By Cynthia Martinez

When I was younger, and still in the dating scene, I thought boyfriends never loved me. Not one of them ever expressed love towards me with confetti, pan dulce, and/or over the top novela-like scenes.

And I equated that lack of action as them not being interested. I just couldn’t understand why everyone wouldn’t just express their love for me by going into a rendition of Sandra Cisneros’ You Bring Out The Mexican In Me.

For those of you who have never read the poem, she basically says, love makes her violent and over-dramatic. And I totally feel she’s talking about me  and 99 percent of my female cousins (like all families, we have that one token “normal” prima).

My family had taught me to love someone by yelling, crying, and throwing food at them — all while wearing something out of Walter Mercado’s closet. Not by saying… I love you…because, who says that?

So there I went from relationship to relationship, wondering why all men were clueless jerks. And the men perhaps wondering why I would offer them pan dulce every time they said I love you. But in my defense, who shows love with just words?

After several of my relationships ended due to lack of communication from speaking different emotional languages, I found myself passionately re-enacting a Delores del Rio scene where I cried and threw stuff, because that’s how I was taught to show heartbreak. Yes, I learned how to love off a soap opera.

I only knew how to love in one extreme or another.With several heartbreaks I found myself going on various man-hating voyages. You know the kind…the one where you swear off men, but secretly find yourself wondering what your future husband will look like as you eat your emotions away with some fancy ice cream, while telling 99 percent of your primas your plans for becoming the Asexual Woman of the New Millennium. Needless to say I was one very dramatic teenager/young 20–something.

But Then I Grew Up

But then something happened…I grew up. I started to analyze my life and how I communicated with those around me . I found that emotionally, I was a horrible communicator…and just maybe, that could have been why I chose people who could not communicate with me in return…just maybe. Because the truth was I acted out the emotions of love, but never truly allowed people to feel them.

Up until my mid-20s, I had always thought that to love was loud, in your face, and proud — much like those novelas I was addicted to as a child. Anything less than that… was not love in my book. Instead of simplifying my love life and stating how I felt, I hoped they would guess by how much confetti I threw at them. And instead of enjoying and feeling the moment someone told me they loved me, I found myself waiting for them to prove it with a Juan Gabriel song (which by the way is still the best way to make my heart melt).

I’m not saying those actions were not love, they just weren’t the most effective ways to express it, and most importantly, not the type of love I was truly looking for. There is something to be said in knowing that “I Love You” is all you need to feel loved.

With time I found I lessened my novela re-enactments and increased stating words that made people feel loved. I found that love was best enjoyed when expressed and felt in a manner that was conductive to growth, and not based on the heated display of an emotion.

Eventually, I even found a man who speaks the same emotional language as I do: he too suffers occasional caprichos and carries confetti in his car for my enjoyment.

Y Tu?

How do you express love, and how has it affected the relationships in your life?

Cynthia Martinez spends her days trying all the newest fad diets and nights shoving her face with pan dulce, because isn’t that what all good Latinas do? After leaving the world of labor relations to pursue her artistic passions, Cynthia can now be found writing over at  Fat Girl Escapades.

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Un poquito mas:

1. Why I’m a Shameless Telenovela Fan
2. I Know Love…Remains
3. I Know Love … is a Fresh Start

Hablas el Spanish?

This poll is for the second- and third- and plus-generation Latinos who were born, or have grown up, in the United States.

Inspired by the story in February’s Latina magazine titled, Are We Losing Our Language?

It appears many of us are.

Only 38 percent of third-generation Latinos in the U.S. — those of us with abuelitos born elsewhere — can speak Spanish proficiently. However, 79 percent of the second generation — those of us with foreign-born parents — are proficient. Those stats are from the story, as found in a Pew Hispanic Center survey.

My mother and grandparents immigrated from Cuba to Miami 10 years before I was born. I find myself searching for words, and worrying I may totally mess up my Miami Spanish, when I speak to a native speaker from Central and South America. And, my daughter — third generation — is way less proficient at Spanish than I was at her age.

