Songs A Mother Sings

It wasn’t until I had my first daughter that I became painfully aware that my arsenal of Spanish lullabies was rather poorly stocked. All I had at hand from my own childhood was “Tengo Una Muñeca” and “El Patio De Mi Casa.” For whatever reason, those are the only ones that I had been taught. And I held on to them pretty tightly too, as I could still sing them word for word, note for note more than twenty years later at that point. But after a while, I began to sound like a desperate, broken record, adding new notes and verses of my own to try and keep it fresh.

Finally, I did a quick search on the internet and found some books and CDs and made a sizable purchase. When they finally arrived, I put them in and played them for my daughter and me to listen and learn together. What a revelation it was to hear those wonderful songs, so full of innocence and joy. Additionally, I was surprised to hear some in there that had been buried in my own memories, but came back to me with the fresh feelings of childhood love. There was “San Severino” and “Naranja Dulce”, which I have vague memories of my Abuela singing to me when I was a girl.

Soon, I had two more children and I found myself singing them to sleep at night. “Caballito Blanco”, “Los Elefantes”, and “El Burrito Enfermo” were the songs I sang from the rocking chair in the corner of their room as they dozed. And to be honest, I really didn’t know how that could be. It seemed like a fairy tale, a myth, a lie that people tell to make the story of motherhood seem more appealing. But it was true for me. Now I sing for my littlest one as well, and she is just as mesmerized as the others, quieting down from the loudest rumble and wail to listen to my voice and tune of the songs I sing to her. My children love for me to sing them to sleep, and I love to sing to them as well. The thought of my voice being that which lulls them to a peaceful slumber, or brings them back from the brink of toddler rage, seems like almost too much of a blessing for me to deserve. But I’ll take it.

What songs do you sing to your children? What are your favorite from your childhood?


Note: I highly recommend the books and CDs of José-Luis Orozco. I have a few of them and they are superbly produced. His collections of songs are from all over different Hispanic countries so I found songs on there from both my Puerto Rican and Ecuadorian side. His music is simple and the children engage quickly. It’s great stuff! Check it out here

Those Who Can Do, Those Who Can't Teach

My mother is a New York City teacher and being a bilingual teacher she has always taught in the poorest neighborhoods. I have known nothing about education other than what I have learned from hearing about the trials and tribulations of the children my mother taught and the families they came from. They often came from poverty in their own countries and acclimated fine to the poverty of New York, because it was always a step up in many ways. You could see the struggle in the faces of the parents and the worry in the faces of the children. And the other thing you saw was community. Many were from the same country, some where from the same town, but all where the same thing, Hispanic. And in a world where they were the outsiders, that thin bond was enough to form a strong community.

I remember going to my mother's school, which in the early eighties was a bilingual school, what is now called dual language. Half the day was spent in Spanish, half the day in English. Being in a predominately Puerto Rican neighborhood at the time, we were taught cultural things like how to dance La Bomba and La Plena, which were traditional dances. It was such an enriching experience, not only for us of Puerto Rican descent, but also the Irish kids who's parent's were smart enough to send them to the school to be exposed to such beauty of language and culture.

All this reminiscing had actually been sparked by such an act of unkindness that my fury and rage did not know where else to go. See, my baby sitter is from Ecuador and her daughter was born here. Though her English is good, she is still nervous about it. She went to speak to her daughter's teacher to ask about additional homework instructions. The teacher brushed her off. Later that night her daughter asked her to never talk to her teacher again, because she embarrasses her. Having never heard anything like that from here daughter before, she pressed her for more information as to why she would say something like that. Her daughter told her that she saw and heard her teacher tell another teacher "This mother just came to talk to me, she can't even speak English right! Why don't these Hispanics just go back!" Her daughter was right there to witness this! This is the same school where the teacher of the previous year told the mother to stop talking to her daughter in Spanish and not to send her to Ecuador to visit her Grandmother, that it would confuse her language skills. Her daughter speaks both languages flawlessly. She never had a problem. The confusion is in the teacher's brain.

This is the sort of prejudice, intolerance and stupidity I understand we have to share the planet with, but I hope by raising bilingual children, and encouraging others to raise bilingual children, we can just outnumber them one day.

Have you ever experienced such bias? As the mother, what would you have done?

My Son Has The Bilingual Boy Jitters

In an effort to raise my children to be bilingual I drive twenty-five minutes out of my way so that they may take CCD classes in Spanish. My daughter was first, and she did rather well. It turns out that I was not the only one with this bright idea. In one meeting with the parents, the coordinators and priests mentioned that while some children in the Spanish CCD classes didn't even speak the language, it was great for them to go so that they get the extra language enrichment on top of the religion, and retain a grasp of their culture and community. I was always very proud of my daughter, especially when her teachers would comment on how well she spoke the language.

