Andrew Hudson's "Barreras y Fronteras: A Memoir of Clashes with Spanish"

A voice from the hallway shouted, “Andrew, telefono para ti.” Charo, our landlady and neighbor, had access to our apartment through a door connecting our two halls. Since we had no phone, we immediately assumed it was an emergency. My wife’s family wouldn’t bother to call our neighbors to reach us otherwise.

Marta and I had been living in her home town of Salamanca, Spain for six months, and my Spanish was still very shaky, but I tried my best to make sense of what my father-in-law--mi suegro--Cipriano, was trying to tell me over the phone.

“Tu abuelo se murio,” he said in his gruff voice. “Your grandfather has died.” He told me that my brother Pete, who was planning to visit us the following month, had called to give us the sad news. An ice-hot jolt shot out from the center of my body to the fingertips and toes, which immediately gave way to a numbness originating in the chest that began to seep slowly out toward the extremities. I stood there a while in Charo’s hall, unmoving, staring down at the pale green and white speckles in the tiles of the floor, the phone gripped far too tightly in my hand, as if letting go would bring another death in the family. But even this incapacitating dread let go its grasp when a timid voice piped up inside my head and asked, “Which one?” Disjointed images of the previous year’s holidays came flashing up. Grandpa Hudson’s lung cancer had gone into remission, I thought. And he had looked great at Christmas. And Pop Williams was walking ten miles a day or something last I heard…

I don’t remember how the conversation ended. I only know it ended awkwardly, just like every conversation with my suegro. I hung up the phone, told Marta, and within minutes we were rushing downtown to call my parents from the international phone center. When my mom came on the line with a happy, playful tone—“Andrew, what a nice surprise! Hey, Dan, get on the other line. It’s the world traveler!”—I knew that something wasn’t quite right, but I had to clear things up.

“Mom, did Grandpa die?”

“What? Of course not,” she said. “Why on Earth are you calling to ask a question like that?”

“But Pete called, Mom. He talked to Marta’s dad. He said…”

Well now, what had he said exactly? This was the key to the mystery. My brother, who knew “dos coronas con limon” but little else, had entered into a tenuous dialogue via trans-Atlantic link with a man whose English was limited to a handful of words, like water, which in Spain means “toilet.”

Over the next few weeks Marta and I made a game out of guessing which Spanish words Pete must have strung together for Cipriano to think that my grandpa had passed away.

As we suspected, my brother was only calling to let us know when he was coming to visit. Since Marta and I had no phone, Pete knew he’d have to pass on his flight information to my Spanish-speaking in-laws, so—no worries—he had his trusty Berlitz English-Spanish pocket dictionary handy for the call.

Unable to construct a meaningful sentence, he must have said something like “Yo—ir—vuelo—Madrid,” which translates, “I—to go—flight—Madrid.” Now that may be choppy, but it is comprehensible. Unfortunately, however, my suegro wasn’t reading; he was listening, and what he heard must have sounded like his lengua madre, his mother tongue passing through a meat grinder.

But the question remained: How did Cipriano take this to mean that grandpa has passed away? To begin with, it only takes a single vowel to turn vuelo into abuelo, since ‘b’ and ‘v’ sound the same in Spanish. This miraculously transformed my brother’s “flight” into our “grandfather.” Then he must have mistaken Madrid (the city where Pete would arrive in Spain) for the verb morir, meaning “to die.”

Who could have guessed that my grandfather’s fate would one day dangle between the mispronunciation and misunderstanding of two simple words? Such are the dangers of bilingual word-play, and, considering the great story we now have to tell, such are the rewards.

* * * * * * *

In the endless struggle to improve my Spanish I’ve often had to overcome barriers, and each time it seems like the first scramble over las barreras, the first crossing over las fronteras the frontiers of language.