Though we spoke Spanish to our older relatives when they were living, I find I communicate mostly in English with my cousins and relatives. Not so much Spanish, anymore.

Here’s a column by Monique Frausto, a non-Spanish-speaking Mexican-American, that goes to the heart of the Latina magazine story.

So, how are you feeling about your Spanish?

Dimelo.

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Un poquito mas:

1. Favorite Spanish Palabras
2. Need Help? Scream in Spanish
3. Really? You Don’t Look Spanish

Our Mother/Daughter "Gratitude and Goals" book

Keeping the Resolution to Connect

On most evenings before tuck-in now in 2012, my daughter and I sit on her bed, open a fat, blank book and list our “Gratitude and Goals.”

Simple gratitude for the day that has been, and goals for mañana.

We’re doing it to exercise a muscle I want her to develop into adulthood. The one that gives you faith and patience, hope and “Si se puede.”

And, I won’t lie, to lay the foundation for a tradition that will keep us talking, keep us connected and sharing stories at the end of the day.

We talk a lot now, this daughter of mine and I. Mostly, in the car is when the big questions and conversations happen — everything from her learning to say words-you-don’t-say and why, how families are created and what she’d do if she owned a zoo. Stuff like that.

I imagine that one day, she won’t want to talk to me as much. First, there is the adolescence que me da susto, and second, my daughter is a writer in bloom. No surprise there, with two writers for parents. But, writers can be solitary and moody. (Yes, even those of us who don’t mind putting their crazy on YouTube.)

At the end of the day, when we sit to write in our shared book, this 8-year-old shows me what she has written in her own journal. I keep wondering when her journal will become off-limits to me.

So, as she grows and creates the story of her own life, I want her one day to look at the pages we wrote together and remember not just the moments we wrote about, but the connection that created the words on those pages.

I can hope, anyway.

Y tu?

How do you share stories of your day to day, or of your childhood, with your child?
Do you keep a journal to record the story of your life?

Disclosure: This del alma is sponsored by Hallmark and the Life is a Special Occasion campaign. To receive notices on Hallmark products and special offers sign up for the newsletter.

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Un poquito mas:

1. Coming to America – My Story
2. My Birth Story, Naturally.
3. Share Your Gratitude and Gratitud

So, NBA star Michael Jordan announced an engagement to Yvette Prieto, a pretty Cubanita model from Miami he’s been dating for three years

My first thought was, “Welcome to la Familia, Michael.”

My second was: “Ay, madre. Cubans! Does he know what he’s getting into?”

My gringo husband thought the same thing: “El Pobre!”

Now, a disclaimer. I know nothing about the lovely Yvette Prieto, nor do I know anything about her Cuban family. They could be completely sane and quiet as Midwestern Presbyterians, for all I know. But, I do know Cuban families, and the odds are que son de madre!

By the by, his ex-wife, Juanita, is Puerto Rican, so he may know some of this stuff. But, surely not all. Cubans, well…they’re a special category of crazy fab.

So, with that in mind, here, for Michael — or any other person in love with a Cuban or Cuban-American with mucha familia:

Tips For Marrying into A Cuban Family

• Know Enough Spanish to Know When They’re Talking About You. Learn to say: “No Hablo, pero Entiendo.” (That one comes directly from my gringo, semi-fluent husband to you.)
• Learn To Speak About The Bearded Dictator with the Same Venom You Reserved For The Detroit Pistons. Learn to use only dirty, nasty adjectives before his name, and after. And please, never, ever say: “Well, at least they have free health care.” (Te cortan la lengua!)
•  If You Thought Arenas were Loud, You’ve Never Hung Out With Cubans during Any Gathering. Get used it.
• Understand that Your Future Wife Isn’t Screaming at You or Her Relatives — She’s Speaking Cuban. Heaven help you if you accuse her of screaming when she doesn’t think she is. (Have you seen Gloria/Sofia Vergara on Modern Family? Yeah, like that.)
•  You Know Nothing About Lechon. At least not in the Cuban relatives’ eyes. Admit that, know that, and all will be well. So, don’t even think of giving the men advice when they’re roasting a puero. Repeat after me: “I Know Nothing About Lechon.” OK. Good.
• A bonus: Love on the Tias. All 27 of them. Even the ones that aren’t really Tias by blood. Tell them they smell good, que lindas estan, that they cook so rico, rico, rico. If the Tias are on your side, you’re golden. Forever. If not, you’ll get more grief than when you shot an air ball in L.A.

