The Amazing, not Scary, Bilingual

The woman sitting next to me on the bench at the pool today asked if I taught Spanish. I said no.

“But, you sound like you really know how to speak it,’’ she said.

“I do. It’s my first language,’’ I said.

“But, you have no accent. Where are you from?’’

“I’m American, but I am the daughter of immigrants,’’ I said, pointing to my dad.

“You have an amazing brain. The way you bounce from one language to the other. I’ve been listening to you.’’

Amazing brain! Seriously, she said that. No one has told me my brain was amazing in like two years. Just glad my husband was there to hear it firsthand.

We were at the pool watching Maria learn to swim. (Still won’t stick her face in the water, but hey she’s kinda dog paddling). I had been speaking to my father in Spanish and my husband in English. The impressed lady asked if I knew of any classes, books or CDs for her kids. I recommended Boca Beth. We had a nice chat on the benefits of bilingualism.

But, here’s what I mostly walked away with: I am indeed the daughter of immigrants. I am indeed a first-generation American. Maybe if the people who are so freaked about immigration overheard more people like me at the pool, bank, grocery store, etc. and maybe actually got to know us, they might not be so blankety blank scared about their future, about America’s future.

They might find out we’re not scary, and that imagine this, we assimilate! And, they might actually like us -- not just our mojitos and tacos and cheap labor -- and our amazing bilingual American brains.

Do you want to raise a bilingual child?

Go read Corey's blog entry about a bilingual education study on infants at An American Between Worlds.

And then throw the Baby Einstein videos right into the basura.

What a good day looks like from here

Butterflies everywhere

Bluebirds feeding babies

Mojitos ala Papi on the deck.

Cuba Nostalgia: New Designs on the way

So, I was standing in our Cuba Nostalgia booth last year when a viejita - purse dangling from crook of her arm, auburn hair perfectly coifed -- picked up a tee in the egg box and asked:

“¿Cuanto?’’
“Vente,’’ I said.

She looked at me as if I was rowing the wrong way on the Florida Straits. She dropped that box. And Fast.

Esa señora’s hilariously sour face has stayed with me. I laugh at the brutal honesty of our people, even when they don’t say a word. I laugh at the gap between some of the older ones who couldn’t see spending $20 on a kid’s tee, and the young ones who bought three and four and, in a few cases, came back for more.

So, señora…this one is for you:

At this year’s Cuba Nostalgia, we are debuting our collection on white 100% cotton T-shirts, sizes 6 months to 6. No box. Same great quality, less fula. We’ve even added some non-Pollitos children’s designs. No chicken, but same great taste.

Plus, for the first time, we’ve got three que caliente designs for women, including the much-requested “Candela,” which only will be available at the show.

Of course, our classic Los Pollitos baby tees in vibrant colors and nestled in fab gift box, also will be available....yes, for $20.

I will post some pictures and new details here as the show date edges closer.

So oye, if you’re in South Florida, pass this along, por favor. And come see us!

It is my hope the viejita of my inspiration comes back to the booth this year. I want to give her a free T-shirt.

Tin, Marín de mucho repetition

My father is here. That means fun for Maria and a little more free time for me. Amen.

In the last 24 hours he has taught her a new Cubanism -- the Spanish version of eenie meenie miney mo.

It's a bit of an ear worm, as they're playing all the time, hiding rocks in their palms and guessing. Is it a surprise my father often loses?

Here it is for those who may remember, or would like to learn. I could not even begin to translate this:

tin, marín, de dos pingüé
cúcara, mácara, títere fue.

It's also no surprise she announced:
"I'm having fun with abuelito!''

Que aguante, que felicidad

This picture, a wedding out-take, was on our fridge for years. I thought it hilarious when I put that little thought bubble on it and loved the fierce look on my father's face under that guajiro hat. Those are my parents in the background. See the resemblance with my mom? (The blacking out of my husband's face, I just did. He's a private sort.)

So, today marks Year 14 with the Gringo Mas Cubiche Que Hay.

When the man who dared marry me met my family, he was instantly loved.

He'd been to Cuba, where we met while reporting during the 1991 Pan American Games. ("La Virgen te lo trajo," all the old women said.)

He knew to say: "Kennedy: Bad. Reagan: Good.''

