“The Spanish I Still Remember”

By Jacob Dimpsey

The Spanish I Still Remember

My mother always began sentences with Men don’t like, and I thought it was funny because if Mother knew so well what men like then why did Father leave us when I was five? But I took note anyway. Men don’t like dirty feet, chewed fingernails, a smartass, heavy eyeliner, a woman with bad posture—Sit up straight for chrissakes, mija. Men don’t like frowning, loud chewing, tan lines, honesty, unnaturally-colored hair, too-revealing clothes, too-modest clothes—Okay Mother, then what the fuck am I supposed to wear? Mother whacks me in the head, I wince, and she says something in Spanish too quickly for me to make out. 

Sometimes I feel guilty for losing my Spanish. I was fluent until grade school. Silvio’s parents were so excited when he brought a proper Mexican girl home, but they were quickly disappointed when his mami said, Estamos muy felices de conocerte, and I just stood there with a polite smile and lost eyes until Silvio stepped in to translate.

I moved away from Texas and my mother as soon as I graduated high school. I told myself I wouldn’t miss any of it but sometimes I close my eyes at Coney Island and pretend it’s Galveston or I slip off my sandals in Central Park on hot summer days and let the pavement burn my feet like I would on my neighborhood street in Houston until I can’t stand it anymore and I step onto the cool grass. Mija! my mother would shout from the door of our house. Men don’t like dirty feet. Come inside and put on your sandals! 

Most of my memories of my father are just random moments that my mind crystallized into a fragmented image. I don’t know why I remember some things and not others. I remember his stained tank top, the way his chest rumbled when he spoke while holding me, his gold earring, his rough hands, his loud music in the car. When I was seventeen, I asked my mother where my father had gone and she said he went west for work so when I left I went east. I told all this to Silvio once and he got all self-righteous, comparing himself to my father. He was being selfish; I would never abandon my family like that; and on and on. I rolled my eyes and changed the subject.

My mother called me for the first time in years to tell me my abuela had died and that I needed to come home for the funeral. Is it terrible that my first thought wasn’t of my abuela? It was of Houston. I hadn’t been back since I moved to New York. I was almost nervous to see it again. Silvio and I flew to Houston two days later. I showed Silvio places from my childhood. We drove to Galveston which brought back memories of sandcastles and collecting seashells and my first kiss with my first boyfriend on the Ferris wheel and the ice cream he bought me. Everything had a dreamlike quality. I felt I needed to walk carefully, not look too closely, not disturb anything. I wanted to preserve Houston the way I remembered it.

Abuela’s funeral was at our church. Her casket rested at the altar under a statue of the Virgin Mary. I remember long mass services as a child, Mother nudging me forward to receive the sacraments. I’ve forgotten most of my Spanish, but I still remember the prayers I recited every day until at some point when I told Mother I no longer believe. Sometimes I still catch myself whispering under my breath Ruega por nosotros, pecadores, ahora y en la hora de nuestra muerte. When I think about death, I think about when my abuela would take me on walks to feed the koi fish or to pick pecans in the fall at the arboretum. I can remember running ahead through the pedestrian tunnel between her house and the arboretum, looking back at her, telling her to come on. She’s rushing to catch up. If you really see a tunnel with a light at the end when you die, I think I’ll see that pedestrian tunnel. Abuela saying Slow down, I’m coming, taking my hand; and the pecan trees and koi pond on the other side.

I’m not sure if this really happened or if I imagined it when I was young and my mind just incorporated it into the mythology of my childhood, but I’m going to tell it as if it did happen: Not long before he walked out on us, my father took me to a 7/11 and bought me a soda. Mother never let me have soda because soda makes you fat and men don’t like fat girls. So, I stood in front of the cooler for fifteen minutes trying to decide which soda I wanted because I knew Mother wouldn’t let me have another. And my father stood there watching me with a big grin on his face and a dollar in his hand. Maybe the reason I remember—or made up—this moment with my father is because I thought of it every time my mother began a sentence with Men don’t like. Maybe it’s stupid, but it made me think that what men actually like is to buy girls soda. The whole way home my father kept asking, Is it good? How do you like it? He said If it’s no good, we’ll take it back for another one. Then I said something in Spanish that made him laugh and he hoisted me onto his shoulders and carried me the rest of the way home.

 Jacob Dimpsey is a writer living in Camp Hill, PA. He studied at Susquehanna University where he earned his BA in Creative Writing. His work has appeared in Flock and Sidereal Magazine and is forthcoming in Plain China.