Want to practice Spanish?

Those who know nothing of foreign languages know nothing of their own.
‒Johann Wolfgang von Goethe

A colleague wrote to me recently that he started his own blog, inspired by my post Why Don’t You Speak Spanish?  I’m grateful to know that John and others share a common experience as Mexican-Americans who do not speak Spanish fluently, and that he’s doing what he can to learn the language.

John’s blog is MySpanishClub and is for people who want to join him in practicing Spanish. The first challenge is to practice singing the traditional Mexican birthday song, Las Mañanitas. On your birthday, it is common to be woken up with this song, sung by your mother. It is a tradition I still look forward to each year by my mother, although she varies it year after year, alternating between the typical English Happy Birthday or Las Mañanitas.

I hope you’ll join me in participating in John’s club.

¡Muy agradecido!

Rosario

Wishes and Dreams

Birthday cake made by my dear, talented friend Rebecca on my 30th birthday.

What’s your favorite day of the year? For some, it’s Christmas. Others may look forward to the first day of school, or even the last! But if you’re anything like me, your birthday is your favorite day. The one day you look forward to each year.

Yes, I’m one of those obnoxious birthday people that celebrates their birthday like it’s a national holiday. It’s only because on this special day, I get to make a wish. And, on this day, it may actually come true. Think about wishes and dreams. As adults, how much do you really believe in wishes anymore? How about dreams? Or even … magic?

My hope is that I never stop dreaming. Never stop following my heart’s desires. My hope is that you don’t stop either.

So, today I am wishing for more wishes … three to be exact. What are yours?

1. I wish my family was closer. Not geographically closer, but intimate closer. I wish we talked more and laughed more. Yesterday, my dad called me during my lunchtime. I asked him if he had called for anything in particular, and he said “No, I just missed you. That’s all.” My heart melted. I want more of those moments, but with my mother, sister, brothers, aunts, uncles, cousins. And I mean real live talking. Not texting. Not Facebook. But in-person, actual conversations. My wish is that I slow down this year, and be a better daughter, sister, aunt, niece and granddaughter. My wish will start with me reaching out to my family and starting these conversations.

It’s been two years since my grandmother passed, and one of the things I remember most about her was how she started a tradition after I graduated college and I was living in Boston. She called me every Sunday afternoon. The phone calls were brief, but I remember them. She was just trying to keep me close – to keep her family close. And I will always remember her in my heart because of little things like that.

2. I wish for compassion. For some reason, and I don’t know where this comes from, I feel like I always have to keep it together. Do you ever feel like that? This need for perfection, or for as close to perfection as possible. I try to keep everything balanced and in order. It’s the Virgo in me, I guess. Virgos strive for perfection. But this year, I am letting go. My wish is to be as close to imperfect as possible, in fact. To give in to my flaws and stop judging the flaws in others. My wish is to be more compassionate with others and myself. And I’m going to start right now with this blog post. It doesn’t have to be perfect. It just has to be an expression of myself.

3. I wish for home. If you know me in person, you’ll know that I enjoy traveling and adventure. But as I get older, I long to plant some roots. I dated this guy once who said a song titled “For Rent” by Dido reminded him of me. I asked why. He said because that’s how you live your life, like it’s for rent. He was right. But I’ve learned that home is not a place, necessarily. In our digital age, you can stay connected with your family and friends via Facebook. You can talk face-to-face on an iPhone. So while home is the people you love the most and those who love you — and you can stay connected to them anywhere — it still helps to be in the same physical place. And I’m on the right path to building my own “home” here in St. Louis.

33 Reflections on Life

This year marks my 33rd birthday, and what an adventure it has been! Following are 33 reflections and lessons I’ve learned from life so far. I can’t wait to see what’s next. Enjoy.

1. Everyone is a work in progress.

2. Pets make people kind.

3. I still don’t know which I love more – writing or dancing.

4. It’s okay to let people in. In fact, it makes life better.

5. Take time to listen to people. You’ll learn a lot more about them by listening, rather than doing all of the talking.

6. Not all men are alike.

7. Build a personal relationship with your health. Treat it like you would a child.

8. Technology can connect us with other people, but it can never replace actual face-to-face interaction.

9. Find out who you are and don’t worry about what others think. In this great world, there is someone for everyone.

10. Be kind to yourself when you learn something new.

11. You are not alone.

12. Find people who make you laugh. And spend a lot of time with them.

13. Take risks. When you succeed at them, congratulate yourself for pushing through. If you fail, reflect on the lesson to be learned from the experience.