He knew more of Cuban history than some of my own relatives did. He's a student of history so when he spewed details of Moncada's attack, Chibas on-the-radio suicide, and such -- which they expected no gringo guy from California to know -- my great-uncles practically gave me to him in that moment.

He knew to tell my mother how bella she is and in the years since has learned to tell her to "calmate.''

He quickly learned to say: "No hablo, pero entiendo.''

He sealed his fate as "Number 1" -- as my father calls him -- when he had little pins made depicting Cuba and South Florida and dotted Havana (where we met), Miami (our wedding locale) and Banes (my mom's Cuban hometown) on the tiny metal map. He gave them out at our wedding reception. My great-uncles still wear them on their lapels.

I could go on.

But briefly, my husband has provided love, refuge, understanding and a necessary even-temperament to my uneven one. And, as any real marriage should, lots of opportunity for personal growth. If you've ever been married, you know exactly what I mean.

This evening as we prayed before dinner, my husband was giving thanks for our years together. As he was finishing, Maria tooted. Loudly. We looked at each other, cracked up, and agreed: "Yup, that's about it.''

Spirited Child, Laughing Spirits

A couple of weeks ago I spent a whole Saturday at a spiritual and gothic-style campus brain-storming for the future of the non-profit on whose board I sit. It was exciting and energizing, save for the over-use of the word “matrix,’’ and flip charts, which remind me of way too many meetings from my corporate past.

Anyway, as we prepared to end our retreat, I glanced over at the beautiful young woman who sat next to me all day. She is a smart, well-spoken professional and a single woman with fabulous hair, sexy shoes and a buttery, leather handbag.

My mind drifted: “Ah, you’re probably going home to lie on the couch a while, then you’ll go out for sushi and crisp, white wine and good company. Maybe you’ll come home early, watch a little SNL and sleep in until 9.’’

I lusted. I wanted to be 29, single and childless in that very moment. This is the sort of feeling a good madre does not normally admit, si?

You see, for weeks now, there has been a pollen party in my sinuses. A total takeover, and amigos, I am tired. Agotada. The nose that can’t decide whether to drip or clog and a head that feels it will split open at any second has been aggravated by tax season, getting ready for our Miami show next month, and the fact my 3-year-old is a rebel. Rebelde, I tell you.

I knew that retreat Saturday, already pollen polluted, I would drag myself home to solo-parent a child with the tenacity of the furry creature in Groundhog Day and the verbal assault skills of Jack Nicholson in A Few Good Men. (Dad was on a business trip. Lucky bastard.)

So, on my nightstand:
1-2-3 Magic
Children: The Challenge
How to Talk So Kids Will Listen & Listen So Kids Will Talk
Raising your Spirited Child.

And lastly for grins and validation: The Bitch in the House. All about women’s anger. So helpful to know I am not the only one capable of channeling Roseanne Conner and Mommy Dearest in the same moment.

The supreme control it takes to not give my daughter the nalgaso of her life amazes me. The superhuman effort it takes not to do the Eddie Murphy mama thing and fling that chancleta at her round bottom (remember that skit?) is shocking to me. I pat myself on the back for the fact that, on particularly challenging days, I don’t yell all day long. (Oh, and p.s.: She only messes with me and to a lesser degree, her father. She has many days of sheer perfection and then the worm turns. She’s a sweetheart with everyone else and she’s a great playmate. Hija de viejos, she has our number.)

So, at home -- Ground Zero for Whiny -- we do Time Out, we take away privileges. (That 1-2-3 Magic works, by the way, as does shutting up and just issuing simple commands, not college-level lectures and negotiating treaties, as had been our over-therapized M.O.)

I often imagine my ancestors looking down and laughing their Cuban asses off. ¡Que comemierda, esa Cary! Dale un nalgaso al fin!’’ (Translation: What a dumb-ass, that Carrie. Just spank her ass already!’’)

That’ll fix her for sure, my living relatives say.

Ah, but it won’t. At 22-months, when I swatted her behind, she knit her brow together and growled: "Do Not Spank My Bottom!''

My beautiful, smart, funny, and charming child simply was born with a strong will and more brain cells and determination than her mother ever had. How could I stomp the fire out of her? It will serve her well, whatever path she chooses. Being a mouthy pain has served me well, after all. Apple/fall/tree. You know. Her father is a rabble rouser in his own right.

