Not Latina Enough

I've always been proud of my Mexican American heritage. Very proud. I'm much closer to the Mexican American side of the family than I am to my Anglo relatives; therefore I identify as Latina. But I'm never Latina enough, it seems. I know this is an insecurity within myself that has been nurtured over the years by the many times that people see only my pale skin, not the fiery Mexicana-americana underneath. And it's a nerve that I hit myself, when I clumsily converse in Spanish.

Although it was my first language, I have never been fluent. Nunca. I want more than ever to become fluent now, with a son to teach to speak. I want his first words to be bilingual, like mine were. Yet for him I want more. I want him to grow up speaking both languages. And for myself, quiero ser bilingüe. It's important to me to help my three-fourths Anglo son learn about his culture, his familia, his roots. And that involves me learning to speak better Spanish.

We're on a severely limited budget, so I'm doing what I can by checking out bilingual books from the library and reading. I've found that when I read Spanish it touches some distant memory inside me, sparking a moment of recognition, as if my brain already contains the knowledge but needs me to learn the pathway to fluency.

I wince when I speak aloud, though. I hear my terrible accent and feel like a sham, not Latina enough. But I find myself whispering to my son in Spanish without thinking about it. "Shhh, mi hijo. No llores." I sing to him the few songs I know in Spanish, a lullaby and La Cucaracha.

There's many, many versions of the last verse of La Cucaracha. I think most people have heard of the one that ends "marijuana por fumar". Interestingly enough, one version pokes fun at American Anglos who can't deal with the rising tide of bilingual culture:
El tonto Anglo, el tonto Anglo
ya no puede platicar,
porque no tiene, porque le falta,
español que hablar.
I feel like that song was written about me. The silly white girl who can't make conversation because I don't have any Spanish to speak.

I can at least take comfort in knowing that mi hijo will grow up eating tortillas, caldos, enchiladas, menudo and other home-cooked ethnic comfort foods. Por la gracia de Dios I will feed him like a Latina mamí.

Ryder's Not Sure About His Bumbo Chair

Diaper Bag is My New Purse

It was bound to happen. There's too much to carry when you have a baby. You have to start jettisoning belongings and paring down what to schlep around. My diaper bag has replaced my handbag.

And for my babydaddy, he's gained a bag. I have my chocolate brown & light blue diaper bag; he has his plain black daddy bag. I keep a camera, mascara, ID, credit card, lip gloss and cell phone in the extra pocket of my bag. I think he usually carries a camera as well.

We both have the usual assortment of baby-related items: diapers, extra change of clothes, clean burp cloths, blanket, Mylicon (that stuff is gold, I tell ya), Boudreaux's Butt Paste, wipes and gallon sized Ziploc bags. The Ziplocs are perfect for sealing off baby clothes in the event of a nuclear reactor melt down and ginormous blow out poo. Ryder's odd microwave buttered popcorn poo stench can be safely contained.

I feel like the mama-hood equivalent of a "What's in your wallet" commercial.

The Lush Life: My Alcoholic Fantasy World

Life is great. I can't complain but I will. Those statements are quickly becoming my Summer 2009 mantra. What am I whining about today? I want drinks. I want happy hour. I want to get kacheery. I want the Lush Life that I've enjoyed in the past. Hah! I realize that life is long gone. It was a crazy carnival ride while it lasted, my misspent youth. And by "youth" I mean all the years between 15 and 41. It was a helluva time.

I drink one beer a day, normally a dark one, as a lactation aid. It's somewhat controversial on whether a single beer a day can help a nursing mom produce more milk but hell, I enjoy it and my baby isn't being harmed. Yes, I could simply take brewer's yeast but what's the fun in that? My lone beer is a gift from Bacchus for being a working mother.


But I'd really love to throw caution to the wind and breastmilk down the drain guilt free and go out on the town for multiple drinks. I'd love to fork over my hard earned dollars and do a shot of Jack, Coke back while waiting for my col'beer to arrive. And repeat that scenario an hour later, preferably in one of my favorite gay bars being served by one of my favorite gay bartenders, the ones who really know the meaning of "cocktail" (nothing dirty, just a beautifully poured drink).


I think back fondly on the days when relaxing after work meant pouring a glass of wine and arranging a plate of cheese and bread or crackers to nibble on while cooking dinner. I'd have a big red or maybe a prosecco with whatever cheese I fancied at the store that week. Nowadays my one beer is usually warm by the time I finish it between nursing Ryder and eating my own dinner.

I've become a beer snob, too. If you can have only one drink you'd make sure it's a good one, no? My favs this summer so far are Breckinridge Vanilla Porter and Shiner Smokehaus, the delightful "smokin' sommer bier" from the folks at the little brewery that could. I go back and forth between the dark & deep porter with the hint of vanilla and the refreshingly bright Helles-style Shiner with the little bit of smokiness.

I want to drink copious amounts of margaritas with my girlfriends on some sunny patio somewhere. Only with our current heat wave make that a sunny yet air conditioned enclosed patio somewhere. And top shelf ritas, please. I'm not wasting my time on cheap tequila. Republic will do me fine and I'll be keeping it local. Patron for shots, of course.

Alas, the Lush Life is no more. Long live the Lush Life! I can't afford to waste my baby's meals by polluting it with alcohol to the point that it's garbage. But I can still dream of the day, 8 months or so ahead in time, when I can call all my friends and squeal "happy hour after work!". I'm sure by then I'll be the cheapest drunk you can find, kinda like junior high was for me. Life is cyclical, right?

And por favor, no e-mails or comments listing the nearest AA meeting. I'm not an alcoholic. I'm just a reformed bar girl who's finding out that forbidden fruit is the sweetest.