Cocotaso

My parents are here. They are habla-ing with Maria in Spanish. She is answering them in English. It takes a few days for her Latina wiring to spark up.

So glad they’re here. La nena can be whiney and defiant when she isn’t charming and easy-going. The grandparental distraction will be good for both of us.

Maria’s recent acts of independence, and the abuelos being here, have reminded me of the things my parents used to say to me when I was less than charming and easy-going. (Which was often):

“Te voy a dar un cocotaso.”
“Te voy a sumbar al otro lado.”
“Te voy a dar un sanganaso.”
“Que nalgada te voy a dar.”

If I dared to translate them all the non-Spanish-speaking reader would think the Cubans I sprang from are coo-coo. Indeed, they are. Colorful too. But, cocotaso, my favorite among the parental threats of bodily harm, is kind of like “I’m going to crack your noggin.’’ Coco in Spanish is coconut and it’s also slang for “your hard-ass head.”

How sad to admit that I hadn’t thought of cocotaso in so long. Now that Maria makes me quietly mutter naughty words, the word popped into my head and jumped out of my mouth so quickly it took me by surprise. Maria giggled and grinned and repeated the word as if she were swirling fine wine around her tongue.

I rapped lightly on her head. “Cocotaso, I tell you. Cocotaso.’’
She cracked up and laughed that delicious toddler laugh. “Cocotaso, Mami. That’s funny, Mami.’’

I do not believe Maria will have these colorful, albeit admittedly violent, Cubanisms to repeat to her own children. So far, the sumbar and the nalgaso and the cocotaso just haven’t flowed from me to her. I think it’s because I’ve been therapized. I'm American that way. And the therapized Cubanita just doesn’t think to tell the kid she’s gonna get zoomed across the room. In a way, that’s a shame. Sumbar is a great word.

Se llama Maria

We kept our daughter’s name a secret while I was pregnant. Our long quest to get pregnant was so public. Me. Big Mouth. I told just about anyone how hard it was to make a baby. Infertility was a great shock. I’m Latin, for goodness sakes. I’m supposed to get pregnant easily. So, I talked about it. A lot. It’s how I cope.
When it finally happened - after many tears and well-targeted injections to the belly - we decided to keep something to ourselves. OK, I decided to keep something to myself. For once.
While we debated the merits of Carmen, Carmela, Fabiana, Emmanuel, and Nora it always came back to Maria. The most popular Latin name. A name that when shouted in any Miami high school hallway in the 1970s and ’80s would have meant half the girls turned around.
“Maria.” A name I never, ever would have thought would be the name my daughter should be given. You see, I once had dreamt of Meagans and Sarahs. But, that was a lifetime ago, before I found my core.
In Miami, my cousins and friends were giving their children beautiful Anglo-Saxon names. Opinionated as my family is, we felt certain that picking Maria -- “una Maria cualquiera’’ - we would be mocked and inundated with ridicule.
Indeed, we kind of were. But, my family was more polite than expected and our dark-haired Maria fits her name so well. The name sounds light and lyrical to me and she is. Her name is popular not just in Miami and Mexico City, but in Norway, Greece and Italy. Our hope for her is that she be well-traveled and global-minded. Maybe her name will help guide her down that path.
Plus, giving her such a Latina name, we figured our little Southern boonie babe would not one day be in a classroom with a half-dozen other girls of the same name.
Ha.
When Maria was an infant, we were sitting in the pediatrician’s waiting room. The nurse opened the door and called for “Maria.’’ Two of us stood up. The nurse motioned the other mother forward, an Anglo lady with an elementary-aged Maria. I was gladly surprised, but more than shocked later when the same nurse said there were two more Marias already in exam rooms. Only two of us were Latin.

Signs from the Universe via NPR

I was making picadillo tonight -- a Cuban ground beef dish -- while la nina was playing with her blocks. On NPR, a Cuban-American woman was delivering an essay about how hard it is to teach her children Spanish all the way up there in the Boston suburbs. Seems we're both from Miami. I, however, now live in wooded seclusion in Tennessee. No hay muchos Cubanos aqui tampoco.

How odd that on this stormy evening, when I hadn't made picadillo in weeks, have been fretting daily about not speaking enough espanol to la nina, and have been working like a mula to sell bilingual baby tees, I hear another mami expressing the same fears -- our kids won't understand, won't speak Spanish.

So, it's a sign perhaps that I'd better keep selling the tees and I'd better habla un poquito mas el espanol.