The first time I started counting uno, dos, tres was so long ago I don’t really remember. The first barrera I recall presented itself when I was seven or eight, when my parents signed me up for a summer school class in Spanish. After counting proudly desde uno hasta diez, I was shocked to find that los numeros en espanol didn’t stop there. I listened to my classmates go on beyond veinte while I grew red in the face, vowing to drop out and never speak a word of that preposterous language again.

I broke that promise to myself when I decided to give it a second chance in Chelita’s high school Spanish class. (The teacher went by the name Chelita to lend herself more of a latin flair, but it didn’t do much good. We all knew she was really Miss Stromwasser.) As Andres, I spent three years charlando el espanol con Chelita, but my friends and I wasted most of the time goofing off in class and making poor Chelita miserable.

If I had only known that one day I would travel overseas to fall in love with una Espanola, I might have taken my foreign language studies more seriously. Then again, maybe not. After all, Marta was already fluent in English when we met, so we could communicate en ingles sin problema. But oh, how I wanted to impress! Cupid’s arrows gave me the foolish courage to communicate in her lengua madre. Put on the spot, I could find nothing to talk about. Marta asked me gently, “Cuentame un cuento”—tell me a story. But all I could remember from three years of Chelita’s high school Spanish was the sad story of la pobre Marianela, que era muy fea y deforme. Poor Marianela was very ugly and deformed. I warned Marta, but she wanted to hear it anyway, so I did my best. Here’s a translation in English, without all the stuttering, sputtering, and errores gramaticales:

“Poor Marianela was a baby. Her parents left her on the bridge. A dog came. He was very curious. He pushed her over the bridge with his nose. It was an accident. Marianela fell. The river was dry. Poor Marianela. She fell down to the rocks and stones. She didn’t die. After she was very ugly and deformed. No one liked her. But she was still very nice. Poor Marianela. One day everything changed. Mario came to the village. He was a blind man. It wasn’t important that Marianela was ugly and deformed. She was very nice. That was important. Marianela thought Mario was nice, too. Then they lived together and had a happy life. The end.”

This was the most Spanish I’d ever spoken at one time. Marta coached me the whole time, but I was telling the story. It felt wonderful. After that, she would regularly slip in una expression aqui, una frase alla, and I was eager to use them. I learned to call her carino, and mi cielo, instead of “sweetie-pie” and “honey.”

* * * * * * * *

The next significant frontier-crossing was both linguistic and geographic: the moment we stepped onto the soil of mainland Spain—for Marta a homecoming she had been dreading, for me a first meeting of the in-laws—a dreadful enough prospect without the language barrier to compound things. I really do wish I could forget the excruciating car ride with Marta’s parents from the port city of Valencia to their condo in Oropesa, an hour’s drive up the east coast. Nothing could have prepared me for the non-stop staccato of Marta’s mother, mi suegra, who kept turning around from the front seat of the car, asking me questions, rapid fire, one after the other: “Bueno, Andrew, que te parece de Espana? Es precioso, no? Que has visto en Mallorca? Es una isla divina, no? Las playas, el agua, los pueblos. Tienes hambre? Tienes sed? Seguro que quieres comer algo, no? Pero que te pasa? Porque no contestas?” Marta had to translate nearly every word. Most questions either revealed a patriotic pride in the beauty of her native land, or a near obsessive concern about the ravenous hunger and thirst she imagined I possessed, regardless of how many times Marta told her I was fine, que no nececitaba nada ahora. Well, maybe just un poquito de agua para la boca seca—a little water for my mouth that seemed to be getting drier by the minute. Though Marta’s performance as simultaneous interpreter was awe-inspiring, I couldn’t help feeling helpless and stupid myself.

We spent two painful weeks in that apartment con los ojos de mis suegros following our every move, sus oidos scrutinizing our every word. I felt embarrassed and even rude to be speaking English, but what else could I do? There wasn’t a moment of privacy, except when we went to sleep.

