Skip to main content

Fragments of Mom and Ita



Fragments of Mom and Ita

1.        1. A running joke, “Ya se te olvidó que tienes, Mamá,” has morphed into a fond memory. My family, a group now consisting of my mom, my sister, and my uncle, has turned the phrase into one of standard family sayings. A repeated phrase, when you haven’t called someone in a couple days, “Ya se te olvidó que tienes hermana?”, “Ya se te olvidó que tienes hija?” etc. The use of the phrase began with my grandma, Ita. She called my mom on a daily basis.

2.        2.      “Who’s calling? I asked.
We watched a movie in my Mom’s room, my eight year old body curled on my side towards my Mom. It was one of the few days she was off from work. We still had our pajamas on. This morning she called the school and told them I wasn’t feeling well. The Fritos I just ate heavy in my stomach.
“Aye, it’s your Ita,” she looked at the display on the phone and set it down.
Gorda! Dónde estás? Hablame,” her voice crackled over the answering machine speaker.
I looked up at her.
“I’ll call her later,” she said turning back toward the T. V.

3.     3. Ta Taaa Ta Ta!  The horn honked outside. I had to hurry.
“Bye, Ita!”  I grabbed my backpack and the mail that still came to her address.
“Aye, pero tengo unas cosas para tu Mamá.”
I looked at her and began to turn towards the door, “I’ll tell my mom.”
I paused before stepping out onto the porch, but heard the honk again.” Ta Taa Ta Taaaaa!
“MOM! ITA HAS SOME THINGS FOR YOU!”
“WHAT?”
“ITA HAS SOME THINGS FOR YOU!”
Our voices echoed off the concrete and bounced off each porch on the block until it disappeared at the intersection of California St. and Brown. She paused, her brown Blazer idle in the street, pushed at her hair, “JUST BRING IT WITH YOU!”
I looked back at the shadowed screen door to see my grandma already bringing out a plastic bag in her hand.
“Le compré una blusa en el town. Dile que me hable, si le gustó. No, sé por qué todo el tiempo tiene tanta prisa.”
               
4.      4. It is odd to realize there was life in your family before you were born. Before I was born many things happened. They tell me the stories. My Mom told me how Tio always got away with everything, while she always had the brunt of it. Your uncle, she said, he could do no wrong, and me, I have to bail your Ita out of her messes, like that time…

My Tio told me how my Mom always took everything too seriously. You know how your Mom can be uptight?  She wasn’t always like that, you know before, before she married your Dad, my Mom helped her a lot. With Angie, and babysitting, just like she does with you. Your Mom was just a kid when she had Angie, mija. But you know your mom, just always have to prove everyone wrong.

My sister, Angie said, Ita always took care of me just like with you. Mom’s just always so hard on Ita you know? She takes for granted that Ita doesn’t have to help. She forgets all the things Ita does for her and focuses on stuff from twenty years ago. Oh! Tio’s her favorite. Oh! She wouldn’t have that house if it wasn’t for me! Oh...

5.        5. "Ya se te olvidó que tienes Mamá?” I heard my Mom’s through the phone.
“Haha, Hi Mom,” I forced the laughter.
“What are you doing mija?”
“You know, working Ita, I mean Mom,” I couldn’t resist.
“Si chistosita, It’s because I haven’t hear from you in days. Your Ita? She always exaggerated everything. I talked to her sometimes three times a day, and there she was telling your uncle and your sister she hadn’t talked to me. Se olvidaba no mas cuando le convenía  a esa señora.”


Comments

Popular posts from this blog

¿Y la Prieta?

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?

Los Dichos

No hay mal que por bien no venga. Tanto quiere el diablo a su hijo que hasta un ojo le quiere sacar. Mejor sola que mal acompa ñ ada. Tanto pedo para cagar aguado. Lo barato sale caro. Más seguro más amarrado. Para buen entendido muy pocas palabras. Para cada roto un descocido. Hijo pepe mariquita! Para pendeja no se estudia. Limosnero con garrote. Soy como Orozco, cuando como no conozco. La zorra nunca ve su cola ni el zorrillo su fundillo. El muerto y el arrimado al los tres días huelen. Amores de lejos, amores de pendejos. Estaba haciendo chili con la cola. Me  da diarrea con gusanos. Enfermo que come y mea, y el diablo que se le crea. La esperanza es la última que muere. El flojo trabaja doble. De noche todos los gatos son pardos. Una cosa es Juan Domínguez y otra cosa es no la chingues. Es de Don Cuco, entra la bola no se supo. Primero me besa un ciego. Dime con quién andas y te diré quien eres. No porque te levantas más temprano

Stream of Conscious Wednesday

At Village Inn, my favorite writing place. This one, is my favorite in the city. Bright orange booths with light fixtures out of Rock Hudson's Pillow Talk, and witty quotes on the wall like, "Never trust a skinny chef."  The cloudy skies stream in through tinted windows and continue to draw me away, seduce me into daydreaming about all the things I should be writing and trips I should be taking and money I need to be saving. So I can go high and low and down below the country's line I have never crossed before.  Then I look back to the screen and I think, Ita, Ita, what do I write about Ita. My thesis, a memoir, and Yeah, my stories are that interesting. There are many, but I need pictures, I need something, because right now they are floating, tiny little words on paper bouncing around outside the atmosphere of my brain.  Oh, there's an art show soon. I should go. It's starting to rain and it makes me think of dancing. Dancing Donna Summer style wi