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?

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.

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 Fourth Grade Mofongo Lunch

I had a bit of pride as I packed my daughter’s lunch yesterday morning. She was positively salivating at the mere thought of what her lunch would be later that day. We had ordered some take food from a marvelous restaurant in Jersey City, called Delicias De Puerto Rico, after mass on Sunday. We ordered plátanos rellenos, alcapurrias de yuca, ensalada de bacalao and of course mofongo con pernil.

The smells of the restaurant are heavenly and bring me back to my grandmother’s kitchen so many decades ago. Their asopao de pollo tastes as if my own Abuela had made it herself. It is the pure perfection that quiets the soul and soothes the body all at once. It is that which makes you ache for a time gone by, while filling you with that bitter momentary joy of having relived it all too briefly.

Food is one of the defining factors of any culture; cultures a large as societies and as small as families. I believe it is because the way each culture has transformed mere sustenance into the flavors, aromas and experiences they have in their foods, carry the stories of the people and the traditions. Those most cherished traditions bring us the most sense of pride when we pass them down to our children. When we do our part to create a future for the history that helped define us and guide us, we too become immortalized.

So my daughter brought her garlicky mofongo to school. And while some showed interest or curiosity, and others turned their noses up at the strange food, she gleefully dived in to her lunch enjoying every bite, unwittingly bringing forth the essence of our ancestors and their traditions into yet another generation. You can see why I was filled with pride.

Do you have food traditions that you've passed on to your children? Do your children resist or readily accept the foods of your traditions?