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

Disconnected and Disconcerted

Having had a difficult childhood, vulnerabilities are not something I like to posses. In addition, as the eldest of four by a minimum of six years, there was an image and feeling of power that I had created which served me well for many years. Vulnerabilities, of almost any sort, do not settle well with my being. They make me uncomfortable and I tend to remove them as soon as I identify them. But lately, I have noticed that there is one vulnerability that I cannot vanquish so easily. Sadly enough, it is my ethnic identity.

For reasons too complicated and gory to detail right now, I am estranged from my immediate family. Consequently, any language or traditions I pass on to my children are the results of a strained effort to recall the legacy of my dearest Abuela, now twenty-two years passed. The relatives I do communicate with barely speak Spanish, live far from us or are those that live in Puerto Rico and I haven’t seen in more than a decade having only just reconnected after recently Facebook friending them. The fact is I have no connection. I have no solid grounding to my heritage. I am the threadbare, tenuous link that my children have to my heritage. It is my vulnerability. It is my sorrow.

I too often find myself questioning if I am doing enough, being Hispanic enough for my kids, being Hispanic enough for me. I always reference back to my Abuela. I ask “what did she do in this instance?” And I do that. I look to the world around me to guide me, in as well as I can be guided, in how best to be the Hispanic I want to be. I often feel like an orphan of the Earth being guided by the winds. When I hear others speak Spanish, I hear them use phrases and idioms with such ease and comfort. I can see their ties to their family in their speech and mannerisms. I can imagine them talking with their moms and dads with those words, and laughing with those jokes. Any that I use are a memory I am replaying of my grandmother, gone for so many years, far from my reach already.

And so with that said I move forward with my vulnerability. I know it is not something that I will ever be able to purge from my life, so I accept it as that which keeps my human. I do not doubt my talents, my strength, my beauty, my luck or myself, but God gave me something to doubt, so that I make sure to never doubt him.

What are the doubts in your life? What are the guides in your life?

On Being Tall

Here’s the thing about being tall, at least for me, it’s a bit hard to make friends and it’s only because most people can’t reach me. I mean the average height for a female is 5’6”, a Hispanic female I think averages more like at 5’3”. At least in my family, that’s about average. I’m not average. I’m about 4” above the American average and I’m a full 7” above family average. This wasn’t so much a problem as a kid, because I could often find older kids to befriend, or other freakishly tall girls. But then after puberty had its way with us, those other tall girls leveled out to the norm and I kept… on… going.

In high school, all I ever heard was “Stop slouching!” from my friends. To which I would always respond with “Then how am I going to hear what you’re saying?!” There is the common scene of a group of girls, huddled together, whispering secrets, giggling and bonding over crushes. I was the tall girl next to them, hunched over so that I could hear and participate. The boy situation then was a sad story too. The tall ones were upper class that didn’t date down, and boys on your grade were still waiting for their growth spurt. And when the few did get tall, they were often lanky too. Not that I was a slouch in the boy department. I just made do with the inventory available to me. When I was dating a shorter boy I’d just make sure to be sitting down when kissing, that way I wouldn’t have to crane my neck down. There’s a system to the strangest things when you’re tall, you’d be surprised.

As an adult I would often get comments from other women, presumably envying my height. “You’re so tall! It must be great to have those long legs!” You mean the legs no designer plans for when making pants? I guess lucky is one word for it. I actually had one colleague invite me to the drug store with her for lunch. And while I was new to the company, I thought it was a gesture of friendship and was quite excited. Then in the paper goods aisle, after asking me to reach the umpteenth item, she confessed she asked me to come so that I could reach the high shelf items. At that point, I’d pretty much figured. I laughed about it then, and I laugh about it now because she has now been my best friend for going on fifteen years, even if she is only 5’1”.

Has height been an issue for you? Would you befreind a tall person easily?

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?

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.

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”?

I Stand Alone - Far From The 'Round The Way Girl

One of the running themes of my life have been “I stand alone.” There has almost always been something to set my apart from the pack. I am the tallest in my family, setting me far apart from my much shorter South American and Caribbean cousins. Aside from my milk white mother, I am the lightest and most resistant to tans as well, not only setting me apart from my family that is filled with beautiful skin tones ranging from café con leche to a rich Indian red, but from a Hispanic community that generally recognizes their own by the skin tone and features I never inherited. In my childhood Italian neighborhood, I was the lone Menudo fan in the midst of an entire population of Michael Jackson fans.

As a very proud and deeply rooted Hispanic, I don’t know that I can adequately express how frustrating it is when other Hispanics don’t recognize my ethnicity. Now, I can understand under most circumstances no one is going to pick out the tall, white girl as the girl who goes home to chuletas and platanos. But when I’m reading the Spanish paper, or at the Spanish mass and they turn to me to politely force the best English they can to communicate with me, I wish I didn’t stand alone so far. How I envied the colors and features of my cousins and even my own siblings, who tan so beautifully. How I wish I could look less like a “white girl” and more like a “’’round the way girl.”

I’d love to know, are there others out there that stand alone like me? What are your feelings and thoughts?