There were moments of absolute panic, when I’d feel the sweat spreading under my arms, dripping down my back, beading on my face. I’d throw nervous glances over at Marta, who’d throw them right back. I had desperate thoughts that I was unable to express in words:

Please, Marta’s mother—Emilia, right? Amalia? My God, I can’t even remember your name right now! Could you please speak a little slower? I don’t understand what you’re saying. Do you think I’m as much of an idiot as I feel like right now?

Please, Cipriano, could you pronounce your words a little slower, a little clearer? What is it you’re asking me to do? I can’t understand your mumbling! Why do you keep staring at me with that frown? Let me out of here!

And this was only the beginning. So many times I’d stare back at my suegra and say “Que?” Oh, wonderful. How eloquent. You knew that word before you ever even took a Spanish class.

“Ay,” Emilia would say shaking her head compassionately, “no entiende nada, el pobre.” “The poor guy doesn’t understand a thing.” Well, I understood that much.

“Si, si, yo entiendo,” I’d manage, but not much more. Still, I’d try. I had to. There wasn’t a choice anymore. I’d have to learn to spit it out or choke on it.

As time went by my suegra, bless her heart, began to slow down when she spoke to me, and to simplify her language. I knew it was extra work, and appreciated her thoughtfulness. But my suegro? It was a lost cause from the start. Whether he was unwilling or unable I may never know, but Cipriano’s words always came out as a gravelly grumble, whether he was speaking to me or anyone else. On the day we left Spain, after having lived for ten months in Salamanca, I could still hardly understand him when he bid me adios and wished me un buen viaje.

Learning a second language by total immersion was a continuously nerve-racking, brain-tiring process. I was forced, time and time again, to kick my head gears into overdrive just to keep up with simple, everyday conversations, to sink my teeth into the meat of a particular message—on TV, on the radio, on the street, and especially around the table when we’d get together with Marta’s family and friends.

I remember long visits from aunts, uncles, cousins, and old school pals. Everyone, it seemed, would be talking at the same time. How they could speak and listen to multiple narratives at the same time in any language was mystifying to me. If I had had the appropriate meter, I suppose they all would have averaged about thirty words per second, keeping in mind that your average Spanish word throws in a few extra syllables just for fun. (Example: The little flying mammal we refer to as the single-syllable “bat” becomes the five-syllable mouthful “murcielago.” Well, in the midst of this linguistic maelstrom I’d sit jerking my eyes from one babbling mouth to the next, desperately trying to latch onto the train of thought, only to be interrupted by, “Bueno, y que crees, Andrew?” Someone, meaning to make me feel a part of the conversation, would ask, “Well, Andrew, what do you think?” All talking would stop and all eyes would turn to me, waiting.

If you’ve ever had one of those dreams where you find yourself in a crowded public place dressed only in your underwear, or less, then I’m sure you have a pretty good idea what it felt like in these situations. There’d be nowhere to hide, nothing to cover myself with, no one to turn to. So what would I say? “Pues, no lo se.” The cop out: “Well, I don’t know.” The pressure would be off for the moment, but I’d feel cowardly, unable to rise to the challenge.

Some days I prayed for a stop to the continuous stream of puro castellano. The language was a steady barrier between me and the world all around. I now sympathize with dogs when they get that strange, tortured look whenever human beings talk to them. I’m sure I would get that same look on my face when spoken to in Spanish: head slightly cocked to one side, eyes wide open—questioning, eager, but hopelessly lost.

Nevertheless, I stuck with it. I worked hard at it, and I believe it has paid off. I can now express myself fairly fluently in Spanish, and understand most of what I hear. But I still yearn for better word command, the power to speak with more color, more grace. Marta says, “Hablas muy bien, carino,” but she’s never has had the heart to add to my discouragement.

The best I can say is that it’s an ongoing struggle that demands untiring determination. Whenever I find myself lacking in spirit, I only need to look back over the battle-torn landscape I’ve crossed to get to where I am today. Considering the distance, and the difficulty, why should I still feel as though I were in no-man’s-land?

