When you understand but can’t speak, just eat pupusas
Across the plastic table at El Comal, my grandma tells me to get the pupusas revueltas, and because she’s the woman who kept me alive during the summers of my childhood, I smile and nod and practice saying “revueltas” under my breath while she talks to my mom in rapid-fire Spanish.
Re-vuel-tas. Roll the “r.” Rrr-ev-uel-tas. The vowels are all wrong. My tongue stumbles in the rush to pronounce everything at once. I ditch my embarrassing attempt at a Spanish accent and draw it out flatly, exaggerating each part into something undecipherable but distinctly more comfortable — rev-well-tahs. Perfect. Lock me up in Mexico and throw away the key.
I quietly give up and listen to my mom and grandma speak in a language fluid enough to sound the way butter spreads. I can pick out enough bits and pieces to know they’re talking about my aunt in Texas, but when my grandma turns to me and asks if I remember Rosie, I can’t form the words of my response. Of course I remember her. She gave me a box of Mexican candy and smelled like roses.
“Si,” I start, then direct the rest of my answer to my mom, who relays it to my grandma, who laughs and grips my hand. This is how we speak: a trifecta of translation, separated by the table between us and the menu items I can’t pronounce.
