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a8d8690
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Mama sabia ser alegre. Mama sabia ser temerosa. Mama sabia olvidar facilmente. Y, sin embargo tenia buena memoria. Mama me daba con la puerta en la narices, y sin embargo, me admitia en su bano. A veces mama se me perdia, pero su instinto me encontraba. Cuando yo rompia vidrios, mama ponia la masilla. A veces se instalaba en el error, aunque a su alrededor hubiera sillas suficientes. Aun cuando se encerraba en si misma, para mi siempre estaba abierta. Temia las corrientes de aire y sin embargo no paraba de levantar el viento. Gastaba, y no le gustaba pagar impuestos. Yo era el reves de su medalla. Cuando mama jugaba corazones ganaba siempre.
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mama
recuerdo
muerte
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Günter Grass |
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15269b6
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"Why can't you call me Alex?" I ask, my head down while I stare at the food in front of me. "If I wanted to call you Alex, I wouldn't have bothered to name you Alejandro. Don't you like your given name?" My muscles tense. I was named after a father who is no longer alive, leaving me the responsibility of being the designated man of the house. Alejandro, Alejandro Jr., Junior . . . it's all the same to me. "Would it matter?" I mumble as I pick up a tortilla. I look up, trying to gauge her reaction. Her back is to me as she cleans dishes in the sink. "No." "Alex wants to pretend he's white," Carlos chimes in. "You can change your name, bro, but nobody'd mistake you for anythin' other than "Carlos, I warn. I don't want to be white. I just don't want to be associated with my father. you two," our mother pleads. "Enough fighting for one day." Carlos sings, egging me on by calling me a wetback. I've had enough of Carlos's mouth; he's gone too far. I stand, my chair scraping the floor. Carlos follows and steps in front of me, closing the space between us. He knows I could kick his ass. His overblown ego is gonna get him in trouble with the wrong person one of these days. "Carlos, sit down," orders. "Dirty beaner," Carlos drawls at me in a fake deep accent. "Better yet, "Carlos!" reprimands sharply as she comes forward, but I get in between them and grab my brother's collar. "Yeah, that's all anyone will ever think of me," I tell him. "But you keep talkin' trash and they'll think that of you, too." "Brother, they'll think that of me anyway. Whether I want them to or not." I release him. "You're wrong, Carlos. You can do better, be better." "Than you?" "Yeah, better than me and you know it," I say. "Now apologize to for talkin' smack in front of her." One look in my eyes and Carlos knows I'm not kidding around. "Sorry, Ma," he says, then sits back down. I don't miss his glare, though, as his ego got knocked down a peg."
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spanish
carlos-fuentes
goad
mexicano
alex-fuentes
mama
name-calling
white
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Simone Elkeles |