As I peer into the haze ahead, I realize there may not be any paradise of perfect fluency at the end of my journey, only future barreras to surmount y fronteras to cross—tiny, isolated skirmishes that simply come with the territory.

¡Adelante!

Sue McIntyre's "Not Even a Dog"

My husband and I were on a “first date” with a couple we had recently met. After a visit to their home, drinks and conversation, a walk to a Japanese restaurant, and more drinks over a long wait for our table, we were chatting comfortably by the time we were seated at the tepanyaki table. Our conversation was soon interrupted, however, by a birthday song belted at top volume by the party two tables away from ours. As the high-pitchedtones subsided and the birthday girl’s cake was served, the four of us covertly scrutinized the swarming table of merry seven- through ten-year olds and tried to maintain our banter. A small squabble broke out at one end of the birthday action, and we all turned to our salads without comment. A few more moments passed, and we overheard enraged whispers of “He did…” and “She said…” Fortunately, this disagreement blew over as the gift-opening excitement built. Amidst the gaiety and activity, I noticed three adults poised on the edge of the frenzy—the parents of the birthday girl, plus one reinforcement. They stood at attention with battle-weary faces, ready to swoop in and smooth over skirmishes, facilitate activities, and provide a kind word to those who needed it.

I lounged tipsily in my padded seat. “That,” I said with gravity, turning to my companions and gesturing to the table of sugar- and caffeine-high youngsters and their attentive escorts, “is one reason we are not having children.” A moment of silence greeted my statement. Finally, René broke the suspense. “Jim and I don’t plan to have children, either,” she confessed, as Jim nodded emphatically. With sighs of relief, we nestled into our chairs, beamed at each other, and ordered another round of drinks—celebrating what we all knew to be the beginning of a long friendship.

I realize that to many people outside this group of newly-found intimates, René and my comments may have sounded uncaring, or even anti-family. “Do they hate children?” they may wonder. “How old are they? Aren’t they married? Are they gay? Can’t they have children?” It’s not too hard for me to imagine these questions, as the majority of them, however personal they may seem, have been directed to me at one time or another in the three or four years since Eddie and I have decided not to have children. Even now, I struggle to explain our choice when interrogated by a well-meaning friend or acquaintance regarding our nontraditional lifestyle. At times I feel temporarily guilty. Why am I rejecting the usual path that couples in our culture take? Occasionally I can’t help but feel that I’m not holding up my end of things in some way, as if I’m letting down “the system.” And, indeed, this feeling of fertility failure is reiterated every year on April 15th, when my husband and I pay the penalty for having two incomes and zero dependents. The IRS, at least, does not sanction our living arrangement.

Until Eddie and I made the decision not to have children, I never knew I’d have to explain our choice. Once the decision was made, however, I suddenly found that there’s an unspoken, but strong, expectation in our society that married couples have children. Sometimes when we tell people that we’re not having kids, they look at us suspiciously. Often, they will launch into an ode to childbearing—interpreting our decision as a judgment on theirs. At times, I consider taking the moral high ground and am tempted to tell people that our non-child decision is based on our belief in zero population growth, the uncertainty of the world, and our desire not to add more people to the problems of the future. I imagine these to be the reasons childless couples in more highbrow circles use, and they’re compelling, but they are not at the top of our list—nor on the lists of our similarly childless friends. Instead, a simpler philosophy, supplied by my grandmother, seems to apply: “If it ain’t broke, don’t fix it.” Eddie and I have developed a home life that we like and don’t desire to change it by adding a new member to the family. “It’s a positive form of selfishness,” I tell people. We’re comfortable with the people we are right now, and we’re confident that we can spend the rest of our lives invested in self- and mutual-discovery.

