Speak my language?

Slouching in our seats waiting for the plane, the G and I can't help but tune in to the intense conversation between the two girls across the way. The girl telling the story is clearly sharing something funny as she holds her stomach gasping for air, gutting out laughter that sounds more like firecrackers. Her friend is equally hysterical, slapping the seat and pushing on her friend's shoulder as if to say "no way."

They are not speaking English mama

No G they are not speaking English

And they are NOT speaking Spanish, the G says raising an eyebrow confused.


You're right mijo. I think they are speaking Chinese. People speak many different and beautiful languages and you are lucky that you are learning two of them. Quien habla dos lenguas vale por dos, I say aloud to him echoing the words my mother has always told me. He who speaks two languages counts for two.

He continues to listen to them nodding his head as though he's understanding every word.
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"Ching chong chang you wan fry rye?" R mutters as he brushes up against our new classmate K.
K gives a quick nervous laugh as if he's expected to find the comment funny and returns to his seat.

You wouldn't expect R to say these kind of words as a Mexican boy who knows what its like to be teased. I've seen R many times on the receiving end of cruel jokes about his short stature, his oversized glasses and his crooked teeth. They call him "el feo" the ugly one and I know as he whispers these cruelties to the new kid it is really just a release of his own shame, insecurity and vulnerablity. He knows what's it like to be different and somehow there is a shame in that, better to point it out in someone else and reposition the target.
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How do we teach cultural literacy? Should it happen in the classroom? Do we do enough at home to expose our children to the beauty of other places, peoples and traditions? How can people understand one another when neighborhoods are largely segregated? Do we step outside our comfort zones to do so?
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White Center is a large Latino neighborhood outside of the city. One Sunday I convinced the Docta to make the half hour trip from our house to attend a mass in Spanish at a beautiful old church nestled among Poplar trees. The Docta would tell you he was only game because I promised we'd ask the locals where we could find the best mexi food in town but I know better he knew it meant the world to me that we all go as a family. I was in for it for the language. I wanted the G to be submerged in Spanish. I wanted him to hear it everywhere, in the songs and in the voices of children his own age speaking to their Mamas.

After mass, in the parking lot I asked a half a dozen people, "where do you go to find really good comida autentica?"

El Estacion, they told me.

When we arrived to the packed parking lot, we watched our church mates lining up out the door. The menu was in Spanish and to the Docta's delight they were serving ice cold cokes in glass bottles just like in my Abue's neighborhood in Monterrey.

Chicken Pozole
Tortillas hecho a mano
The Docta needs me to translate. Nobody speaks English.

Quesadilla por favor the G makes a request

Mas Salsa, he says later.

Ten Mama, here you go, he hands me a crumbled up napkin to throw away.

It was as though a button was switched on, the G begins speaking Spanish instantly, the Spanish I've been begging him to use with me. He does it effortlessly as though its his own native tongue.
As we finish up the last of our pozole and taco drippings, I say to the Docta,
Who would have known it is only a short drive down the road to end up smack dab in the middle of my grandma's neighborhood and in a place that feels so much like home.