Call me, or my gringo husband, if you need any more tips or you need help figuring out la gente.

Oh, and Congratulations!

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Un poquito mas:

1. Hispanic Holiday Celebrations: Loud and De Familia

By Angela Fregoso

Let me curar you of “Susto.”

Hay mi’ja tiendes “Susto!”

Is Susto some kind of a disease? No, this is a comment you often heard from your grandmother or a great aunt if you grew up in a Latino family, and which I especially heard all the time growing up in the Botanica my grandmother opened more than 60 years ago.

So, for Susto — which is described by a soul or spirit rocked by a shocking event — then came the egg, pierda de alumbre, calming tea, the candles and incense to cleanse you of the shock and anxiety that you had just experienced.

These days, you can actually purchase a Susto Set with complete ritual instructions to reverse anxiety symptoms caused by shock — any kind of shock. (Susto, by the way, also is known as “espanto.”)

The Susto Set includes a Guardian Angel candle, dressing oil, an ojo de venado, (mint marigold) also as known as Yerbaniz tea, and complete ritual instructions — if you don’t have an abuela or Tia to do it for you.

The Ritual to Reverse el Susto

The first step of the ritual is to light the Guardian Angel, place three drops of dressing oil inside the candle followed by a meditation session of your petition. The Guardian Angel is one of the patron Angels assigned to protect and guide a particular person and can be traced to the 5th century.

After you light your candle and spend time meditating on your petition, the next step is to burn the Pierda de Alumbre (Alum Crystal) in a pan. While the rock melts an image will form and will reveal the event that caused the “Susto.”

Now you can start focusing on a solution. The Susto Set also instructs you to carry the ojo de venado for protection from negative energy.

Another common belief in the Latino culture is that some individuals’ negative energy is so strong that their penetrating eyes can cast bad luck and give you mal de ojo or, in English, Evil Eye Disease.

If you feel your dilemma needs an extra strength approach, you can go to a Spiritual Reader, a Healer or Curandero who will pray over you and cure your symptoms with an egg. It is spirit cleansing.

Finally, the Susto ritual requires you drink Yerbaniz tea for nine days before you go to bed.

The Healing Rituals of Latino Culture

The Susto Set Ritual is one of many rituals that have been passed down by word of mouth in the Latino culture. But, there also are candle rituals for love, luck, money and protection. Whatever you need

And then there also is the drinking of teas for ailments. Latinos have been drinking teas as a form of traditional medicine for centuries.

A very popular herb at the moment is the Nopal tea. This tea is extracted from the cactus plant and is sold in many forms and also mixed in with other herbs and teas like green tea, Milk Thistle and Pau D’Arco. It supports healthy sugar, cholesterol and blood pressure already in normal range and supports a healthy bone structure.

There’s also Chaya tea, a common tea traditionally used in Mexico. This tea is packed with vitamins and minerals and thought to be especially good for diabetes

Now, the use of traditional folk medicine has become a billion dollar industry. There are hundreds of herbs commonly used as preventive medicine But, what tea formula was brewed in your kitchen growing?

Practicing Rituals Before it Was Trendy

I truly believe Latinos are way ahead of their time. Long before the popular Yoga and meditation classes, Latinos were performing rituals to calm their anxieties and to find a sense of purpose.

Long before the modern expansion of the all natural approach use as preventative medicine, Latinos were commonly using herbs as a form of healing.