Looking back on it now, I realize that there are some early signs of my eventual decision to remain childless. When I was a child, my friend, Annie, told me she was going to have 12 children. Chrissy said that she was only having five. I was a bit vague on the whole child thing. I never had a number, and I could never commit to the idea that my few dolls were “babies.” I was never a tomboy, but I was more interested in books or imagining the house my friends and I would build if we ran away than babies or playing house. While my best friend and I agreed when we were six that we would get married when we were 10 and “old enough,” he and I both had the general feeling that this would not change our living situations. I didn’t see the picket fence, the dog in the yard, and the 2.3 (or 12 or 5) children; only the husband seemed plausible—and then, only if he’d live with my mom and me. This wasn’t a constant, of course. While in college I specifically declared that I would never have kids, over the years I began to consider the possibility of children--if only by not considering NOT having them.

When I talk to the married and childless women friends I currently have, there’s not a lot of consensus as to whether or not we knew from an early age that we wouldn’t have children. Denise says that she had her names picked out for her four children—two boys and two girls—by the time she was eleven. Justine, on the other hand, explains, “It’s always been my goal to get through life without changing a single dirty diaper.” Regardless of original intent, most of my childless friends didn’t make the decision to remain childfree at the beginning of their marriages or partnerships. It was a process, as was the case with Eddie and me. “When we’re parents…” quietly changed to “If we have kids…” to be replaced by “If we have a child…” until we finally found ourselves sitting at the dinner table one night, struggling to come up with good reasons to have kids. That we should even be engaging in such an activity seemed to be answer enough.

Eddie and my decision to delay—and then forgo—adding children to the family arrangement was originally based on finance, and this is true of many of my childless friends. Most of us have been through college, and many have advanced degrees—a process that accompanies living in substandard housing, eating Ramen noodles twice daily, and shopping second hand for everything. After graduation there were student loans to pay and lower level jobs to get through. Eventually, as our financial situations became more stable, we simply wanted to make up for our time of sacrifice by spending money on ourselves. Indeed, I value the season tickets we purchase for the local arts events, and I relish the opportunity to buy my favorite books when they first come out, rather than waiting for the paperback version to be released. One of the things I know Eddie and I would have to give up if we had children is spending money on entertainment. At least once per week, and frequently twice, my husband and I eat dinner out—by ourselves or with friends. It’s not unusual that we spend $80-100 at these dinners, once the drinks, dessert, coffee, and tip are factored in. Besides these meals, we look forward to Sunday breakfasts with Kim and David and regular lunches with friends, co-workers, or each other. Sure, eating out is a luxury, and one we could likely do without, but as a childless couple we don’t have to make the decision of whether to eat at our favorite restaurants or add to the kids’ college funds.

Truthfully, the life we currently live would not be possible with the added burden of children. In addition to money, the main thing children take from their parents is time. Reading and playing with them; feeding, bathing, and talking to them; chauffeuring them to one event after another; counseling them; fighting with them: all of these things take time and energy. I’m happy that I don’t have to sacrifice afternoons spent with a good book or hours spent on the computer to sit through 12 years of little Billy’s annual Spring Concert, attend another of little Mary’s inane sporting events, and smile through the birthday parties and celebrations of Mary and/or Billy’s friends. Even the Purple Heart would be insignificant compensation for the valor needed to raise a youngster into adulthood, in my imagination. Just watching awkward, acne-covered teenagers cruising at the mall is enough to make me think: “Did I take my pill today? Is 99.9% effective enough? Is there a stronger dosage?”