My eldest made her communion last year and this year my son started his religious education. I take him to the same church, with the same teachers. My son, though rather fluent at home, is much more reluctant to speak with others outside the home. Last night he came to me, in tears, pleading that I let him take CCD in English. I know that would be an easy move for me to make for him, but it would be the worst decision I could make for him as well. I let him know that I completely understood his fears. I reminded him that I too was born here, had mostly English speaking friends, only heard Spanish at home, and was often, as I still am at times, unsure of my actual fluency.

Then I told him about the one time that I was nervous about my Spanish but had no other choice but to plow ahead. I was thirteen years old and was on a plane, with no parent or other family, to visit cousins in Ecuador. They had passed out the aduana forms and I didn't have a pen on me. Now all the flight attendants spoke, it seemed to me, only Spanish. But not just any Spanish, Castellano! And while I had some exposure to Castellano from my father and the very few relatives on his side that had recently emigrated, I was much more fluent in Puerto Rican. I knew that if I asked for a "pluma", I'd get funny looks and asked why I needed a feather. So I sat there, sweating, praying, stalling every time they came to collect the form. Finally, I could stall no more and I decided to pull from the three years of Italian I just finished taking. So I went with "necesito un estilografico?" I still got strange looks. One attendant called over another. Then I tried "necesito una pluma?" More strange looks. Finally I mimed my writing, pointed to the imaginary writing implement, to which they all went "oh, esfero!"

So I told my son "See, don't worry about saying it wrong, people will always want to help." He wasn't quite convinced, though he got a kick out of my story. I then reminded him that being bilingual will do wonders for him with his aspirations of being a rock star/archeologist. He could dig all over South America and rock out over half the world. "Double the fans" I told him. He smirked, and I could see him living it in his head already. Hopefully, there was a Spanish sound track to that daydream.

Are you completely confident in your fluency? Do your kids ever question themselves?

My Relationship With Rice

Yesterday I asked our receptionist what she brought in for lunch. "Rice and beans with chicken" she replied. Flashback to my entire childhood. I would ask with such hope, "What's for dinner?", and the answer would generally be either "rice, beans and chicken", or "chicken, beans and rice" or "beans, rice and chicken". Once in a blue it was "spagehtti with red sauce... and rice." And when my Abuela passed and my mother, who was an only child and never had to learn to cook, started making the rice, things just got worse.

We had to struggle through my mother's learning process and so we ate our way through the many ways a Puerto Rican can screw up rice. It was awful and I vowed to never eat rice again once I lived on my own. And I did just that for a while. But somehow the rice in my genes wouldn't let me go that easily. And when I got the craving I would steam the rice. But I missed that ever delicious, always fought over, pegaito that comes from making Puerto Rican rice in a caldero like my Abuela did. But I made due.

My husband complains I don't make enough rice and beans and that I used it as a lure tactic then once I landed him, stopped making it. My kids complain I don't make it nearly enough, but I keep pledging that I make them sparingly because those foods, eaten too often, can lead to health problems like the diabetes my Abuela had. But now I'm getting older, and am starting to think it may not be the foods but the portions. Let's face it, Abuela didn't eat platefulls, she ate heapfulls. I'm thinking, who doesn't like to walk into a house full of the wonderfull aromas a delicious Puerto Rican meal provides? I'm starting to think "Where can I buy a good caldero?"

Have you moved away from the foods of your youth? Is age bringing you back?

Note: I've actually found a place to buy a good caldero. It's my goto Puerto Rican recipe site, and they offer so much more as well - http://elboricua.com/ I highly recommend the site.

When My Baby Says “Mash” She Ain’t Talking Potatoes

When my first child was born, I went just a bit nuts in books and videos on how to make your baby smarter, feel more loved, sleep better at night, be an expert nurser, etc, etc. I glad I bought them and while I didn’t read any one of them from cover to cover I did crack them open and glean the information I was looking for. As a result I am now the proud parent of 4 very smart, very expensive kids. See smart kids cost more money where I live because public school can’t handle their advancement, and private school makes you pay. But I’m ok with that.

I’m onto my last kid now, and she doesn’t miss a thing. She sees, hears and wants to touch everything. She’s quite convinced she’s just as big as everyone else. Not in height, she’s aware she still has to look up at everyone, but certainly in ability. She started walking earlier than the others and now she’s started to talk too. Now you have to understand that not only do my kids hear only Spanish from me, and English from their dad, but we also teach them sign language from about nine months old. So there is a TON of communication processing going on in those little brains, yet they manage to do it with such ease and grace. We taught her the most useful signs for her, among them being the sign for “more.” When she finally learned how to do it, I could see she wasn’t really happy to have to use her hands when everyone else would just say something.

