Going Home

The upcoming trip to see my family is taking up most of my time. Non-existent time. End of trimester is always a tricky time for me. What is taking up most of my time is not the usual preparation. That's the easy part. One change of clothes, my favorite shoes, Barça t-shirts to give away. Mom's favorite bread sticks and assorted gift items for my sisters. No, that's not the problem.
The problem is the linguistic border that must be crossed in order to retain my dignity. Yes, being laughed at (not a blaring in your face haha. More of a snicker under the breath, but it's there. They love me too much to let out a big whooping laugh) is not one of my passions.
So words such as coche, conducir, coger(especially this one) must be put into a draw in my cluttered brain and I must drag out carro, manejar, agarrar. It's not that they don't understand the words, but they are just not used. This of course is just the tip of the linguistic iceberg. They here me, they somewhat understand me, but they know that their daughter/sister is not the same. She can't be. She's found new places to be displaced in. She's found new ways of being different.
I so envy my little sister. She doesn't question being Mexican, she does not question being American. She just is. Her big sister can't be either anymore.
Reading this, there may be tinge of regret mixed in with these words. There probably is. It doesn't bother me, got used to the constant flux of things in my life. Just going back to a universe where things have been the same for a long time and there's a bit of envy on my part. Just want my worlds to stop moving so I can enjoy them for a while.

The Border re-visited!

Ten days ago, my friend Carl paid me a visit. Had a great time with him, mostly chatted about grad school experiences. It was as if we had just picked up where our last conversation left off. Well, not quite. My Spanish has greatly improved and I'm not as reserved as I was nine years back.
Carl's comments about writing, about my constant treading on borders that got me thinking again. Really thinking.
Sure, born in El Paso, Texas, physical border. Growing up in an American environment with Mexican parents teaching and expecting us to live in a displaced Mexican culture. Becoming aware of being Chicana (feeling Mexican, feeling American, belonging to nothing and the possibility of belonging to both at the same time. See JBN, I was listening!).
Then marrying a Spaniard. From Catalonia (border culture here too). Moving to Barcelona and being Chicana is all of the sudden not important anymore. So, what now? American, that's it!
But, in every conversation I had with any Spaniard, I had to defend the American government. Hard enough to do with Clinton and his Oval Office tryst (What was her name? Oh who cares... Miss I'll-Keep-The-Blue-Dress-Just-In-Case) but absolutely impossible with the Texas Butcher at the helm.
So, back to being Mexican. But that wasn't right either. Easy solution. Become Spanish. That's right, Spanish citizenship. What the heck. It's just a paper anyway!

Fins aviat!