The Truth from an Abuela's Guilt Trip
“¿Y los niños no saben hablar español?”
The question dug like a sharpened dagger into the pit of my stomach. Here I was, minding my own business, on a street corner eating paletas with my little ones and my husband. The sun was just beginning to set and the stickiness from my paleta covered my hand.
“No, my kids don’t speak Spanish yet,” I translated in my head. The words were even harder to say to this old woman. She was your typical abuela—her navy knit skirt reached the ground as she shuffled towards my husband and me. She wore a blouse that was made of polyester and imitated a traditional huipil. Even though it was close to 90º, she still had a scarf that covered her shoulders and her fanny pack hung loosely around her waist. Her wrinkles accused me—they all managed to guilt-trip me in the manner of motherhood in which I had failed.
I let down my children by not sharing my native tongue. It’s a rarely used tongue that now had a terrible accent. I felt like an imposter.
She contained a grocery sack full of colorful trinkets and toys that she wanted me to buy for my kids, toys that my kids had rejected while they blissfully ate and finished the last of their sticky paletas. The lights from the plastic toys jeered at me.
What kind of mamá are you to not teach them the language of their heritage?
I took another bite from guava paleta, trying to focus on the sweetness of its flavor. Somehow though, how very typical for an abuela to guilt you into not trying enough. My kids are actually witnessing something so very typical of Latino culture that I knew if my mom were watching, she would be right there cheering this abuelita on with “mmhmm!” and “Ya ves?!”
Yes mamá, I see.
I had heard earlier that week that a lady I know wasn’t “allowed” to go to this particular part of town. It was “too dangerous”—as it turned out, it was dangerous in terms of my ego. That dagger of guilt did really hurt. The paletas taste great though.
After that abuelita chewed me out, she politely blessed me and said her goodbyes to my family. My kids managed to look at her and wave—“¡Adios!”
Good job, guys. Couldn’t you have pulled out a few other phrases sooner?!
The honest truth was that I looked at my kids and knew immediately that it didn’t matter how well they knew my native language—they were still Latinos.
I looked at each of their faces, covered with sticky paleta juice, and saw the same joy that I experienced as a Latino child. Hot summers waiting for the bell to ring from the paletero, admiring piñatas in store windows close to dark, and little abuelitas imparting wisdom from what they knew displayed real Latinidad.
God created my children as small city Iowans with Latino roots that taste like sticky paletas in the summer and sound like mariachi music. They’ll have the pride of college football team cheers in the fall time and color from piñatas in a store window.
What’s true about me is that my motherhood is going to look a little different than a born and bred white Iowan. I may struggle with that from time to time—but the Lord gave my children and me a heritage. In that, we still display the beauty of His diversity.