Finally, she just had it with the whole dog and pony act of her signing, me saying the word and clapping and her feeling just a bit of condescension in the air. We were eating grapes and I was handing her halves, one by one. She started to sign “more,” I got ready to clap and say “¿mas?” She stopped, looked me square in the eyes and said “¿mash?” And I said “¿Mash? ¡Siiii! ¡MAAAAASH!” And I fell in love with her again for probably the tenth time that day.

What was your baby's first word? What made her/him say it? What was your reaction?

Finally!! A princess I can get behind!

You know originally I was going to speak to mothers of daughters, but now that I think about it, this applies to sons as well. See Disney has finally developed a princess character in the new movie The Princess and the Frog that was more Dame than damsel, and the prince is the one in distress. The beauty of it is, while it takes place in New Orleans and the princess is African American, she’s a character Hispanics can totally connect with. She’s no Snow White, placidly awaiting her prince in her castle while her step-mother plots against her. She’s no Cinderella, cleaning up after her step-sisters, dreaming about her prince in her father’s castle her step-mother commandeered. She’s not even like that listless Sleeping Beauty who slept while her prince came to her. This one works for what she dreams of, and it doesn’t include a prince. They are true goals, not fantasies. And the prince character is a narcissist who never learned to take care of himself. Sounds like a few of my male cousins from South America.

I like this movie because the message isn’t “someday my prince will come”, it’s more “someday I may be lucky enough to find a great princess.” It’s a different spin Disney is taking and I think it’s about time! Princess Tiana is a woman that can stand on her own, and I like that. I want my son to learn the value women bring to the lives of the men they partner with, and my daughters to see that being a princess doesn’t mean just waiting around for your prince. I am fully aware that I have much more to do with their views on this than Disney does, but I’m not going to deny the value of a movie such as this as a tool for me to refer to.

Go see The Princess and the Frog and let me know what you think. I’d be interested to know.

Here are some links for previews:
http://www.imdb.com/video/imdb/vi3719168537/

http://www.moviefone.com/movie/the-princess-and-the-frog/30244/video/the-princess-and-the-frog-trailer-no-2/40132410001

Ol' Yeller? Am I THAT Mom?!

I just discovered that I'm a yeller. Not at home, for the most part. There my tone becomes low and strong when needed. You know, my Mom voice. But it seems that my bilingualism has given me a sense of a cloak of invisibility when it comes to communicating with my children in public spaces. Just today I had to coral my children quickly and get them in the car before the cop I just saw would notice my illegally parked car and issue me a ticket. So at the top of my lungs I yelled their names and then, "¡Vamos! ¡Ahora! ¡Rápido! ¡Papi, anda y dile a tu hermana que venga ya o sino que encuentre donde dormir en el parque!" Don't worry, my kids are used to my sarcasm, but they know to put a spring in their step.

We live in the 'burbs of Jersey. They go to a small private school. The families are all well educated, and quite proper. Political correctness is a code of honor and while the ethnicities are quite varied, the culture seems universally quite WASPy. I, however, wrapped in my invisibility cloak of bilingualism (because if they can't understand you, they can't hear you either apparently), and flaring some of the jibara behaviors I picked up from my Abuela that used to embarrass my mother, I find myself yelling in a most un-WASPy manner. I never noticed it, mostly because I was politely ignored I suppose. It never occurred to me that I was YELLING, and maybe being LOUD. And if it did occur to me, it didn't bother me at all. Until my cloak of invisibility was struck with its antidote: another bilingual Hispanic.

In the middle of my YELLING, I hear "¡Hola! ¿Como estas?" I continued my YELLING, and I still heard "¡Hola! ¿Como estas?" But it was less a question and more a plea for me to stop and notice what I was doing. And when I stopped for a moment to utter "Bien, gracias" as he passed me by I could see in my fellow Latino's face, "Muchacha, no seas tan jibara." And for a moment I thought, oh my, I'm YELLING. But then I snapped back and remembered that sometimes we mother's YEll, sometimes we Hispanics YEll, and the probability that you will YELL goes up when you are a Hispanic mother. So, I'll keep my invisibility cloak and just YELL as required. But I will try to keep it to emergencies like attempting to avoid tickets for an illegal parking spot.

Are you a yeller? Do you find it kind of jibaro? Does it bother your kids?.

Don’t forget to keep tuned into this blog to read about my interviews with celebrities, community leaders and more on the topic of abuse. It will be a series of blogs because there is so much insight and wisdom to share that I have learned.