14. Don’t lie, cheat or steal. You’ll just end up with regrets and waste time having to put the pieces back together.

15. Spend time outdoors each season. Nature is too splendid to miss.

16. Be adventurous. Try new activities, food, books and music. It will help you stay open-minded.

17. Reuse and recycle. Challenge yourself to make something new out of something old.

18. Vote. It gives you a chance to have your voice heard and be a part of something bigger than yourself.

19. Don’t expect someone to change for you. Often, it’s just a matter of timing that brings people together or pulls them apart.

20. Know your own nature.

21. Women can be some of the most competitive people you’ll ever meet. Instead of keeping another woman down, help her up. It will make you feel more valuable and she may return the favor one day.

22. Think global. Talk to many different people who speak other languages than your own. Learn about where they come from. It will enlighten you.

23. Be confident.

24. Appreciate art and artists. There is beauty and expression all around us.

25. Take pride in everything you do and do it well. It has your name on it.

26. Learn what turns you on – and what turns you off.

27. It’s okay to be different.

28. Be fair to others.

29. Have people in your life who knew you before you were “you.” They can help put things into perspective when you need it the most.

30. Take good care of your teeth.

31. Be decisive.

32. Trust yourself.

33. Think critically. Don’t just be a receiver of information. Put your own stamp on things instead. It’s what makes you unique.

Why Don’t You Speak Spanish?

I didn’t know I was going to be such a novelty in St. Louis. I knew before moving here that it would be possible to stand out, because St. Louis City’s Hispanic or Latino population is less than four percent. But how much, I didn’t know.

Sure enough, I’m different here too. As I sit here thinking about how to describe my skin color, I can’t land on one word that fits. Caramel? Cinnamon? It’s certainly a brown of some type, with yellow undertones. The color changes as the seasons do. In the winter, it’s more yellow, like it’s starved for sunlight. During the spring, it looks tan and my friends whine about how they have to go to a tanning salon to achieve my sun-kissed hue. In the summer, after a quick trip to the beach, it’s so dark it makes me look like a different person and I get the comments about my “exotic” skin tone.

A couple of weeks ago, I went to a new Lebanese restaurant with my favorite Lebanese friend, and discovered that it was owned, surprisingly, by Palestinians. The beautiful, dark-haired waitress with almond-shaped eyes and glowing skin asked me if I was “mixed.” I uttered that I am Mexican-American and she conjured up the same surprised look as others have in similar instances, and said “I thought you were Indian or something.” After she invited us to return on Friday evening to watch the belly dancers, I whispered to my Lebanese friend about how most people around here don’t think I am Hispanic.

The people here never hesitate to ask me where I’m from or what [ethnicity] I am. Often, my definition changes almost as much as my skin color throughout the year. It depends on who I am speaking to and where he or she is from. The answer that I never change, however, is to the question about why I don’t speak Spanish. Last week, my Lebanese friend, a new Persian friend and I tried out a relatively new dancing venue for salsa in St. Louis, Coco Cabana Club. The deejay who we met at the door asked where we were from. After I responded “I’m from Texas,” he dismissed the interaction and said “oh, I thought you were ‘Spanish’.” I responded that I am. I’m Mexican. I dropped the “American” part because it is obvious. It must have been apparent to him as well that I don’t speak Spanish … I can only guess because his friend poked fun at the way I pronounced “salsa.” My Middle Eastern friends and I entered the Central West End club anyway, although I didn’t stay long.

Then there are the interactions with other Mexicans. As if not being ‘Spanish’ enough isn’t shameful already, it’s almost worse when the discernment comes from people who I am supposed to have something in common with – like language.