With children, I never would have been able to consider spending two recent summers working on an archaeological project in Mexico. I couldn’t have spent two weeks with my sister while she recuperated from surgery—immediately after Eddie and I returned from two weeks in Spain. If they had kids, my friends Dave and Justine certainly wouldn’t be able to operate the said archaeological project—nor would they have traveled to Peru this past winter, St. Bart’s the year before, or have tickets to Belize and Cuba for this coming December. René and Jim wouldn’t be able to jog and row together every morning, and Teri wouldn’t be able to travel to Europe every few months as her business demands, while George locks himself in his office to meet his article or book deadline. Our monthly Girls’ Poker Night/Boys Night Out would certainly dissolve, and, as for that, forget any regular socializing—beyond Mommy and Me classes. Indeed, the freedom that being childless offers is likely its greatest advantage. Everyone I know who has kids travels less than the childless couples I know, and when they do travel, people with children go to grandma and grandpa’s house or a campground within a reasonable driving distance. I’m not saying that all childless couples are jet setters, but it’s certainly easier to travel without children: a family trip to the local movie theater with children in tow requires more preparation than many childless couples need to plan a three week Himalayan adventure—and our backpacks weigh much less than the average diaper bag.

I turned 38 this year, and I’ve become certain that the decision Eddie and I have made to remain childless is the right one for us. Still, at times—mainly when I watch a family movie or am exposed to what Justine calls a “trick” baby (one of the gurgling, non-crying, rash-free type)--I can’t help but worry. Will we be missing out on something important? How will our relationship fare? After all, Eddie and I have very few role models for a childless marriage. I don’t know a single older couple that has been married for a lifetime and has remained childless. Married, mature public figures have children. Married people in TV and movies have children. What will our “golden years” be built upon, if not our children and grandchildren?

It’s questions like these that make me relieved to meet couples like René and Jim, who have made the same decision we did. At least we’re not alone. Surprisingly, in addition to them, we are also friends with two other couples who remain childless and plan to do so; another couple we know cannot have children, although they would have liked one; and a fifth couple is not planning to have children together, although he has two children from a previous marriage. These friends, as well as a number of single people and older couples whose children are grown and have left their homes, comprise our social circle. None of us have to find baby sitters, and we don’t have to worry about people bringing children to our adult events—something that still takes me by surprise when socializing with the child-ful. Indeed, whatever inspires people to bring their toddler to a wine tasting at 9:00 in the evening is a mystery that will remain forever unsolved for the childless among us.

Despite our circle of childless friends, Eddie and I have attended a few mysterious events, due to the fact that many childless couples have dogs, cats, or both. Indeed, I must admit to taking part in an annual dog beach birthday party—during which six to eight dogs eat themselves sick, run around in a frenzy, and pose for pictures in party hats. Replace the dogs in this description with children, and the activities are strikingly similar to those at a child’s party. On the other hand, I wouldn’t feel comfortable kneeing the six-year-old girl who jumped up on me or ignoring the barks of the five-year-old boy demanding a playmate. There’s a limit to dog-party-invitee responsibilities, and they are limits I value as a childless—and pet-less—guest. And, while we do attend this dog-fest, Eddie and I just aren’t able to commit to the responsibilities of dog ownership ourselves. Indeed, when asked yet again about our plans to have children, I’ve begun responding with, “Kids? No way! We can’t even handle a dog.”

As isolated as we may seem, there is an ankle biter in our lives. My husband’s brother and his wife live in Portland, and they had a baby boy last September. We’re looking forward to being a great aunt and uncle to him, for, as I always say, while I’m not that fond of children, I really like the accessories. Buying miniature clothes, fascinating toys, and mesmerizing books for our nephew is a joy. We’ll do a splendid job watching him for a few weeks over the summers or holidays, too—always ready to turn him back to his parents, with a new drum set, at the end of the annual visit. The fact that our nephew lives 400 miles away will ensure that our visits are limited to those we plan, too—forgoing the need for us to make excuses to avoid regular babysitting. Actually, this distance from child-laden family is very common among our childless friends, whose closest relatives live in Texas, Ohio, Los Angeles, Chicago, and British Columbia. Because of this, we’re also more connected to each other than we are to our families. We often celebrate the holidays together, and we depend on each other for entertainment, advice, and assistance. And, when we’re together we don’t have to explain our childless status. (“No, Aunt Mary, no children yet” and “I’m sure your children are a blessing, Cousin Margaret.”) Instead, we can debate the issues surrounding education and child poverty and juvenile crime in an abstract manner. We can horrify each other with stories of the boy who peed his pants in the middle of the concert hall and the minions-of-Satan who dismantled the entire Sizzling Summer picnic display at the local department store in the time it took their mother to try on a single dress.