A Difficult Subject To Broach

The truth is abuse is a difficult subject to broach. For me, mostly because I am never sure how comfortable other people are with the topic. I grew up with abuse, and so became quite comfortable with the constant uneasiness of it, though not in a usual manner. I did not come to believe that it was “normal”. I did not seek partners that would repeat the pattern of abuse of humiliation. And most importantly, I do not visit the same pain I endured as a child upon my own children. I broke that chain. I became the proud, and ironically strong, weakest link in a long chain of abuse that traced far back up one side of my family tree. And I guess the question that is commonly pondered by my siblings that endured some of what I did is, how did I find that strength? The answer is never a simple one.

The truth is that it probably begins with a disposition that favored goodness and could not understand, or tolerate, anything opposed to that. But really, that could be said of any child born into this world. Hearing just once the sad and confused cry of a child that has just been battered, anyone comes to know that to be true. Add to that the tremendous influence my maternal grandmother had on how I viewed not only my abuser, but the strength I could possibly possess if I wanted, and my link in that chain became brittle and defiant against the thought of lengthening that legacy. While my mother cowered at my father’s rants and intimidation, my Abuela would yell back without so much as even a hint of fear. The louder he got, the more she stood her ground, and I saw that there was an option. I decided at a very young age to choose my Abuela’s strength over my mother’s acceptance of the abuse.

My comfort with abuse comes with the knowledge and understanding that it is not my shame. Finding my voice and courage from my Abela’s influence, I had spent my childhood lobbying my mother, and at times even my father, against the abuse through notes, conversations and poems. Upon leaving at eighteen, there were letters and a video left behind to make it clear that I was leaving the abuse and not the family. Yet, my family as a whole reacted to the exposure of the abuse in almost text book fashion. I immediately became the black sheep and a taboo topic. And while I am exceedingly happy to report that my efforts were rewarded and the abuse stopped, that my youngest sibling doesn’t even remember any of it at all, I am left with the sadness that it cost me their affection. I forced honesty on a family comfortable with the deceit of abuse, and that can be overwhelming.

I am attending an event tomorrow on the topic of domestic abuse and hope to learn how to effectively share my Abuela’s strength with others who may need it. Be it for themselves, or the sake of their children, because I understand that there are elements of parenting that can be difficult to master, like patience for the endless “But why?”s, or the elusive skill of getting kids to eat their vegetables. But raising children without raising a hand in anger is by far the simplest thing I have ever done.

What would you tell someone you thought might be living with abuse? Did you have an influence of strength in your life that changed the course of your destiny?

An important Event

Mis Hijos También is participating in Liz Claiborne Inc’s sixth annual It’s Time to Talk Day a day dedicated to ensuring that Americans speak-up about a subject that most people simply prefer not to discuss — domestic violence. It’s Time to Talk Day events will be held nationwide, including at the Department of Justice in Washington, DC with Attorney General Eric Holder and Education Secretary Arne Duncan. I will be participating in a “Talk Radio Row” on domestic violence at Liz Claiborne headquarters in New York. Major partners for this year’s event include The Department of Justice, CBS Evening News, REDBOOK, Seventeen, DoSomething.org, one, MTV, the Joyful Heart Foundation, Talkers Magazine and Talk Radio News Service. For more information visit www.loveisnotabuse.com

Stay tuned for more.

Why "El Cuco" Still Bugs Me Out

I’m going to confess that at 35 years old the mere thought of “El Cuco” still freaks me out. Demons, spirits, ghosts and ghouls do nothing for me. I can watch shows and documentaries on those topics all day and night without a worry. Of course I follow that up with some comedy just to wash the willies away, but there is almost no cure for mention of “El Cuco.” I’m guessing the Anglo equivalent would be the boogeyman. But at least the boogeyman has been somewhat defined by its name. BoogeyMAN. No one could say what “El Cuco” would look like when he came to get you. How many arms and legs? Would there be arms and legs!? What do I look out for so I know when to run! Or maybe I’ll just know. With a name like “El Cuco”, I’m guessing I’ll know alright.

As a kid “El Cuco” was a discipline technique. “Don’t do that or “El Cuco” will get you at night.” “Be nice to your sister or “El Cuco” will know and come get you.” “You better get to sleep quickly before “El Cuco” comes.” Add to that the effect of my Father bulging out his eyes every time he said “El Cuco” and terror was inescapable. Not to mention that EVERYONE seemed to know of him and all agreed about his predatory nature. My Abuela didn’t have to budge to settle a fight between my siblings. All she had to do was say “El Cuco viene si no paran de pelear.” And two wide eyed, quiet children would suddenly be looking for somewhere to sit with their backs against something so that “El Cuco” could not sneak up from behind and scare them.

