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Chchchanges . . .

There's a time and a place where everything appears to be fine; calm, steady. But, the calm means something, cloudy with a chance of tornado. Sometimes you have to believe that, the coming storm is good. Even when the clouds dance and grumble in their darkness and varying shades of grey. The clouds always hold the hope of a rainbow. A figurative kaleidoscope of hope.

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¿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? ...
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Scene 1. Act 2. Line 53.

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