The Mexicans I do meet in St. Louis are actually from Mexico, many from Mexico City, in particular. It was here in St. Louis, if you can believe it, where I first was introduced to the term, Chilango, by none other than a guy from Mexico City. Wikipedia defines Chilango as “a Mexican slang demonym (read: a name for a resident of a locality) for a person born in the suburbs or surrounding areas of Mexico City who has moved to Mexico City.” Basically, a Chilango is anyone from Mexico City.

I’ve never even been to Mexico, much less Mexico City. And please excuse me if I have offended you if you are: Mexican-American or Mexican, from Mexico or any of its states, or from Mexico City. I should also apologize upfront to an ex-boyfriend who is from Mexico City and resides in Texas. One time when we were trying the long-distance thing, I met a dancer from Mexico City. When I told him my boyfriend also is from there, he asked me where exactly. I shrugged and said “hmm … I don’t know” as he led me through a salsa dance that suddenly turned awkward. He advised that I should find out. Not to my surprise, he also didn’t need to ask if I speak Spanish or not.

Upon meeting another Mexico City native and dancer in St. Louis, we exchanged an abrazo and the customary kiss on the cheek. I told him my name and he perked up and smiled. He asked (in Spanish), if I speak Spanish. I said no.

He rebuked, “Why?”

I told him the truth. Because I just don’t.

Does that make me a bad person? As far as I know, it did that day. I know that none of these folks mean any harm. The surprised looks, the knowing stares — it all comes with being different. And the questions, well, those are all in an effort to make a connection with someone who might be like them. Because these people probably feel different too. We all want to belong, after all.

But I am reluctant to inform them that while my name is Rosario (you can call me Chayo), and I am from San Antonio, and, yes, my parents speak Spanish … well, I don’t. The truth is that my parents grew up in the 1960s and 1970s in Texas, when Mexican-Americans were widely discriminated against for speaking Spanish in school. They were laughed at for bringing tacos instead of white bread sandwiches in their lunch sacks. When my parents raised my sister, brothers and me, they didn’t speak to us in Spanish because they did not want us to undergo the same discrimination.

Another truth is that my parents are second-generation Mexican-Americans, making me third-generation. There have been numerous studies of language assimilation that have demonstrated that while bilingualism is common among second-generation children, in the third and later generations, the predominant language is English. Mexicans are the largest immigrant group and tend to provide the most compelling example of this. Unless you grew up in a border community (which I did not), it is unlikely that you would be third generation and bilingual.

Upon meeting new dancers in St. Louis, I quip to them that I am more Texan than Mexican. This characterization of my ethnicity is my attempt to get them to see beyond my honey-colored (or is it copper?) skin and accentless speech. Yes, I am unique. Yes, I am Mexican-American. Yes, my parents speak Spanish. And no, I don’t. But if you can get past all of that then, yes, I would still love to dance.

“I’d give up spring for…

“I’d give up spring for you to keep looking at me.” — Pablo Neruda

Why I’m Thankful for My Sister (Part I)

My sister was my first role model. That’s her there, standing next to my Mom. I’m in the middle, next to my older brother. This picture was taken before my younger brother, Juan, arrived. And it’s probably one of the only times my Dad wore a tie.

Tomasita, my sister, is the oldest and I bet she didn’t know it then, but she was destined for a lifetime of caring for others. In our family of four, she learned to watch over her siblings. It was her duty to help my Mother, to learn how to do things first and to teach my brothers and I later on. She used to fix my hair when we would get ready for school. Each and every day, she’d comb, brush, curl or style my hair for me so that I could look as pretty as her. When I visit her back home, I still ask her to french braid my hair, like old times. It makes me feel like she’s taking care of me again. Braiding my hair is only one of many things she knows that I don’t. Like how to do an oil change or fix a tire — she can maneuver her way around a car’s inner workings and I can’t.

Another life experience she has navigated before me is the role of motherhood. She, like our own Mother, is the proud parent of four children. And while she’s made it look as easy as a beginner’s braid, I know it hasn’t been. Now, her three oldest kids are in the teen or pre-teen stages, and I can see that parenting teenagers is starting to get the best of her. The burden of being the oldest has transformed into the extraordinary responsibility of being a wife and a mother, and there are days where I think she feels discouraged.

