“Beth, is everything okay? Did I put my foot in my mouth or something? You know me well enough to know that I do it very often, so it’s extremely probable,” I say as I aim to bring the mood back up.
She empties a bit of the tea into the sink, then fills it back up with a swig of whiskey. “No mija, cosa mía. I get this way when I think about Mateo and his Spanish.”
Confused, I ask, “What about it?”
She makes her way back to the couch and lowers herself onto an oversized cushion as she says, “He doesn’t speak it.”
Huh?
I’m pretty sure I’ve heard him say words here and there to Anna. And there must have been a time or two where he’s been interviewed in Spanish, no?
Then there’s the way he pronounces my first name in Spanish, as if it’s his favorite melody.
Isabella.
Beth must see me running my mental calculations. And continues. “He understands it perfectly. But he can’t read much of it, and he certainly doesn’t speak more than a handful of words. I know he can say much more, but I guess he refrains due to his accent.” Her short, manicured nails tap nervously against the ceramic mug. “And it’s my fault, really.” She stares down into the brown liquid.
“Beth—”
“No, really, it is.” She sighs as she looks off into the New York City skyline beside us. “When I left Puerto Rico, I was sixteen. I barely knew English, besides the lingo I learned from some of my favorite TV shows. That is a delicate time in a girl’s life, so you can imagine, it was hard for me to assimilate into a different culture while trying to learn the native language of my new home.” She tilts her head as she offers me a sad smile. “I was bullied relentlessly. No matter how many tutors or after-school programs I attended, there was no way humanly possible for me to erase my accent. Trust me, I tried.
“And back then? In the early eighties? Forget about it. I was called every disgusting name under the sun. My older brothers got into fist fights almost every day that first year. It was horrible.” Her voice hitches, and I scoot closer to hold her hand. “I practiced for hours on end. My voice would turn hoarse until there was no more accent to correct. Every intonation and pronunciation perfected. I went from Bethzaida to Beth. And once I felt as though I could pass as a native speaker, I made a promise to myself. That if I ever had children, they would speak perfect English. That they would not be subjected to the kind of cruelty I had experienced.”
My heart hurts for teenage Bethzaida, hearing how much pain she endured as a teenage girl in a scary new city.
I try to reassure the woman who has, on more occasions than I can count, come to my rescue. “Beth, you took your pain and did what you thought best to ensure that your child never faced the same struggles as you did. It sounds to me like you were being a protective mama bear and nothing else.” I squeeze her hand.
She makes a noncommittal noise before saying, “Yes, I was protective. But I fear that in my quest to shield him from my past demons, I also kept a part of his identity hostage from him.” She squeezes my hand in return. “Now, I would give anything for Mateo to speak freely in his native tongue, or at the very least have the option to if he so wished. And I know he does. I can tell by how he prioritizes Anna’s Spanish and French lessons as much as her other after-school activities. And how his terms of endearments for her, like mija, are in Spanish. I sense, in his own way, he’s claiming that piece of his culture I never gave him and is doing his best to instill it in his daughter. And I couldn’t be prouder of him for it.”
Language is such an important part of one’s identity, and I couldn’t imagine not speaking Spanish, even if, most times, it’s Nuyorican slang at best.
I guess I’m one of the lucky ones. Not only did I learn Spanish in my home, but my mother is a high school Spanish teacher, so there was no escaping it. Although I’m sure her students would be tickled by the colorful Dominican Spanish she reserves for outside the classroom.
Without a second thought, an idea is firmly planted in my head. “I can help him. You know, teach him some Spanish? I’m sure he’s too busy for any type of formal tutoring, but maybe I can speak more Spanish in the home? Or give him homework… potentially?” The more I speak, the sillier it sounds.
Yet Beth’s growing smile offers some encouragement. “If you could get my hardheaded son to dohomework, then you, my dear, are truly a saint. I could barely manage to get him to do it when he was in high school. Instead, he was focused on all the scouts attending his games.” She raises her hand and cups my cheek. “Thank you, Isabella. That is very kind of you. Even if it’s a few sentences, I’m sure Mateo would appreciate it. And so would I.” She pats my cheek gently before lowering her hand.
“Now, what kind of breakfast extravaganza are you and my granddaughter going to create? My only suggestion is that you steer clear of Anna’s extensive collection of sprinkles. Those fuckers light up like the fourth of July in the oven for some odd reason. I’d bet it’s all that dye.”
And for the third time tonight, I find myself bent over laughing while Beth mercilessly teases me.
eighteen
“I think we mighthave taken it a tad overboard.” I wince as I look at the disarray on the kitchen island.
Pancakes.
All we were supposed to make were simple pancakes on this ordinary Thursday morning. And it started out easy enough.
While I pulled out the flour and sugar, Anna snuck out the chocolate chips, which I absolutely approved of.
When Beth came down and made us espressos on the stovetop, I got distracted while we chatted away, talking about how coffee always tastes better from the stove than from a fancy machine.
Meanwhile, Anna continued to raid the pantry like she was a mini bank robber.
Before we knew it, she had everything under the sun out. She proclaimed it to be a “ladies breakfast,” and therefore, there should be more color on our plates.
And by color, she meant sprinkles.