It can go without saying that she is adored and I wouldn't change one thing about her spirit. I just have to learn not to let her candelita kill me, or give me regular patatus, before she turns 18. My reading list will, no doubt, keep growing.

Truth be told, I’ll probably continue to lust after the lives of single 29-year-olds once in a while, but I would really, really like to keep the dead Cubans from laughing inside my stuffy head.

Un pasito pa'tras

From the backseat:

"Mami, I don't speak Spanish anymore.''
"Oh really, que paso?''
"The words are all speaked out of me.''

The Original Boonie Babes

In a strip mall restaurant in Middle Tennessee, three Cubanitas sat for a 2-hour lunch this week. ¡Que Rico! It was energizing to sit with people who know The Cubano Code, speak perfect Spanglish and know exactly what you mean when you say “Cuban Mother.’’ Exactly-what-you-mean.

I was introduced to them via the Internet. A cousin of one of them lives in Miami, saw a mention of Los Pollitos on Babalu and called la prima in Tennessee to tell her to get in touch with the chick from the chicken tees. Isn’t that the way it always works? A cousin?

So, as we shared about everything from politics to breastfeeding, it hit me these ladies are pioneers in Boonie living. They grew up with a bunch of Cubans in Decatur, Ga. That’s in the ’60s and ’70s. They did quinceañeras and went to a club cubano. (It's still there) That would be in the Atlanta area, folks. More than 30 years ago. It has to be proof that Cubans are bold and are, indeed, everywhere.

A friend of theirs, the storyteller and author Carmen Agra Deedy, captured the ride in her CD, Growing up Cuban in Decatur, Georgia. I’ve long been a fan of Deedy's and I am here to tell you that if you haven’t heard her tell stories, you must. If my fuzzy memory serves, there’s a hilarious story on the disc about the time Deedy gave her mom some self-help books. Deedy’s mom then asked if she thought the Lord Jesus was co-dependent too.

Looking forward to the next lunch date. I’m voting for wine with our food to loosen the tongues. Anyone who grew up where they did, when they did surely have their own crazy, Boonie stories to tell.

Cacahuate-free Easter bunny

There have been community Easter egg hunts all over this region for a week now. We have not gone to any. When Maria’s pre-school teacher told me she was hosting a hunt at school, I was less than thrilled. But, thank goodness for Jolly Rancher jelly beans and Yogos.

Maria is allergic to peanuts and isn’t allowed to eat other nuts or seafood until she’s tested again at 5. There are few candies she can eat. There is a lot of explaining on our part about what is safe and what is not. About how sharing is cool, but don’t share food and treats, por favor. I can’t tell her tainted food can kill her. She’s only 3. We talk about “safe’’ foods and treats. We talk about how some foods can make her very sick and why we have to read every single food label.

We carry an Epi pen, an instrument of horror and hope. You pray never to have to use it, and yet, you are grateful to have it.

I’ve had to learn to say peanut, mani, cacahuate at Mexican restaurants and my latest goal is to teach her the Spanish translations for various nuts, but since we don’t eat them or see them, the learning has been slow. Sometimes I feel like she just needs to always wear a big sticker: No avellanas, almendras, anacardos, castañas, piñones.

Ridiculous, perhaps.

But this is why, despite my having a million Los Pollitos tees in inventory, I prefer to dress her in this. No kidding. It has been so much a part of her wardrobe my brother asked if Maria had any other T-shirts. Pues claro, pero the Mami is a little nuts when it comes to this topic.

Newt: Mira mi ghetto

The fear and ugly that spews from people should stop surprising me and making me sad and angry. A few days ago Newt Gingrich was quoted as saying bilingual education is learning the "language of living in a ghetto.'' He called English "the language of prosperity.'' And while I agree that in our land of great, knowing what someone is saying and understanding documents and law are key to thriving, is there really a need to diss bilingualism? And, aren't there many languages of prosperity?

Why so much fear?

Once a week I get together with two Latina friends. We habla a little Spanish -- not enough -- and we watch our girls play and laugh.

Five out of six of their parents were born in the United States.

Their hearts beat to the rhythms created by ancestors who were: Cuban, Spanish, Irish, Scottish, Norwegian, French, Dominican, German, Swedish, African, Native American, English, Mexican and Greek.

Two are bilingual. One is trilingual.

They are America.

And they will thrive.