On those days, I want to tell her how thankful I am that she has gone first. She’s always done things ahead of me and I know it hasn’t been easy. I want to tell her to keep going because I still need her to be the woman I look up to, who I admire – just as I always have. I continue to love that she knows how to do things that I don’t, or that I haven’t yet, like parenting. I’m looking for her to guide the way because she is my sister. She is still my role model.

She is the oldest.

My Mom, My Style Icon

Mom as a young girl with her family (pictured standing, right)

When my Mother, Sylvia Neaves, was  younger, her family teased her about looking like Olive Oyl. You know, Popeye The Sailor’s extremely thin flapper-like girlfriend, the tall one with no breasts. I must take after my Mother, because I heard all of the skinny names too while growing up: skinny minnie, chicken legs, flaca, flaquita. I don’t mind the name-calling much anymore, because one of the great things about being thin is the hundreds of different outfits you can pull off … even some without a bra!

With her great (skinny) legs, my Mother strutted her style in high school in the early ’70s with the tiniest of skirts and hip-hugging pants. She also had an affinity for bow blouses and tight tees. But I would say her best feature was her straight, sleek, dark hair that flowed down her back and accentuated her small frame. If it wasn’t her style that attracted my Dad to her, it must have been her smile; after meeting her as a young boy in school, he hasn’t been apart from her since.

Today, my noted style pays homage to her in many ways. One of my favorite casual outfits is a wide-legged pair of trouser jeans from Forever 21 that I like to pair with a bow blouse and platform heels — very ’70s-inspired. I crave femininity in every style selection, from dresses of all lengths to high-heeled shoes to show off my (skinny) legs. Seriously, give me a mini-skirt any day of the week. I’ll also take peasant blouses, floral-patterned prints, and anything paisley.

I’m thankful to my Mother for my vintage ’70s style, and for inspiring me in more ways than just this one.

My Wish For You

[Poetry] may make us from time to time a little more aware of the deeper, unnamed feelings which form the substratum of our being, to which we rarely penetrate; for our lives are mostly a constant evasion of ourselves. — T.S. Eliot

—

Today is your birthday, and behold my wish for you:

I wish that you find yourself; when you do, hold on to who you are – always.

People will try to steal your confidence, cause you to lose sight of your dreams, or make you feel like you are not good enough.

Don’t let them. You know who you are.

Somebody may abandon you or let you down, and the emptiness will linger, turning cold.

Fear not, spring will come soon.

There will be times when you are frightened.

Kick the fear away, for you have already overcome adversity.

Life’s challenges may overwhelm you, and there will be times of suffering.

Hang in there, dear friend. Pray for strength and patience. Talk to friends. Have faith in yourself and know that you’ll get through it.


You are destined for an exceptional life, one that is full of hope and promise, like a flower blossoming in spring.

As you once wrote, I wish the best for you and will always love you.

I have many wishes for you on your birthday. Most of all, I hope you are happy.

—

Our dreams drifted away
Stolen from us
And we wonder if they could ever be again.

There are parts of you I can still describe
And my head swims with the energy of your kiss.

Our dreams will see light again
Like my dreams of kissing you when the day is still new.

This one’s for you, Daddy

It has been a month since I left, and today was the first time I felt far away from home.

I could almost see my sister sitting there next to my Mom when she got the news about my grandfather’s illness. And I was not there. My absence was palpable in this instance.

Should I have been there with my Mom or was it enough for my sister to be the one holding her hand, like it had always been growing up? My sister and my Mom had perpetually been more than mother and daughter – they were pals, friends, sidekicks. When my Mom needed to run a quick errand or take a trip to the grocery store, she’d call only on my sister to accompany her. Nena was the oldest, and therefore, the fun one to be around.

Since they had each other, I knew that leaving them again would not be as difficult – just like when I went to college. My Mom and sister were not the ones I worried about being far away from. Their kinship would continue without me, especially since they live next door to each other.

The relationship I worried about was the one with my father. My Dad was the one I knew would suffer through losing me again. As much as I knew he would be happy for me and encourage me to pursue my dreams, I also felt that he would miss me the most. And I would miss him dearly.

