Loving Someone in Spanglish

by Grace Sofia 

Sana, sana, colita de rana. A familiar song my mom sang, that her mom sang, that her mom sang, and so on. My first memory of the song brings a warmth to my chest, warmth that reminds me of cinnamon coffee I used to drink with my mom, another cure only for bad days and no sleep. The way I show love is the same as the words Shakespeare professed for the woman he wrote about. It’s honest, it’s bare, it’s vulnerability in the ways poems were vulnerable professions and declarations. Shakespeare wrote tragedies about heartbreak and poems about romance. I write love letters to the ones who matter, and give them care that shines on the way I was raised. 

I sing the songs my mother sang to me, learn old recipes, and teach them phrases my abuela taught me. My mother sang songs to get me to sleep, made up words with no rhythm or reason, and other songs to tell me when to eat, or even use the bathroom. A million different songs with a million different melodies. 

“Te quiero mi cielo,” I say as I mix the gargara, salt and warm water, to clear their illness. It’s the same words my abuela said to me, the same gargara my mom made for me too. I remember the many times I gargled this gargara before, the salty water always made me gag. I hated the way the warmth opened up my nose and throat, cleared my sinuses, and made the salt flavor stand out even more. My mom showed me how to mix the ingredients for her amazing asopao. I learned to trust my spices and herbs measurements as we cooked. I got more confident with each pass of my large spoon, and for every turn of the food, it grew in flavor. This always tasted better than the gargara. 

 “Dame un beso,” my tia used to say to me while puckering her lips, somehow missing my grossed-out face as I tried to dodge her vampy lipstick. Back then, there was nothing I hated more than affection. Now, I say the same words to him with a smile. I will pucker my lips and pepper kisses all over his face just because. Sometimes I even let my tia give me some, too, but never with her dark lipstick on. 

We cuddle as I dab a cold rag over his forehead. I wipe the sweat and twist open the familiar dark blue tub. Rubbing VaporRub over his chest, up his nose, in his ears, and everywhere else my mom used to put it on me. I wonder if he knows that I love him with pieces of my childhood. Parts of me that are essential to my everything. I wonder if he knows when I sing him a silly song my mom sang to me, her mom to her, that it's me sharing all the parts of me I hide. When he hears the birthday songs my family sings, it’s me giving him the aspects of my life I’m embarrassed to show to others. I love in Spanglish, one foot in the world of New York and its high speed, another foot in the Dominican Republic and its tropical sun. 

There are parts of me that are strictly English. In the way I don’t know all the prayers my mom used to say over my tired face, I am English. In the way I can eat pizza for breakfast, lunch and dinner, I am English. Sometimes I am English in the way I love someone. Maybe not “English,” maybe “American” is a better descriptor. Maybe it’s the way I surprise him with banana pudding from Magnolia Bakery. Or maybe it’s how I meet him at the subway after work and head home with him. It doesn’t matter, though, not really, because it’s so much more than just being one thing or the other. It’s about showing him I care with all the parts of me he loves, that I don’t.