My Grandparents

Huntington Beach, California, isn’t the most exciting place on earth. Aside from the beaches, the city is just a collection of suburban homes. But to me, Huntington Beach had a little more importance, it’s where my grandparents live. Each summer ever since I was a toddler, I have sat through the three hour car ride to visit my abuelo and abuela for a week or two.  

 

Visiting my grandparents at ages four and five consisted of interminable drives to Orange County accompanied by my endless “are we there yet?” inquiries. Once I arrived a week of stuffing my face with empanadas and milanesa ensued, and it seemed like no matter how much I ate, at the end every meal my abuela would ask me, “quieres más mi amor?”

 

Visiting my grandparents at ages six and seven consisted of trips to Justice and Macy’s as I prepared for my next year in elementary school. I ran through rack after rack of neon colored clothes yelling to my grandparents about how cool the zebra printed shorts or studded graphic tees were. At this point my I still didn’t seem to understand the difference between the meaning of  “abuela” and “abuelo”. Countless times I unknowingly called my grandpa “grandma” and vice versa. But they didn’t seem to care.

 

Visiting my grandparents at ages eight and nine consisted of sitting down with my abuela every night watching TV as she switched between the ESPN channel and her favorite telenovelas each commercial break. I remember having to watch the actors theatrical facial expressions or wait for the dramatic background music to have any clue as to what was going on.

 

Visiting my grandparents at ages ten and eleven consisted of going out to lunch and having to restate my abuela’s order because the cashier refused to listen to my abuela as she insisted that she couldn’t understand my grandma’s accent. The word “chili” can only be pronounced in so many ways.

 

Visiting my grandparents at ages twelve and thirteen consisted of going to Target one afternoon to get groceries. After my abuelo took a bit longer than normal to hand back exact change to the cashier, we left the store and made our way to the parking lot. As my grandparents and I reached our car a woman who was in line behind us caught up to us and demanded that my grandparents, “Learn how to count American money or go back to Mexico.” I guess the large American flag plastered on the back window of my abuelo's pick up truck didn’t seem to mean anything to her.

 

Visiting my grandparents at ages fourteen and fifteen consisted of long conversations. Whether it was over how to make the perfect cup of mate or analyzing the newest edition of National Geographic, I was finally old enough to actually get to know my grandparents. My abuelo told stories of when he hitchhiked in Uruguay for a month and my abuela started to teach me Guarani, a language spoken in Paraguay. But stories were also told about when they passed their citizenship tests, or how they spent their first fourth of July. They were proud of their roots but also proud to be Americans. And because of their influence I am also just as proud.

 

Visiting my grandparents at age sixteen consisted of eating. And even more eating. Because even after having a full plate of food for lunch and three scoops of rainbow sherbet ice cream they insisted I have some sopa paraguaya. Before I could even leave the kitchen my abuela asked me, “quieres más mi amor?”

 

This poem is about: 
My family
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