What is it about dads and daughters? It is an unparalleled love – a natural closeness that never decays. My father is still the only person who regularly calls me to see how I’m doing. It’s endearing how he hasn’t gotten the timing down yet. He’ll call when I’m at work, or late on a Friday night. A friend pointed out yesterday that my voice mail box is full. As I cleared it out today, I noted how so many of the messages were from my Dad.

It got me thinking about letting go. Daughters letting go after a parent has passed away; fathers letting their daughters go so they can grow to be young women. Letting go is not just something that happens when there’s a milestone. It isn’t an occasion only celebrated with age or school graduations. Sometimes it is just something we have to do in time.

How do you know when it’s time?

The unspeakable truth is that you know it’s time when the other person doesn’t need you any more. It’s also time when the other person’s happiness matters more than your own. I think about my dear Mom who will one day have to endure losing my grandfather. While it will be unbearable at the time, I hope she will take comfort in knowing that he will be happy again with my grandmother who we lost not too long ago.

My father packed his feelings away just in time to let me start my new life here in St. Louis. I can’t imagine how he must have really felt. Maybe I will ask him about it someday. Even more, he never made me feel guilty for chasing this life, and for that, I will forever be grateful. And I won’t forget to show him that he’s still needed.

After seeing how my mother’s time with her father may be limited, I don’t want to waste any time not cherishing my Dad. You see, sometimes you have to let go just to be close again. Even though I felt like it was my duty to stay by family, I let go. And, while I sometimes feel like my absence lingers, I have never felt closer to my family.

This one’s for you, Daddy.

—

Landslide
1975 by Stevie Nicks

I took my love and I took it down
I climbed a mountain and I turned around
And I saw my reflection in the snow covered hills
‘Till Landslide brought me down

Oh mirror in the sky, what is love?
Can the child within my heart rise above?
Can I sail through the changing ocean tides
Can I handle the seasons of my life?
Mmm mmm I don’t know
Mmm mmm
Mmm mmm

Well I’ve been afraid of changing ‘cause I
Built my life around you
But time makes you bolder
Children get older, I’m getting older too

Soo (Interlude)

I’ve been afraid of changing ‘cause I
I built my life around you
But time makes you bolder, children get older
I’m getting older too
I’m getting older too
Soo take this love, take it down
Ohh if you climb a mountain and you turn around
If you see my reflection in the snow covered hills
Well the landslide will bring it down, down
And if you see my reflection in the snow covered hills,
Well maybe, the landslide will bring it down
Well well the landslide with bring it down

A Memorial to Lost Love

In honor of Memorial Day, I am sharing this past memorial to a love that was lost.
—
Today I came home to my apartment on Grayson and what I felt in the air was…me. I felt inspired, like I wanted to put all of the words I’d ever learned on to paper, all at once. I want so badly to contact my departed lover, to ask him if he’s applied to graduate school yet…to tell him I am leaving Grayson.

I know it won’t matter to him, and he won’t bat an eyelash. I know he won’t think about me other than that brief second when he glances at the phone and sees my number on his caller ID.

He’ll rush off to a study group or other meeting. He’ll think of me two, maybe three, days later and wonder about the length of my hair, and whether or not I’m dating someone.

He’ll quickly push the thought out of his mind and focus only on positive things like being the best son he can be. He’ll take his grandmother grocery shopping or to the bank, and it will make him feel better and the guilt from leaving me will dissipate.

One month later, I’ll enter his mind and he’ll remember spring breaks of the past, and how I wanted us to take a trip. He’ll be sad. He’ll remember that all I asked him for was time.

While he’s not thinking of me and thinking about how to forget me, I won’t forget that our first phone conversation lasted hours and that he fell sick the next day.

I won’t forget that he told me about his mother in that first phone call.

March will pass and Fiesta will come and go, and soon it will be May and Memorial Day weekend.

Happy Memorial Day!, he exclaimed in bed the first Memorial Day we spent together. I giggled at his Memorial Day bid, which he offered as if it were my birthday or Christmas Day. And it became our private joke each holiday that followed, where we wished each other a Happy Memorial Day to commemorate his silliness in saying it that first holiday we made love.

Back when we remembered what it was like to just love.