She dreams of Diego

My beautiful daughter has deep green eyes and long brown hair in soft ringlets that bounce when she runs. She is the very picture of Renaissance Princess on her good days. (Naughty bohemian on her bad days.) I have imagined Halloweens of long skirts and magic wands, tiaras and face glitter.

Pero, no go. Or “nananina” as they say where I come from.

Maria has chosen to dress as Diego the Animal Rescuer. She’s got on the blue shorts, the orange rescue pack and the foamie watch. She is very happy, despite earlier complaints about the lack of toilet paper tube spotting scope.

And Mami? She’s fighting the urge to call the ballet school today.

Saints and Supposed Sinners

There was a Dia de los Muertos celebration in the city this weekend. Paper marigolds, tacos, mariachis and mucha Frida. And altars. Humble tributes to dead relatives and a large poignant one for the nameless lost while crossing the Rio Grande.

Maria liked the flickering candles, but didn’t show too much interest. Maybe it’s because she has seen the two saint boxes we have a home. Her father made them. One we call the “family box’’ where we display mementos of our lives together and honor the history we’re making. La Caridad, patron saint of Cuba, sits on top. The second is an ornate pink and gold box for La Virgen de Regla, Caridad’s down-to-earth sister.

There also are more than a few Dia de los Muertos skulls hanging around our house. Most recently one of Maria’s favorite toys is a fistful of skull beads. “Daddy, can I play with your skulls?’’ She carries them around in a little purse and counts them when she’s not chucking them across the room.

Here, in the buckle of the well-cinched Bible Belt, our choices in home décor have both freaked and intrigued guests. Maybe mostly freaked. A few years ago a neighbor was cat-sitting for us. Her mom walked into the foyer and promptly walked back out saying she’d wait on the porch swing. The woman was upset by the cross collection in the living room. Our neighbor attempted to explain there was nothing scary about us. Didn’t work. In the years we lived next door to them, the mom would only glance sideways at us after that. Sometimes, I wish we had hung a goat skin out back when she was visiting…or at least chucked a little skull bead her way.

Sorry con excuse me, Elmo

A few weeks ago, just as the holiday hype began, my father called to ask if I had seen the new Elmo.
“Are you thinking of buying that? If so, please don’t,’’ I said.
“Tu ves? Te lo dije,’’ my mom said to my father from her extension.
She knew I would resist. She knows me so well.
“Pero, Carrie esta taaaaan lindo,’’ my father continued, pleading the case.
Yes, Tickle Me Elmo is funny and we here in the boonies have nothing against the sweet red creature. In fact, Maria has an Elmo conga that shouts ¡Arriba! and we love it. But, we began to limit battery-powered toys when Maria squeezed the life out of a stuffed horse, shook it and said “It doesn’t do anything.’’
At this point if it doesn’t expand her brain (hey, wooden blocks are fun!) or support the Spanish, we ixnay. We have respectfully asked friends and relatives to shower us with bilingual toys -- yes, even battery-operated ones if they at least say "Hola." We have put in requests for Spanish books and dolls that look like us. She has some wonderful books, many received as cherished gifts, I’ll write about another time.

But, the point of this particular post (besides making you think we are no fun) is to tell you about my favorite toy website, www.dollslikeme.com, where you’ll find toys, dolls and books of every flavor. Prepare to spend some time.

So, you tell me, do you have a favorite Spanish/bilingual toy, book or doll? Let's make a list we can send to the abuelitos before they head to Wal-Mart at 3 a.m. Nov. 24.

Hotlanta

We just got back from a few days in Atlanta. Too cool to be in a Southeastern city with Hispanics of every shade - from tall blonde ones to short brown ones. And, they actually were tourists, not just hotel housekeepers and restaurant busboys. Living where I live, I complain about this lack of diversity a lot. I apologize in advance for future rants.

Our time was spent at the Georgia Aquarium and the Imagine It! children’s museum, both well worth the visit. While I did not remember the Spanish word for jellyfish and wondered if there was a translation for Beluga (as in the captivating Beluga whale), the toddler let out an oh-so-natural Cubanism during a hotel room tickle-fest that my heart swelled: “Ya, Daddy! Yaaaaaaaaa!!!!’’

When my family gets together, there's a whole lot of "Ya!'' shouted about. (If you're not Latin and you think Ya is Yay. No. It's more like "Enough already!'') Maria's going to be just fine.

Coming tomorrow: Making the case for not buying that TMX Tickle Me Elmo for Christmas, even if you can find one. (Some person has one on ebay for $4,000. Que locura.)

Outed

While this blog was created in March I didn’t tell anyone about it until two weeks ago. It made me itchy to think of writing for the whole world or for no.one.at.all.

