¡Ven Aqui!
Come Here!
“¡Ven Aqui!” your mother yells as she gestures for you to come over. The food she’s been making since early this morning is finally done and now you tell your adolescent friends that you’ll be back in fifteen. You run over, jumping over curbs and kicking stones. You put your shirt back on, in order to look more presentable, despite the Dominican sun. Your uncle, a dark skinned man who always told you of those old stories of back in the day, slams down his dominos and smiles up at you just as you reach the gate, his friends angry over the move. “¡Ven!” he says to you as he then lovingly hugs you, his clothes offering the strong scent of alcohol. You hug back. He lets go and you run in. The placemats are set and the food placed on them. There you see among the cream colored walls, the wide open windows and doors lies one of the best examples of a home cooked meal. The rice, the beans, the meats, and the salads - all overflowing out of their pots. This feeds 6 but you all are only 3. You dig in. You tell your mother how delicious it is and thank her. She doesn’t eat yet but sits down next to you and smiles back while you help yourself for seconds.
“¡Ven Aqui!” your mother yells at you as she notices you slightly wander off line at the airport. “Vamos a vivir en America” she tells you weeks before. You’re moving from a beautiful two story house to a rat infested apartment in some place called New York and she was excited. You could tell because of the magazines she was reading – cosmopolitan / glamour / vogue. She was researching.
Upon arrival, the officer at customs asks you both what you are. You both say Dominican proudly, angry at the fact he even dared to ask. He rolls his eyes and then welcomes you to America. “Ah-meh-ree-ka” you attempt to pronounce in your thick accent. You start to associate the word with dread. Your friends are back home, not here.
“Cong Jeer!” your mother calls so you could read the latest heat bill to her. She has decided to not use Spanish in the household as it’ll hinder English learning. You make sure one of the windows is completely shut as you walk over to her. The oven, on high, almost nicks you as you pass it, leaving it open so it gives the apartment some much needed warmth. You point out the costs and late fees on the bill. She tells you to call them; they must have made a mistake. There is no way she’ll be paying that amount. You start to translate word for word for her when she gives up on her bad English. The conversations spirals and she starts to mold simple words into curse words. You relish in the opportunity to use them.
While you don’t love school - your mother, some luck, and your work ethic were able to place you here, a good private school. The school, despite the white majority, welcomes you in open arms. You are popular. You go to school dances. You mingle. You fail Spanish class.
At home, your mother cooks you dinner. You don’t remember much of the cenas from before. All of that feels hazy. She attempts to create the meal from way back when but it doesn’t taste the same. She now uses new spices and recipes she found from a book entitled “American Cooking”. It doesn’t satisfy you. Later, you order a Big Mac and fries.
At the funeral, you find yourself among all your relatives from the Dominican. They all come up to you giving you there condolences for your mother’s passing. They speak Spanish and you understand but you struggle in your replies. Most of your words are gone now and you resort to one-word answers like “Gracias” and “Si.”
You soon marry a nice white girl from Queens you met on the train one day. She dropped her scarf and you fetched it for her. Her family you realize soon becomes a big part of your life. All of your relatives are in the Dominican Republic and you don’t speak to them as much anymore.
You soon forget that Dominican Independence Day is on February 27th.
“Come here!” you tell your children when they break your mother’s old vase. You give them a lecture on the importance of caring for things. You attempt to use Spanish words for emphasis long since lost in their meanings. Your children look at you awkwardly.
At the airport for vacation, you arrive at your destination with your beautiful wife and kids. The man at customs looks at your passport and sees you were born here. He tells you welcome back in a foreign tongue and you shake your head because you don’t understand. It’s his turn to his shake his head and you notice his disapproval. You are slightly humiliated. He hands it back to you and tells you all to enjoy your stay in the “Republica Dominicana”, his English terrible. You take your passport and place it back in with all your resort information.
“Ree-pub-lee-ka” your children say and giggle.
These words. They all sound so strange to them.