Faded photos from the late seventies are what I have as a keepsake from my mother’s second marriage. They’re pictures from the reception they had at my grandma’s house. The walls in the background are a greenish-blue with brown molding. The people in the background are all caught in mid-laughter or with cake-loaded forks about to go in their mouths. The women have big hair; one of my aunts has a huge afro that shrinks her face. The men all need a haircut, and they look hot and sweaty with their long side burns and handlebar mustaches. I’m not sure where they got married; I’ve never asked. They look happy. My mother is wearing a white sleeveless satin wrap dress. Her face is youthful and plump. Her eyes shine even in the matte finish. She is my age in the photos. My dad is in a blue polyester suit. His smile is bright. He looks at my mother with love in his eyes. They looked happy.
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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