But, with the encouragement of the three people I shared it with (Gracias, Oscar, Boca Beth and Chantel), I added a link to it in this month’s Los Pollitos Dicen newsletter. And then, the boonie blog got mentioned in these blogs: Babalu and Yucababy. Gracias for the kind words from them and recent visitors.

A worry: Now everyone will know I over use commas.

Also, I haven’t even told my parents about this site. I’m kind of performing an experiment. How long does it take for The Network to get the word to them in West Dade? A tia and a cousin receive our newsletter, so they’ve got the link. So, for the last couple of days, every time the telephone rings I imagine it’s my mom on the other end: “¡Oye, so descarada!’’

Wish me luck.

¿Como se dice “moose’’?

When Maria’s language consisted of “leche,’’ “tete’’ and “mas’’ I started using picture books to teach her words like “mejilla,’’ “burbuja’’ and “granja’’ -- words beyond the everyday. It mattered not if the book was in Spanish or English because I am bold enough to translate on my own.

And then, suddenly, it got complicated. It was “moose’’ that threw me. She pointed to a moose and I had absolutely no idea. Moose? Why would I have ever used the word moose in Spanish? Puerco, guineo, cucaracha, si. But moose? No.

Faster than one can say "no se,'' I hauled to the used bookstore to purchase a better Spanish/English dictionary. Moose = Alce, which I can never remember. But, the dictionary now sits on the bookshelf in her room, not far from my reach. We use it a lot because, unfortunately, telling her that everything I don’t know how to translate is a bicho just wouldn’t work in the long run.

Such a thing as talks too much

Week before last, sopaipillas in New Mexico.
Tonight, fried ice cream in Tennessee.
“¡Helado! ¡Helado!’’ Maria sung as she crunched on the cereal coated sweet scoop of heaven.
“Tu niña habla español?” the little man behind us asked.
“Si, bastante.”
And with that, Maria looked at him and said “¡Pingüino! ¡Pingüino!’’

The songs we sing, an occasional series

Back when Maria had 17 rolls and I could not sing Tortillitas para Mamá one more time, I googled the words to a Spanish pop song my favorite aunt taught me in the ’70s, María Isabel. Hurrah for Google, for there were the lyrics, found by simply typing in “vamos a la playa, calienta el sol.’’

Pure gold. The song has become the anthem that will make Maria laugh no matter what is happening. She especially likes it when I substitute “Isabel’’ for her two middle names and last name. I swear, I think it’s how she learned to say her whole name by the age of 17 months.

And how could one not love a chorus that goes
chi ri bi ri bi po po pom pom?

The words:

La playa estaba desierta,
el mar bañaba tu piel,
cantando con mi guitarra
para ti, María Isabel.
En la arena escribí tu nombre
y luego yo lo borré
para que nadie pisara
tu nombre, María Isabel.

Coge tu sombrero y póntelo,
vamos a la playa, calienta el sol.
Chi ri bi ri bi po po pom pom,
chi ri bi ri bi po po pom pom,
chi ri bi ri bi po po pom pom,
chi ri bi ri bi po po pom pom.

La luna fue caminando
junta a las olas del mar,
tenia celos de tus ojos
y tu forma de mirar.
Coge tu sombrero y póntelo…

And, thanks to YouTube, there’s now video of the band, Los Payos, here

Let me tell you about my Mama

My grandmother, Evelina, is the reason her grandchildren speak Spanish.

The ornery old woman -- of dense body, worn-out chancletas and heavy perfume - refused to allow my cousins and me to speak English inside the house.

“Afuera, coño! Afuera!’’ Mama would yell. “En mi casa no se habla ingles.’’

When it’s 98 degrees in Miami, you don’t want to get kicked out of the house. Besides, there’s only so much time a kid can spend harassing lizards. (Oh, the things we did to the poor lizards.)

So, while our parents increasingly spoke English to us as we grew, my grandmother stuck by her rule. Not once did she budge. And while she understood English, she refused to speak it. (I bet, though, if Bob Barker had stepped out of the TV screen and into her bedroom, she would have whispered sweet gringo nothings to the Price is Right host, her novio.)

I rebelled, of course, and spoke as little Spanish as possible, even at my bilingual private school. As a teen-ager I saw little use for Spanish and the crazy that was the Cubans with their blaring Radio Reloj, Castro-obsession, and chaperonas. I was all about Tiger Beat and Seventeen. I wanted to be a blonde. I wanted to be part of those TV families who ate pot roast and didn’t yell. I wanted a picket fence in some New England suburb and a husband named Bob or John.

And then I grew up.

As a journalist working in newsrooms with few or no Spanish-speakers, the language my grandmother demanded made me invaluable. I got stories no one else could do. I frequently translated for my colleagues, and I have visited Cuba three times as a journalist - twice to translate for my husband, who writes for a national newspaper.

