Sunshine, Sweet Lips
Growing up, I remember my brother, Randy, and I swaying on the swings in our backyard, toes creating squiggles like an etch-a-sketch in the sand. We never swung, just swayed, watching the sun disappear in the distant ocean. Our faces, shiny from escaped juice, reflected the sun’s glow as we nibbled on oranges, tangerines, and lemons. Our stepfather hadn't come in to our lives yet, and our mother's muffled cries were heard through the open windows. Our older brother, Mike, was always staying with friends. Randy and I were aware of only the absence of our father, but not of the financial burden or educational crossroads he left as a parting gift. Randy and I would often look back at this moment as that last dance with innocence. When we could laugh at each other’s puckered faces without worrying about our next meal.The next year was hard with Mom going back to school at night and working days to keep the roof over our heads. I didn’t know it then, but this would inspire me to be the only person in our family to pursue a Master’s. Then, all I could think about was how often we had to eat tomato soup and grilled cheese sandwiches and how I wasn’t given the things my friends had. My brothers pitched in and baby sat me, took out the trash, and even did the dishes once the dishwasher broke, so they could earn more in allowance and buy the latest skateboard or Vans in a checkerboard pattern.
I can remember my mom often sitting at the table, long after dinner was over, looking at papers. Sometimes, when she thought I was asleep, I would creep down the hall and lay on my stomach, watching her brow furrow and wishing I could erase those lines with my fingers. My stomach would often hurt for days because I worried about everything I didn’t understand.
Then my mom met Ignacio Martinez and our lives would change. We would call him Nacho for short, though I secretly called him dad. He was brown and blue-eyed and beautiful. He was settled and stable and loved us unconditionally. I didn’t understand why my grandfather didn’t like him at the time, but my mom married him because she knew a good thing when it came along. Suddenly, she had laugh lines and they often danced to sad Mexican tunes of far away places or loved ones; suddenly chorizo, tortillas, guacamole, and salsa became a part of our diet with mariachi music playing on Saturday mornings. I never met the rest of his family and wouldn’t realize how strange that was until his funeral ten years later. He cooked and planted and cared for our trees; he worked hard both as a shipbuilder and as a father to children that were not his own.
These instances in my life are what it means to be American. I cannot tell you what America means to me; I can only show you. I do not have words for the gratitude I felt at being able to continue my education, or mesh a new culture with my own. For the gratitude I still feel for the values and morals instilled in me to work hard and smile often, to try new foods, and be open to new cultures with the acceptance I had once given to Nacho.
Maybe these moments were simpler times back then, or maybe I was simpler because I was young and ignorant. Maybe; but these are moments I can still taste now. Randy and I didn’t know we would have it so good and at that moment, we didn’t even realize it was bad because we still had a swing, oranges, and each other. It is moments like these that have shaped me, given me sunshine clarity on orange juice lips of connecting without words, pushing harder for the education you deserve, and creating a family from what you are given.
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