Hard to Say

    There’s so much I don’t remember about where I was born. Every memory of Venezuela feels like a dream. I don’t remember my school, except for the sweet face of my preschool teacher. I don’t remember our home, except for the balcony off the living room. I don’t even remember the language—my first language.

    My sister, Clarísa, remembers it all. She was 10 when we moved, old enough for her memories to stay intact. I had my sixth birthday just after we got to the States.

    I walk into the kitchen to the sweet smell of cinnamon pancakes. Clarísa is speaking Spanish on the phone with our grandmother. My sister laughs and asks how our grandfather is doing. I know enough Spanish to at least figure that out.

    “Morning,” Mom says. She slides a plate of pancakes in front of me. It’s been a tradition since my last day in kindergarten.

    “I’m 15,” I say. “You don’t need to make me special last-day-of-school pancakes anymore.”

    “I’ll be making them all the way through college, kid. Deal with it.” 

    I pop the top off the syrup bottle. “So you’re going 

    to travel to my dorm room and make pancakes?”

    “I’ll FedEx them,” Mom says. “Or you can go to school close enough to come home for pancakes, like your sister.”

    I shove another bite in my mouth. Clarísa is still on the phone. Her mouth moves a mile a minute in perfect Spanish. I start to feel sad.

    Spanish was my first language. Now I have trouble piecing together the most basic conversations. It happened without me even realizing it. One day it was just . . . gone. 

    Dad walks in and gives me a loud kiss on the top of my head. 

    “History final today?” 

    “And I have to turn in my final art project,” I say, pointing to the painting on the kitchen table.

    “I call dibs once it’s graded. I want to hang it in my office.”

    Clari holds out the phone. “Dad, Ita wants to talk to you.” Ita and Ito became my grandparents’ names when Clari was little and couldn’t say Abuelita and Abuelito. 

    Dad grabs the phone. “Hola, Mamá,” he says. Then he walks away before we can hear anything else.

    Dad’s voice floats down the hall, and Clari and I try to listen. 

    I can tell that something’s up. We turn our heads to Mom, who starts cleaning surfaces that are already clean. 

    Soon Dad shuffles back into the kitchen. 

    “Dad, what’s going on?” Clari asks.

    Dad runs a hand through his thick curls. “Things in Venezuela are not good. You know that already.” 

    We do, thanks to the news. We hear about the violence, the lack of food and medicine. Thousands of people have been leaving the country daily. My parents have been sending money to my grandparents for several years.

    Dad sits down on the stool next to mine. “Your mother and I have been working with an immigration lawyer. We wanted to wait until we knew for sure to tell you girls.”

    “And?” Clari asks.

    We sit down to eat in the dining room. There are empanadas as far as the eye can see. The ones on the white platter are Dad’s. The ones on the blue platter are Ita’s. Dad tells me I’m to eat one of each and compare.

    The table erupts into arguments about which one is better. 

    Or at least, I think that’s what everyone is talking about.

    Soon Clari jumps up and puts a napkin ring on 

    Ita’s head and laughs. When I hear her say “la reina,” 

    I finally get the joke. Clari has crowned Ita the queen of empanadas. 

    It only gets harder to keep up after that. I grab another empanada off the tray and pick at its edges. The conversation goes on around me. 

    I sleep in the next morning, because it’s summer and I can. When I finally go downstairs, Ita and Clari are in the kitchen. My sister is chopping something green while lta gives her directions.

    “What are y’all making?”

    “Chimichurri,” Clari says. “To go with dinner.” 

    I hug lta. 

    “Buenos días, Tinita,” she says. Tinita was her nickname for me. Mom and Dad used to use it too. But when we moved here, I asked them to call me Valentina or Val. Now I kind of wish I hadn’t.  

    “Buenos días, Ita,” I tell her. 

    I point to the pile of herbs Clari is working on. “Can’t you just make that in the food processor, like Dad?” Chimichurri is sauce from Argentina; Dad probably makes some every week or so. 

    Clari shakes her head. “Ita says hand chopped is best.”

    “Sí,” Ita responds. “A mano.”

    When I step into the kitchen, Mom is sorting through a bunch of bags. “Oh, good. There you are,” she says.

    “What is all this?” I ask.

    “I took Ita to the art supply store to get some paint.” Mom pulls a tube from one of the bags. 

    I look around. “You guys didn’t need to buy all this. I have plenty of paint and brushes.”

    “Ita likes to use oil paint,” Mom says. “She says that you don’t use the same type of brushes for that.”

    No one at school uses oils. You have to wait days for one layer of paint to dry before you can work on top of it again. I can’t even wait all the way through a YouTube ad without hitting “Skip.” 

    Ita walks into the kitchen holding an old box. “Come,” Mom says. “Sit.” The timing of all this makes me wonder if Clari told Mom about my meltdown. 

    Ita sits at the table and opens the box. It’s full of old photos. She pulls out one of me and Clari. 

    “Qué linda,” Ita says. How cute. 

    A photo of a beach catches my eye. I reach for it. I know I remember this place. The palm trees. The red sand.

    “That’s Playa Colorada, in Venezuela,” Mom says over my shoulder. 

    “I’ve been here before?” I ask.

    Ita nods. “¿Te acuerdas?” Do you remember?

    “Sí. Me acuerdo,” I say. “Or, I think I do.”

    Ita starts to tell me the story, then switches to telling Mom. That’s her way of asking Mom to translate. Mom tells me we went there a few months before we moved to the States. 

    “I think I remember. Clari buried me in the sand . . .”

    Ita nods, smiling. Her smile makes me remember more.