I grew up in ugly, run-down apartments that were located in streets with beautiful names like Paradise, Butterfly, Hill, and Eliza.
In 1977, the year I lived on Hill Street, I began to shed most of my Spanish. I let phrases and words dripped out my mouth. I dropped them on the ground, not to dispose of them, but like Hensel and Gretel, I needed them to track my way back home....perhaps one day.
Amapolas de octubre
El molino a las 6 de la mañana
I was 11 years old. My brain was becoming intoxicated with the sweetness of American English. I held on tight to all the Spanish I could, I really did, but English was my new playground. American English was a girl with a mini skirt. The floral swimming cap with a chin strap I wanted to have. It was a red popsicle in my mouth. It was the news of a young girl’s attempted suicide. It was white tennis shoes. Always white tennis shoes.
Guiño a Plympton. [Flickr]
8 hours ago