce

2016-06-23T16:36:00.001-06:00

I once knew a woman who was fierce. She stood at the helm of her ship every day, dark hair flowing in the ocean breeze ready to face whatever the sea held for her. She manned her ship in the vast open ocean and always managed to keep the small ship from capsizing. The ocean, not always friendly to sea goers, seemed to regard her with respect. She worked hard on her ship and even when waves and storms crashed against the sides of the boat, she held quick to helm in even the darkest skies.

At night, she would stare up at the stars and plan for what was next. The pinhole lights against the stark black background held all the wishes she made every night. She lived like this for longer than anyone knew. Her boat was always moving back and forth across the sapphire seas. Until a storm that not even she could handle rolled in unexpectedly. The bright blue skies shifted into darkness. Try as she might, the boat capsized. She fought and swam but the waves threw her to and fro. Hours later, shaking and worn she somehow floated on the surface of the now still water. She cried, her tears adding to salt in the waters, alone in the ever-moving waves, but she seemed to stay still. She stayed floating above the waters of her sunken ship. And even as the waves tried to shift her toward land, she would not move. She heard them whisper to her, “We will move you to shore”, but she didn’t want to leave her ship. Even when the waves managed to shift her a little closer toward solid ground, she swam back, her heart knowing the location of her beloved sunken ship.

I once knew a woman who was fierce. I once had a mother who was fierce. She blazed fire from within and was always in danger of scorching those around her. She taught me to fight, to be brave, and to never give up. She was the captain of our ship and always managed to steer us to safety. We all looked to her. A small tribe of four aboard a ship, we knew she would never let sink. Until one day, a storm none of us saw coming almost capsized the boat. The storm raged on and we worked hard to keep the vessel afloat. Wet, shivering, and exhausted we realized we had lost one member in the chaos. The last three of the tribe, we tried to keep ourselves safe, while my mother lay down and curled into a corner of the deck and slept. Even after the storm had passed, we tried to wake her, but she simply shook her head and fell back asleep.

We watched as our lost tribe member floated off into the horizon. We mourned. For months we floated aimlessly and took turns crying at the helm not knowing where to go. And my mother? She slept. She stayed pressed against the small space of the deck and slept, and each time we tried to wake her she simply shook her head and smiled.

“I’m just so tired,” she’d say.

We three watched as she stayed in the small space curled into a tight little ball. But, the waves of the ocean kept moving. When we tried to travel to shore, she would wake long enough to point us toward another land, and another. When we asked when we she would wake, when we could travel ashore, she’d nod and smile.

“It’s fine,” she’d say.

¿Y la Prieta?

2016-06-16T19:08:00.003-06:00

My grandma, Ita, called me Prieta. She called me this because my skin is toasted brown. When I was born my mom says I was light skinned, but she knew “que iba ser morena” because the inside of my little baby thighs were already darker than the rest of me.

In the sun, I turn a darker brown. I get even more Prieta.

It was a term of endearment. My sister, who has a light complexion, was called guera or guerinchi. When I tell people who don’t speak Spanish what Prieta means, dark or the dark one, their eyes open wide and a small gasp escapes. I see the offense they feel for me sprinkled on their faces like the freckles I will never have. When I try to explain, the offense still shadows their eyes.

That is the problem with Spanish. Wait, maybe, that is their problem with Spanish. Even when I explain, they are suspicious. Their faces ask, “Is this true?” as if I am setting them up for a joke. But how can I explain the cultural and literal meaning of a word at the same time?

How do I tell them that when I heard Ita say Prieta I felt the caress of her strong hands on the top of my head as she braided my hair? How do I tell them that I never knew what Prieta really meant until some light skinned Mexican kids laughed at me and said I had to be more Mexican than them because I was “bien prieta”? How do I tell them that when they said the word it turned ugly, and I called them wetbacks in response? How do I tell them that now, even after the cruelty of children Prieta means love? That each time prieta fell from her lips, I learned to love my dark skin.

No one calls me that anymore. I miss how her words sounded aloud.

My Ita called me Prieta. Eight years ago, she died and took the name with her.