Long before self help coaching seminars, we were going to Curaderos for words of wisdom and long before the feminist movement, we were turning to the strong women in our lives for guidance and direction.

Embrace your herbal remedies, continue your rituals, listen to wise man or woman in the neighborhood and honor the strong women in your life.

As yes, I still carry an “ ojo de venado” in my purse.

Y Tu?

What traditional folkloric beliefs did you grow up with?

Were you ever despojada? Did you ever get treated for Susto, or know someone who did?

What rituals and remedies do you still practice?

Angela Fregoso’s grandmother opened her first Botanica more than 60 years ago and eventually operated more than 13 grocery stores. Angela, a licensed attorney and business consultant in the Houston area, is the national marketing director for the family business, called Tex-Mex Curios, which operates in Corpus Christi and online. 

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Un poquito mas:

1. Despojos, Azabaches and Other Rituals
2. Questioning Latino Terms of Endearment
3. The Difference Between a Latino Kid Party and an Anglo Birthday Party

Cleansing el Mal de Ojo

There was a beautiful white-robed Santa Mercedes statue in my grandparent’s living room. It was on a wooden bookcase and always surrounded by fresh flowers and a glass of water.

More times than I probably can remember, I was stood in front of it and given a despojo for mal de ojo.

My great-grandmother, Mama Maria, an elegant, little bird-like woman, would say quiet prayers over me, while lightly slapping a handful of basil on my brown head.

I always tried to understand what she was saying in those low whispers. I would listen hard as she prayed, tapped my head and spun me in an effort to cleanse and sanctify me, rid me of el mal de ojo that had allegedly made me sick.

Forty years later, I can’t smell basil without thinking of those despojos.

Growing up Cuban, we’re used to los espiritus and Santeros and rituals and concoctions to protect and cleanse. A Cuban-American baby is most often still in-utero when the future Abuela purchases the black onyx azabache pin that the baby must wear on every single outfit. Dios te ampare if you take that baby out in public without her azabache.

All of that is normal for me.

But, it was a long time before I learned this sort of stuff — this magic, this espiritismo — just isn’t normal for everybody.

I’ve shared these stories with non-Latino friends — from the Midwest to the West to the South — and most go slack-jawed. They laugh uncomfortably. Make a little fun.

“So, your family thought that someone had looked at you badly and you got sick?”

“You believe that someone can give you the Evil Eye because they’re jealous?”

And, no doubt that in the South — where talk of anything beyond the love of Jesus and the power of prayer, can be sticky — at least a few people have probably prayed for my poor, confused, seemingly un-Christian Soul.

I admit, I have been embarrassed by the questions, the surprise, the mocking.

The Power of Belief

It is hard to explain the power of belief, the ties so strong to patterns generations old, to people whose childhoods don’t include water glasses under the bed. You know?

I still won’t walk over any bag in the street. I was taught that someone could have thrown out a trabajo, and I’d pick up the bad ju ju, too, if I walked over the bag.

And yet, I am not crazy.

We’re not crazy.

It’s just what we do.

Just what we know.

Why am I telling you this today?

El Susto

Partly because the New Year’s Eve rituals of 12 grapes, mopping the house, suitcase by the door, has brought some of this up, and mainly because  I’m giving you a heads up about an essay about el Susto coming this week by Angela Fregoso, whose family has owned a Texas-based Botanica for more than 60 years.

She has great stories and information about cleansing rituals and traditional supplements that our culture long has used, long has believed in.

Cuerno ‘Pa Tus Ojos

So, my great-grandmother taught me that when someone offers me an extreme  compliment, I’m supposed to say “Cuerno para tus ojos.” Like, whatever you say to me, goes back to you…like a poke in your evil, envious eye. It’s a way to protect yourself from this dreaded Evil Eye.

I have to say, I’ve never been able to go there.

I struggle with the concept of Evil Eye, of believing someone could harm another out of jealousy, envidia — even if they have no idea they’re doing it.

