No Sabo Kid (True Story of a Chicano Teen)

No Sabo Kid (True Story of a Chicana Teen)

God, where do I even start? Well, I'm a no sabo kid. I have always been a no sabo kid. Did I want to be a no sabo kid? Uh, no. But, if I could be born into another life, do I want to be a no sabo kid? Yes.

Okay, but what does that mean? Actually, there isn't a definition for "no sabo." It's the butchered phrase of "I don't know" in Spanish. It's a running joke in the Hispanic community that only uncultured, ignorant Spanish speakers say that. The correct way to say, "I don't know", is "no se." But did anyone tell me that? No. And unfortunately, that's the way it is for most of us no sabo kids. So excuse my Spanish.

When Dora the freaking Explorer is your only Spanish teacher, your Spanish is limited to-oh-so many words. Some words that I internalized from my seven year old teacher were "vamos arriba", "afuera", and "hola, soy Dora." That wasn't enough to hold a conversation with my Spanish-speaking parents. Mom could've sat me down. She could've bought me some decent flashcards, or better yet, a tutor. But I didn't have my mom. See, mama y papa were off working at Village Tavern with all the other no sabo kids' parents. They and the other parents were disciplined line-cooks serving all the other families and their children. All that elbow grease from Mexíco, Guatemala, Puerto Rico for a better life, but it wasn't just them you know. Their Latino sons and daughters too, waitered and washed among the restaurant's lavish walls to the oblivious patrons and I. Maybe that's why my sister has dark bags under her eyes or the reason why my brother is out like a light when he sits down. All for the dream that maybe, just maybe, their little no sabo baby or sister would be the one that would wine and dine in leisure with their future family.

Whenever Ma y Pa were home it was always an intense game of charades. Thank god I knew how to say "hambre" as a kid, otherwise I'd be sticks and bones. Pulling her by her white stained sleeves, I'd drag my Ma to the kitchen, pointing up at the stale boxes of Fruit Loops or Frosted Flakes. "Hambre, yo hambre" is what I'd say. She'd point to a box and ask, "Eso?". "No, that one" and I'd still aggressively point with my tiny chubby fingers. "Eso?" she'd repeat, grabbing the Frosted Flake box. "Sí, eso" I'd mimic. That was enough to suffice my survival for the time being. But, how do I tell my mom that I want her to pick me up early tomorrow because it's a half-day? How do I tell her I want her to ask Mackenzie's mom to have a playdate? How do I tell her that I'm ahead of my reading level? How do I tell her I'm being bullied? