Mother's Language

Walking up to speak was a hazy blur all I could see were words. Without order or preparation I begun, and when words found home in my tongue, scripted in my taste buds, it tasted like latino blood, like my mother's love, like malta on a hot day, I smiled to myself... Never thinking that the day would come where my native language would finally leap from my lips and drop swift melodic sound into accustomed spanish hearing ears. For years, it had been a fear of mine to crack out of english sound and rise into rhythmic speech, that danced each time my lips moved to speak. But when it happened, I immediately felt released. Free to compose Venezuelan beats, it seemed as though my hallow voice became full and I was my own tambor, a Venezuelan drum, I was able to produce music with only the movement of my tongue, followed by twisting ascent into my words. In that moment, english was the foreign language, to speak it was like spitting out something that didn’t belong in my mouth. But as fluent as I spoke my nerves were still strong. It was as if my body was an instrument and when a word was released a chord struck strong. The words pulsed throughout my body then leaked out my hands. I still remember the moisture on my palms and the tremble in my finger, everything was shaking except my voice.


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