“How do people bear it?” we can wonder aloud, sip our cocktails, and lean back in our hot tubs.

Esmeralda Miranda Howard's Autobiographical Incident

As soon as I got up, I knew something was wrong. The sun was hiding behind the clouds, as if it was embarrassed, frightened or avoiding its inevitable appearance, like it didn't want to witness one more time the spectrum of our darkest selves. The air was so thick you could cut it with a knife. The roosters crowed out of time. The cows gathered restless close to the gate," They don't want to give any milk dad" cried out my brother from the corral."Just let them go" My dad answered helplessly. My brother opened the gate, but they just mooed and huddled closer together. The long, sad, almost agonizing howling of the dogs was so revealing. I felt like an electric charge had run trough my body. It was clear. It had happened again.

"An owl was hooting again last night, I chased him away but he came back after midnight," commented my dad in his serene tone of voice. " the chickens have been clucking at night too. I killed one, but the other ones had chicks." continued my mom. " But the butterfly that was inside the house yesterday wasn't black mom, It was brown." Added my sister in a hopeful voice. " Thank Goodness! At least its not in the family." Sighed my mom with some relief.

At midmorning my sister and I saw my uncle whispering something to my parents. My mom walked into the room. I followed her. She opened that bag in the closet, The same red plastic bag my sister and I did not want to come close to when we were cleaning the room, the one that gave us chills, and dark thoughts. I saw my mom pulling out a white blanket decorated with white embroidered and ruffles. She walked back and gave it to my uncle. My dad handed him a plastic tarp, and my uncle left. There were no more comments the rest of the morning Our bodies moves slowly. I remembered I hadn't showered that morning. I didn't want to be by myself, no even for five minutes in the shower. My body felt sleepy. I wished I could go to sleep for a long, long time without closing my eyes.

I vaguely remember my mother's voice calling me to have some breakfast. The tortillas and cheese were there, even the Gallo Pinto seemed very appetizing, but nobody has touched it. I only had some coffee in a timid intent to get my soul back in my body. At that moment I heard the sound of a truck stopping on the street. My dad opened the front doors. Some neighbors gathered to help. I couldn't understand their whispering. My sight got blurred, I remember six men carrying the heavy object. Four of them were lifting the green tarp by it corners and two other men by it middle edges. I could see my mom's white blanket on top, covering the weight. They all had handkershifts folded in triangles across their noses, and their hands were in plastic bags tied to their wrists with strings. I had already decided I was going to run inside the house and cover my eyes, my nose and my ears, but my body was nailed to the floor. My mind was absent, my eyes were immobile and yet following the effort of the six men carrying the heavy package. I saw a pair of boots sticking out of the blanket, then an arm that slipped heavily out of the tarp. Once again I saw myself running to the bedroom, but I was still there watching a light blue and white stripped, long sleeve shirt, pulled half way to the elbow, showing the light skin and hairy arm, the stretch marks of it swollen flesh, and the crimson spots were his finger nails used to be. They deposited the lifeless body on the side walk of my house, and my uncle pulled the blanket from his face, another young man in his early twenties.

One more time my mother went to the red bag and pulled some candles. People gathered in a circle and prayed for his soul, or probably ours. More neighbors came and whispered a quick prayer for him. A few minutes later he was taken away in my dad's ox cart to the cemetery were a quick grave was dug and his body was buried , without a coffin, without tombstone, without a name. My mother and my sister stayed home to wash the sidewalk with Creolina. My dad said it was effective to kill the worms, and the smell. I was absent, I was there, I was watching.