My Future's so Bright

We were sitting on the porch overlooking the city. Our house came up against the edge of the mountain. The view, a thousand twinkling lights in the night sky like lighters at a concert asking for an encore.

"I see my future way brighter than it will probably be. Sometimes when I look toward the horizon the light is so bright I have to turn away," I paused and looked out into the warm night air, "I have to squint to make sure I don't go blind, you know?"

I licked my lips, unsure, and turned to look at him. His arms were hugged around his calves as if he was cold on this swampy summer night even though he was wearing jeans cut off at the knee.

"Well, can't you just wear shades?" he asked.

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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? ...

Scene 1. Act 2. Line 53.

I am told that I am good at writing dialogues. Perhaps that's the reason when it comes to interacting with people the words that I want to hear, the words I already have written in my head are ready, but when they don't come out I am often disappointed. What happened to that perfect phrase I had in my head? What happened? Why are they silent? Or, where did that come from? I find myself left with wanting more, or needing less, or simply being in a state of unfamiliarity. Why? You might ask? Because there are very few times when what I have written in my mind is translated well into real life. Real life is not scripted. Repeat. Real life is not scripted. Recently I wrote about a true moment. A moment that I witnessed of a girl crying in her car. It happened. It was REAL. I didn't write anything but what I saw, and I was told in a workshop that the whole scene was cliche and needed to be cut. As a writer I saw what was meant. As a human I thought, "We can't cut this...

Para Las Nietas

Cuando se van las abuelitas, se va una parte fundamental. We are pulled from the brown soil. Roots exposed. We falter, droop. How can we continue without the cariño of their warm hands to support us? Nourish us con sus caricias. Cuando se van las abuelitas, se van los almuerzos y cenas que no más ellas hacían. Las comidas that tasted of their love can no longer exist. The tacos crispy and brown, won’t taste the same. The flavor, like a duende, can’t be caught no matter how hard we try to capture it in our own kitchens. Cuando se van las abuelitas, se nos va el lenguaje, porque ellas nos hablaban en español. Nuestros apodos como Güera, Prieta, Niña, Mima, y Mija se desaparecen. We ache to hear the sounds of our names from their lips and grasp for their words. The ones we didn’t know we would miss. Cuando se van las abuelitas se nos va el amor duro. We lose the sharp tongues quick with consejos we didn’t want to hear at the time. Se nos pierden los dichos and the wisdom we...

And then. . .

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