fork.”
“But you and Mama use your fingers.”
“Ah, but that’s because we have a lot of experience. You’re just starting out.”
I laughed. “That sounds a lot like learning to become a good
comadre.
“Papa, there are only a couple of weeks left. They’ll give the scholarship to someone else if I don’t accept it.”
“Ah,” Papa said as he lowered the flame under the bubbling skillet. “So tell me, Sofia, what’s the difference between how we like to eat our pinto beans and your mama’s?”
“Oh, that’s easy. We like them whole, eaten from a cup, whereas Mama likes to smash them, fry them, and then trap them into tacos.”
Papa laughed. “What? You don’t like your mama’s tacos?”
“Yes, I do. But they once got me called Taco Head at school.”
“Taco Head?”
I told him the story.
“That must’ve been hard for you, mi’ja. But don’t tell your mama, because she’ll grab her machete and go after that big girl.”
“It happened years ago.”
“Oh that’s a mere detail when it comes to your mama. Your mama’s a
huracán,
a force of nature. You’ve seen her use her powerful solar system of
comadres
.”
“Yes . . . but I’m nothing like her.”
“No, you’re like your papa. But don’t feel bad. We have our own secret powers. We find God among the pots and pans, just like Teresa of Ávila, our little Spanish saint.”
“Pots and pans?”
“Do you remember those fireflies years ago? How we caught a bunch of them and squashed them all over our faces, arms, and necks? Your mama said,
‘How could you get
so dirty? And those poor creatures!’
“But then we stepped outside into the dark night, remember? How amazed and enchanted she was then, for there we were, glowing like some supernatural beings.”
“Yes . . . but . . .”
“And take your Taco Head story too, the one you just told me. It must’ve been really, really hard for you. But look where it’s taken you. It kicked you to the very top of your class, and now you have this scholarship.”
“Papa, do you want me to go? Can I go?”
“I want you to be happy, mi’ja, to learn what it takes to always have the ability to make yourself happy.”
“
This
will make me happy.”
Papa looked down at his brown and white boots and then at me. “Okay, Sofia. And know that I want you to always follow your dreams. You’re a dreamer, like me. And I see from your Taco Head story that you have the kick it takes to learn from life, to keep on going, even when it gets hard.”
I kissed Papa. He smiled.
“But what about Mama, and Lucy?” I said, flipping a blown-up tortilla with a fork.
Papa started laughing. “To your mama, the beans aren’t done until they’re refried. And Lucy is a mini version of her.” Papa turned off the burner.
“That’s another important lesson of learning to be happy, Sofia, of becoming a good
comadre
—realizing that everyone is special and often quite different from you. And that if you really want to connect with them, to love them, you need to first figure out how
they
feel. Take me, for instance. I had to learn to
dance,
something I had no interest in, just to have a chance at getting to know your mama. And that’s because she
loved
dancing and dances and everything to do with them.”
“But . . .”
“But you’re all confused now. Well, that’s good too!”
“Good?”
“Yes, good, Sofia, because life is like that—confusing. And it’s confusing because people are confusing. But
basta!
with all this talk from another world, as you like to say.
“Sofia, seriously, as your papa, let me say this: if this is your dream, to go to this school, I’ll support you. Now, on the other hand, you still need to convince your mama. As for Lucy, she’ll go along with your mama.”
“But how?”
“By learning to dance, just like I did.”
“Are you serious? Papa, that’s . . .”
Papa started laughing again as he took the last tortilla off the griddle and put it
“But you and Mama use your fingers.”
“Ah, but that’s because we have a lot of experience. You’re just starting out.”
I laughed. “That sounds a lot like learning to become a good
comadre.
“Papa, there are only a couple of weeks left. They’ll give the scholarship to someone else if I don’t accept it.”
“Ah,” Papa said as he lowered the flame under the bubbling skillet. “So tell me, Sofia, what’s the difference between how we like to eat our pinto beans and your mama’s?”
“Oh, that’s easy. We like them whole, eaten from a cup, whereas Mama likes to smash them, fry them, and then trap them into tacos.”
Papa laughed. “What? You don’t like your mama’s tacos?”
“Yes, I do. But they once got me called Taco Head at school.”
“Taco Head?”
I told him the story.
“That must’ve been hard for you, mi’ja. But don’t tell your mama, because she’ll grab her machete and go after that big girl.”
“It happened years ago.”
“Oh that’s a mere detail when it comes to your mama. Your mama’s a
huracán,
a force of nature. You’ve seen her use her powerful solar system of
comadres
.”
“Yes . . . but I’m nothing like her.”
“No, you’re like your papa. But don’t feel bad. We have our own secret powers. We find God among the pots and pans, just like Teresa of Ávila, our little Spanish saint.”
“Pots and pans?”
“Do you remember those fireflies years ago? How we caught a bunch of them and squashed them all over our faces, arms, and necks? Your mama said,
‘How could you get
so dirty? And those poor creatures!’
“But then we stepped outside into the dark night, remember? How amazed and enchanted she was then, for there we were, glowing like some supernatural beings.”
“Yes . . . but . . .”
“And take your Taco Head story too, the one you just told me. It must’ve been really, really hard for you. But look where it’s taken you. It kicked you to the very top of your class, and now you have this scholarship.”
“Papa, do you want me to go? Can I go?”
“I want you to be happy, mi’ja, to learn what it takes to always have the ability to make yourself happy.”
“
This
will make me happy.”
Papa looked down at his brown and white boots and then at me. “Okay, Sofia. And know that I want you to always follow your dreams. You’re a dreamer, like me. And I see from your Taco Head story that you have the kick it takes to learn from life, to keep on going, even when it gets hard.”
I kissed Papa. He smiled.
“But what about Mama, and Lucy?” I said, flipping a blown-up tortilla with a fork.
Papa started laughing. “To your mama, the beans aren’t done until they’re refried. And Lucy is a mini version of her.” Papa turned off the burner.
“That’s another important lesson of learning to be happy, Sofia, of becoming a good
comadre
—realizing that everyone is special and often quite different from you. And that if you really want to connect with them, to love them, you need to first figure out how
they
feel. Take me, for instance. I had to learn to
dance,
something I had no interest in, just to have a chance at getting to know your mama. And that’s because she
loved
dancing and dances and everything to do with them.”
“But . . .”
“But you’re all confused now. Well, that’s good too!”
“Good?”
“Yes, good, Sofia, because life is like that—confusing. And it’s confusing because people are confusing. But
basta!
with all this talk from another world, as you like to say.
“Sofia, seriously, as your papa, let me say this: if this is your dream, to go to this school, I’ll support you. Now, on the other hand, you still need to convince your mama. As for Lucy, she’ll go along with your mama.”
“But how?”
“By learning to dance, just like I did.”
“Are you serious? Papa, that’s . . .”
Papa started laughing again as he took the last tortilla off the griddle and put it
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