. . . there are pieces pieces floating around, trying all to do the same things things. It's an amazing feat what people do, constantly thinking, processing, analyzing, dissecting, interpreting, digressing. . . When life is happening at that moment in front of them the seconds passing passing. It would be a lie if I weren't guilty of the same same. But, there are instances though, where a moment is truly caught, realized, and the pieces somehow fit fit. The puzzle is no longer, and there is a sigh of relief when you realize that you are not alone alone. Then again to thinking, processing, analyzing, dissecting, interpreting, digressing. . .
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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