The ability to speak a second language has enriched my life. It has opened doors, brought me good friends I would not otherwise know, and I would venture to say, fueled people skills and broadened my brain. So many other things, too. So many.

So when I think about my bossy Mama, who passed away in her sleep several years ago, I am grateful for the house rule. It is my strongest desire her legacy of language passes on to my daughter, her cousins and second cousins.

And in that way, my Mama lives.

So, bossy ain’t so bad.

It wasn't supposed to be this hard

I didn’t speak English fluently until I was around 4. I remember clearly the day it dawned on my parents that they could no longer speak English to keep me from knowing what they were saying -- or arguing about.

It was from the back seat of the red Maverick that I announced in sing-songy voice: “I know what you’re saying.’’ It’s one of those childhood moments that gets crystallized in your head, such a clear memory of both of them turning to me at the same time. Theirs was a look of “Ay ay yay. We’re done.’’

I was so proud of myself.

So because I was raised a bilingual cubanita in Mee-ya-mi in the 1970s and ’80s, I thought for sure that once my own child came, it would be simply a matter of spilling it in Spanish. It is my first language, after all. Color and culture, words and rhythm would, of course, come tumbling out of my head. A gift for my daughter, a bond between us.

But, it is harder than I imagined and I try to find reasons and excuses for why this is so. Here are some: I am an American living in a very Anglo city with an Anglo husband and Anglo friends. I am a journalist who has until recently made a living interviewing people and telling their stories in plain newspaper English. I think in English, unless I’m mad. I watch Project Runway and Lost, not Telemundo and Sabado Gigante. I do read Latina magazine, but only the English versions of the articles. I can’t get a decent salsa station on the radio here.

Another one: Maybe I’m just lazy?

Maybe the people who are scared of Hispanics, and the potential “barrio-izing’’ of the United States, should find comfort and joy in my angst. In it they will see that while America allows for the passing on of culture, it also challenges it and eventually changes it. As more of us move away from abuelita’s influence and weekend pachangas with la familia it means fewer of us will be able to pass on all that was given to us. (Damn, I need a good Latina mami friend). Our culture will change, and it will be in the direction of us little Latin kids going gringo rather than the other way around.

Given that, I wonder oh so often, what my daughter will know of cubanidad. Daddy, although WASP, does make a mean arroz con pollo, Mami talks fast, Abuelito likes mojitos and Abuelita is a cha cha goddess, bad back and all. There’s so much more I want to teach her about being Latin in the core.

But today, while these questions and doubts and theories swirl in my head, maybe I should just stick to this thought of simple gratitude: I can buy a piñata (the Cuban kind with the pull strings) for Maria’s 3^rd birthday at my boonie grocery store. Nine-hundred miles north of Miami.

So maybe this won’t be as hard as I think.

Lucky, Mami and the mispronouncing Daddy

A few days ago, I hugged and kissed my daughter, hugged and kissed my husband, and peeled out of the driveway.

Destination: Santa Fe, N.M.

Reason: To hang with the best best friend ever and decompress.

Ay, que maravilla. What a joy it was.

Santa Fe is beautiful. How amazing to see the richness of culture, the honor of roots and to taste the sweetness that is a fluffy sopaipilla with honey and butter. And oh, the food. The food. I regret there was only one margarita imbibed…and a poor one at that.

Didn’t run into too much Spanish-speaking. I felt odd assuming that just because someone looked like they might speak Spanish, they did, so I kept the lengua mostly the ingles version.

Back home, there was mucho espanol, however. It came in the form of correcting the daddy. Among the corrections: The word “alguien’’ or “somebody.” He says it more like “al-gwee-en.’’

He laughed hard repeating how Maria, in the middle of the book “Diez Perros en la Tienda’’ turned to him and said:

“Daddy, no. Ahl-GEE-EHN, Ahl-GEE-EHN.’’

“Daddy doesn’t speak Spanish as well as Mami, does he?’’ he said.

“Um. No,’’ she said.

Eventually

I've been thinking a lot about what this blog is supposed to be about.
Does anybody really care that I struggle to speak Spanish daily to my daughter? Maybe a little, if they can relate...and my guess is that my first-generation compadres, those of us who live far from familia are right there with me. Hell, even my primos smack in the middle Miami don't speak as much Spanish to their kids.

So, maybe they'll read and comment. Maybe people I don't even know will find me here -- solita, so far -- through the power of Google.

So anyway, at some point soon, I am going to start listing links to people and products of interest to the bilingual experience. There are a lot of cool things and sites that are worth a mention and a comment.

On the Spanish front, yesterday Maria asked me the Spanish word for "forehead." It was the first time I can recall that she asked for a translation. I loved it. It made me proud and hopeful. Maybe I'm not doing such a slouchy job after all.