In all, I guess some things are easy to believe in.

And some, are not.

Just don’t make fun of me for the regular house despojos.

Those, I believe in.

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No related posts.

Pedro Infante, Mexican actor and singer, regularly heard in my home.

During this time of year, when we make our lists, assess our lives, set our goals, I have decided to focus on what I have come to call a “soft resolution.”

A soft resolution is one that I know I’ll keep. It’s not a hard hitter. Not one that will get me closer to any of my professional or educational goals; but a resolution that will help me fill in the soft parts of my life that have been mistakenly left to chance.

The soft parts of my life are my children, my family. I feel like time is running through my hands, and my children know so little about me. They know me as their mother, I have been with them more than any other person they know. And though they see me daily, they know so little about me.

My soft resolution this year is to help them get to know me better through the music that has been important in my life.

I grew up in a Spanish-speaking household. My mother and grandmother played the records they brought with them to America from Colombia so much of the time. I remember coloring and playing dolls while Pedro Infante, Guillermo Portables, Lupita Palomera played in the background.

Their music always made me feel at peace, and like I belonged. When I was away at school, or at a friend’s house, I always felt as if I were stepping in on someone else’s culture. But when I was home, and this music played in the background, I felt solid in who I was.

I want my children to know about the music I grew up with and how it made me feel. I want them to know this about me. I want them to hear more of this music, more often. I want to bring this part of me into their lives softly. I’ve played some of Infante’s songs in the car a few times, to some pretty amazing reactions.

My three boys liked it. Not for long, never longer than one song at a time; but they liked it.

They say it makes them feel good, and like there’s a part of them in that music that they forget they were about.

I know just what they mean.

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No related posts.

Merry Christmas, Feliz Navidad y Propero New Year!

Asi, all Spanglish.

We’re about to slow down over here a little bit to concentrate on making Christmas magic with an 8-year-old. Like, do you love our gingerbread house, above? It was a family effort, a new tradition, even if the house was bought already pre-assembled. Mami is a savvy fool.

We hope you are making your own magic and enjoying the season.

If you are looking for a little fun reading, and an escape, while the loqueria is going on in your house filled with mucha familia, here are some great reads from this year.

Contributors

Contributors to the Tiki Tiki bring flavor, diversity and great conversation all through the year. We are grateful for their gifts and generous stories. You always can find all the most recent contributed essays via the Contributor tag to the right of your screen.

And, if you’d like to share a cuento with the Tiki Tiki in 2012, check out our contributor info.

The Regulars

Dariela, Alexandra and Nicole bring fashion and design, good food and joyous stories to the Tiki Tiki every month. The funny and caustic Cynthia Martinez will be joining us regularly for 2012 as well.

The Freebie Good Read

Celebrating Abuela was published on Mother’s Day in honor of our viejas querida, our mamas, our abuelas. Share it with your abuela, or a beloved relative this Christmas. You can download it, put it on a CD and wrap it all nice and wonderful. It contains essays by powerful writers who loved their Abuelas very, very much.

The Series Reads

This year, the Tiki Tiki offered up three series: Latinland USA, a collection of insider tips for Latino-flavored sites in American cities and¿Vege-Que? — A Week of Healthy Eating to inspire healthier food choices. The series includes great Latino recipes that are vegetarian and/or gluten-free. We also featured writers on the topic of Becoming Mami: A New Generation Speaks on topics such as breastfeeding, natural birth and gentle parenting.

Your Gift to the Tiki Tiki

This is a plaza, a party, a pachanga, not a soapbox or a personal blog, which means we need your voice, your feedback, your smarts, your cuentos to create a record of the flavor of growing up, and living Latino in the United States.

So, in 2012, comment more, share what you like with friends via social media like Facebook, Twitter, Google+, etc. Sign up for the email to receive posts in your inbox, making it easy to forward and you never miss any Tiki Tiki.

And, seriously, consider sharing a cuento, or making a video. If you need help, editing, ideas, let me know. I can even interview you!

