Writing Truths

I had a great evening with my sister, son, and husband. Gathered at the dinner table our conversation led us to the indigenous languages of Nahuatl, Yacutec Maya, and Purépecha. We candidly spoke about what it's like when you're American and one of your parents was born on foreign soil, what that means as far as identity and connection and how people treat you differently on both turfs even though either will go to great lengths to prove otherwise. 

We spoke of travel, education, and culture.  My son worked on his mathematics and reading homework.  We asked him if he learned about Columbus.  He said he had learned a bit about Columbus, but the teachers were sure to tell him that Columbus did not discover America.  A fact that I was proud was being taught to my fifth grader.  This could also be respective to the area in Texas where we reside.

It was a beautiful evening as we wrapped up the conversation and the laughter when we took it outside to water the matas (plants).  It reminded me of being at my grandmothers.  How each evening we'd spend long hours at her home and she'd take us outside in one sweeping gesture so that she could water her dear plants.  The conversation always turned lighthearted and carefree as she spoke about different plants and different animals that attacked her plants.  

I found myself in a pleasant déjà vu last night.  I am becoming the matriarch in small and careful steps as God wills it.  Stories continue to riddle my lips and l find it is my duty to keep these stories alive in the best way I know how, speaking and writing my truth.  

Ms. Olga

A few days ago, as we sat at the Pig Stand on Broadway having a fruitful conversation on food, life, and happenings, a sweet woman whom sat behind my fiancé slid out of her booth and turned slowly to tell me, “Never get old, mija.”

She was a sweet older woman.  She shared her Senior Times and advised me about bad knees.  She was so inviting, tired, curious and spoke in a low tone.  Stories developed on her tongue; however, she tamed them and we never heard them.  Her eyes searched us as she asked, “Are you all a couple?  A married couple or just boyfriend and girlfriend?  You two are such a beautiful couple.”  She offered a smile and a dim shine in her eyes.  I lifted my hand to show her, “We just got engaged!”  Her body melted and she motioned to hug the both of us, slowly and carefully.  “Love each other the way you do now and you will last forever.”  Kind advice from, “My name is Olga.”  We introduced ourselves in return and listened as she gently spoke about having dinner and having had three glasses of wine prior to her meal.  “I had to get a bite in me.” She neither struck me as a drunk nor a woman out to have a good time.  I wondered where she’d been.  It may not have been home.  Wherever she was headed, she didn’t seem to want to go there.  Alone. 

Photo from squar3one.blogspot.com 

We offered to pay for her dinner and her eyes welled with tears.  The gesture took her breath away.  I had to pry the ticket from her hands careful not to give her a paper cut.  She didn’t know what to say to us, but she brought her hand to her heart and managed, “Thank you.  Oh, God bless you.”  My heart momentarily sank as I realized that perhaps no one had ever done this for her or it wasn’t something she expected from the world. 

We weren’t supposed to be at the Pig Stand.  We had already had dinner elsewhere and were satisfied.  I suggested coffee because I know it leads to long conversations with my love.  We sat behind a woman that we never saw enter the restaurant or did we notice her as we sat in our booth.   I don’t know Ms. Olga’s story only that she lives in the Palo Alto neighborhood and that she was far from home at the Pig Stand on Broadway.  Daily, we encounter people with stories that are not ours and somehow manage to connect.  It is representative of who we are as a people.  There we are en las caras de los ancianos. 

Be blessed, Ms. Olga, wherever you go.