I spare my kids “El Cuco” as tempting as it is sometimes to have those magic words at my disposal. I half consider it cheating and half consider it unkind, and wholly consider it unnecessary for them. So it’s one of the cultural details I will leave out for them. I’ll let them laugh at me about it later, when I’m in my 80’s, living with one of them and still need a night light.

Do your kids know about “El Cuco”?

My Little Translator

One of the coolest things my first daughter would do was translate. I spoke to her exclusively in one language and her father in another and although she would routinely witness us communicated in English, her little, still-developing brain did not put two and two together. She would stand between us, ask her dad a question, he would answer it no more than four feet away from me, and she would turn to me and translate. “Papi, can we go to the park today?” “Sure Mama, we’ll go after lunch ok?” “Mami, Papi dijo que después del almuerzo nos podemos ir al parque.” Then I’d have act like she had just enlightened me to his message. She felt so useful and so smart. And she never proved herself wrong!

With time, you could almost see her wheels turn as she tried to decipher the relationship of these two languages. She would often ask me questions about what this word or that word was in English. And when I would tell her you could almost see her feel the word in her mouth as she mulled it in her head and rolled it around her tongue. One clear summer evening, the moon was large and beautiful. We were driving back from the mall and I pointed the moon out to her. “Mira Mama, mira la luna que bella. Es una media luna, porque no está llena.” And I saw her work that over in her mind and soon I heard her little voice say to herself “media luna… sock moon.” It was one of those priceless moments.

I’d love to hear about a priceless moment when your little one was processing the languages. Share them here today!

Feeling Kind of Silly

I remember when I first started to make good on my resolution to raise my daughter bi-lingual, I felt more than just a little ridiculous. I wasn’t cooing or counting piddies, like other new moms in our Gymboree class. I was finding myself basically narrating her life to her in Spanish. I didn’t know what else to say. I mean, it was me and her alone in the house and I was completely unaware of how to have a one way conversation, in Spanish. My Spanish was usually used for hearty conversations about family bochinche and animated exchanges with others whose opinions were as strong as mine. But now I had to talk AT this little human whose blank looks gave me nothing to work with.

Through my sheer exuberance of my love for her, my daily greetings went as such : “Mama! Mama la bella, mama la linda, mama la dulce!” That’s how she got the name Mamala. And the rest of the day was me just going on and on. “¿Que hacemos hoy? ¡Yo no sé si va llover, pero no importa, que de todas maneras vamos a divertirnos!” Blah, blah blah, blah, blah, was all she heard. And after all that conversation, after two years and more, all she would say was “ma ma ma.” But I kept going, seemingly boring her with the details of her life, in español. My poor husband would sit there, completely lost in the noise of my voice, as he waited for me to translate so that he too could participate in the conversation.

Then it happened one day; as I was looking for a particular plate in a cupboard, I heard a little voice behind me say “¿Que buscas Mami?” It was sudden, it was out of nowhere and it was flawless! And suddenly I stopped feeling silly and started feeling awesome.

When did you hear your child first speak? Which language was it? What strategies do you use to raise your child as bilingual?

A Bit About Me

My name is Melissa. I am second generation Puerto Rican and first generation Ecuadorian. Essentially this means I was raised by a father from the old country and mother raised by a single mom from the old country. There was a mix of cultures, Puerto Rican and Ecuadorian being so different with just a base of sameness. And a dilution of cultures as well, as time went on and time drew us further from our roots. Being the oldest I had the most exposure to my roots, and even had the exceptional experience of spending two elementary school years in a bi-lingual school. Living the longest with my Puerto Rican grandmother in our home, I resist the most a complete divorce from what made her real and spectacular to me.

I have four children and I try to raise them as if my Abuela were still here. In the forty plus years she lived in Brooklyn, she never learned more than she absolutely needed. She’d go into any neighborhood store, make her selections, place them up on the counter and ask “How mush?” Every clerk knew what she meant and she got along just fine. Otherwise, at home, it was all Spanish all the time. And as she got older and her arthritis got worse, she would have me write the letters she would dictate to send to her sisters back home in PR. And as soon as I could, I was reading things to her also when her tired eyes needed the help. And so, my kids now speak, read and write in Spanish. And most importantly, they learn our religion in Spanish so that they could recite El Padre Nuestro as my Abuela would have taught it to them.

I’d love to know: what is your impetus for raising your children bilingual? Do you have any family members who have never, or could never learn English? Do your children communicate with them well?