Think about it. Gifting us is easy! And Free!

Look for more great Tiki Tiki next year.

Until then, we leave you with Los Peces en El Rio, a joyful Spanish Christmas song, if there ever was one. (Other than Mi Burrito Sabanero!)

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Un poquito mas:

1. Merry Christmas from Tiki Tiki Readers
2. For You: Feliz Navidad, Merry Christmas and Dulce de Leche
3. Christmas Cards in Costume

What I Overheard About Santa

By Cynthia Martinez

I was one of those kids who acted like she believed in Santa Claus until I was 13. Well, 13 was the last year I was allowed to get away with my “believing in Santa charade” — something I did for my own personal gift gain.

You see my Santa bubble was busted when I was 7. At the time, my family and I lived in a studio apartment in Echo Park. Bless my parents for trying to pull a Santa trick in the same room that I slept in.

And though 7-year-old me was really proud for having solved the mystery of Santa Claus, my mother failed at answering how he came to our house with no chimney, I didn’t jump up and down as I had wanted to do, screaming at the top of caprichosa Iungs: “I GOTCHA.” And it wasn’t because I was taking the high road, it was because I overheard this whispered conversation in the middle of my parents Santa Claus shuffle:

Mom to Dad: “Ayy dios I think we went overboard for these brats”
Dad to Mom: “Yea…how many more years of this do we have?”
Mom to Dad: “No se, don’t they stop believing in Santa when they’re like 12 or 13?”
Dad to Mom: “Hmmm, well I guess they better appreciate the extra presents while they can.”

Now there was more to this conversation but, in all honesty, it’s a blur, because at that very moment I realized that if I acted all Sherlock Holmes I would be spending the rest of my Christmas’ without Santa presents, and that was not a reality I wanted to live.

So I kept my mouth shut and even threw in a snore to throw them off the scent, just in case. The next morning I woke up and acted as if Santa Claus, the Tooth Fairy, los Tres Reyes, and the Easter Bunny were all in my living room/bedroom and very loudly exclaimed how I loved Santa and would die if anything would ever happen to him or Rudolph, for that matter.

Pretending for Presents

And every year following that year, I would do the same routine. I would begin the usual routine of acting like a Saint starting on Thanksgiving (because everyone knows Santa’s memory only goes back to his last turkey binge). And, of course, I would have my Santa letter ready by December 1st in order to ensure proper delivery.

To be honest, my favorite part of my Santa-believing charade was my letter writing campaign. While my sisters and cousins asked for the newest this or that, I would write long letters highlighting the worst moments of my year and then often asked for peace on earth and if he could just take my sisters away.

Basically I asked for the impossible, perhaps if anything, to make my parents feel guilty and then compensate by giving me the gift I’d been hollering about all month like my She-Ra Barbie doll, or even better that doll that was taller than me (don’t judge, let’s remember who was lying first.)

My last letter to Santa went a little something like this:

Dear Santa,

I hope this letter finds you well. It’s me Cynthia, by the way, the forgotten child of Eleonora and Julian, just in case you too forgot who I was.

This year I have been a really good girl except for a small incident here and there, but it’s because…..let me just come out and say it. They SAY YOU ARE NOT REAL! Santa don’t get hurt, I believe in you! But having to deal with defending you to my little sisters especially has caused us to fight more than regular this year, so I’m sorry for that. I just get so mad when they say you are not real. Anyways Santa say hi to Mrs. Claus. Dad said he saw a picture of her and she looks like she’s been eating your cookies this year, so I’ll put out some extra ones for you.

This year all I want is for my parents to give me extra love and for my sisters to go away.

Love You,
Cynthia

Christmas Never Was the Same

Shortly after that particular Christmas, my parents spilled the beans on Santa, I was 13 and acted devastated and, oddly, found that ice cream was my only comfort….And then my parents found out about my little Santa charade when I got a little too ice cream happy and had started handing out Santa Charade advice to one my younger sisters.

