continuation of feb. 12 ’20 post

hay cosas que no se tatúan con tinta

some things are not tattooed with ink

It sounds different in Spanish, with a deeper meaning, but it could be that since Spanish is my first language, there’s a thing. The same happens with numbers and certain words. They jump at me in Spanish. Sometimes, though seldom, I am at a loss for words because only Spanish comes to the forefront. And I have lived speaking English since we arrived in the States in 1977.

When we moved to the States, I read and read and read and read to avoid speaking (English). My siblings made friends immediately, whereas I had (still have) trouble. I’d like to blame it on the fear of saying things incorrectly or, now that I know the language, saying the wrong thing … which I still manage to do. A lot. I try to keep my thoughts to myself. Try.

Besides devouring books from the library, belly down on the living room floor watching my impish siblings play on the street with neighbors, a memory of that first summer is being asked to get ice cubes from the neighbor across the street. I didn’t want to touch the tray held out to me.

“ask for ice cubes?!”

“We don’t have any.” We were still (I use ‘we’ loosely) cleaning the house, waiting for furniture that eventually took about six months to arrive, waiting for my dad.

i turned away, saying over my shoulder. “i don’t know how to ask.”

“Could we have ice cubes, please?”

i was not going to get away with it.

So I repeated the question as I crossed the sidewalk and street, as I rang the doorbell and waited, earnestly thinking, please don’t be home.

— digressed —