today i was cleaning out my books, dividing them into stacks of keep, sell, and haven't read, when i stumbled across two old books i couldn't even remember reading. books that had been sitting on a dusty bookshelf in the garage. as i flipped through them a letter fell out from each of them. i laughed as i recognized the writing on one of them. it was an old love letter from a boy i had dated. the letter didn't say anything significant and it made me laugh at the words "i love you baby", scrawled across the margin. my lips curved into a small nostalgic smile as i tried to remember when exactly i had received the letter, but couldn't. i love you. such a simple phrase and yet, at that time i had no clue what it truly meant. i laughed again and moved on to the next and saw that it was a note i had passed back and forth between a friend, a friend who's hand writing i didn't recognize anymore. the note talked about the weekend and what friends had gone to vertigo's the weekend prior. thinking about that place brought to mind bright lights, music, cucarachas, and enanitos verdes. how funny a habit i had to put old notes in a book. years ago i never would have thought about finding them later. when i was done reading i put them aside not sure what to do with them. they weren't important and didn't bring to mind an exact memory. as i finished with the books the two old crumbled pieces of paper lay to the side. and i thought, i think that i'll keep this habit. letters in books. i can't remember the last time i wrote a letter or received one (which is sad in itself i must say), but the next one will go in a book. perhaps for the next "i love you baby" ...
My grandma, Ita, called me Prieta. She called me this because my skin is toasted brown. When I was born my mom says I was light skinned, but she knew “que iba ser morena” because the inside of my little baby thighs were already darker than the rest of me. In the sun, I turn a darker brown. I get even more Prieta. It was a term of endearment. My sister, who has a light complexion, was called guera or guerinchi. When I tell people who don’t speak Spanish what Prieta means, dark or the dark one, their eyes open wide and a small gasp escapes. I see the offense they feel for me sprinkled on their faces like the freckles I will never have. When I try to explain, the offense still shadows their eyes. That is the problem with Spanish. Wait, maybe, that is their problem with Spanish. Even when I explain, they are suspicious. Their faces ask, “Is this true?” as if I am setting them up for a joke. But how can I explain the cultural and literal meaning of a word at the same time?
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