Christmas, to be honest, has never been the same…with less presents and all.

Cynthia Martinez spends her days trying all the newest fad diets and nights shoving her face with pan dulce, because isn’t that what all good Latinas do? After leaving the world of labor relations to pursue her artistic passions, Cynthia can now be found writing over at  Fat Girl Escapades.

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Un poquito mas:

1. On Santa’s Knee. Barely.
2. Chicana Christmas: La Virgen, Las Posadas y Los Tamales
3. Feliz Navidad and Happy New Year

Alexandra and her brother, Pachito.

Magical in My Memory

My brother and I sat on the thin carpet, mouths open, eyes wide, giggling with our fingers in our mouths. It was Christmas Eve, and my entire family was sitting around our tinsel covered, brightly lit Christmas tree.

We watched as together, my mother and father pulled out what looked like the world’s largest box from behind the tree. My mother read the tag on the enormous present and my brother and I jumped up, clapping as we heard the words, “para Alejandra y Pachito, del Nino Jesus.”

In our footed pajamas, we tripped over our three other siblings and began to rip the paper that covered our gift.

“Guarden el papel!” Save the paper! my thrift minded grandmother shouted from somewhere in the background.

Her words fell on deaf ears, for we noisily tore at that paper for what seemed like an eternity. When all traces of gift wrapping were tossed aside, my brother and I jumped up and down with a joy that I am still able to feel all these years later. We had gotten it! The little spotted rocking pony that we had wished for every time we had seen it, visit after visit, at our neighborhood hardware store, was here! And it was ours!

We pulled our little bodies on board, and one behind the other, we rocked and rocked and that pony squeaked and creaked as we imagined it flying us over fields, while we held on for all we were worth.

These are the technicolor memories I have of a Christmas Eve when I was barely 3-years-old. It was the first year my father was in this country. While I was preparing for this post, I emailed my older sister to see if she had any details to add. My sister is eight years older, and she would have been 12-years-old that Christmas.

Sister Remembers Differently

Typing with excitement over the memory I hoped to share, I asked her, “Do you remember that Christmas that Pachito and I got that rocking pony we wanted so much?”

“Oh. That awful Christmas.” Her response stunned me. “Yes, yes, I do. You two had to share a present. It was Daddy’s first year in America, it was awful…we had nothing.”

I sat at the other end of the email, the wind knocked out of my memory.

“Are we talking about the same Christmas? It was wonderful. Daddy was here, we had the pony, we had the chocolate cake with pink frosting at midnight…”

“No. Don’t you remember how cold we were? Your pajamas were too small. We all had to share gifts. No one else got presents except the kids.”

“But we were so happy,” I insisted. “Daddy was dressed up in a suit and tie, and mama had on her flowered dress, and ‘buelita was cooking.”

“Daddy always wore a suit and a tie.” My sister’s email became an explanation. “Mama was pregnant and had on her only good maternity dress. And ‘buelita was always at the stove.”

Still The Best Christmas

After our email exchange was through, I sat and thought about how differently we remembered this Christmas. My sister, being older and able to understand the situation we were in, saw that Christmas through the reality of what it truly was: a struggling one.

For me, being 3-years old, I remember receiving the one thing I truly wanted. And I remember my favorite chocolate cake in the middle of a table covered with a poinsettia tablecloth. And I remember my handsome father finally being home with us.

I think of this brown pony Christmas, and it was the perfect Christmas. I didn’t notice how many presents were under the tree, I don’t remember cranky parents or long lines or fights at stores for gifts. I remember this Christmas as being magic, with a twinkling tree, and an enormous gift for my brother and I to share. And riding that pony together made it so much more fun than riding it alone could ever feel. I had my partner for our adventures.

I was a child, and my heart was bursting with the brightest, shiniest Christmas that I could imagine.

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Un poquito mas:

1. Starting My Own Bicultural Holiday Traditions
2. Hispanic Holiday Celebrations: Loud and De Familia
3. A Feast to Remember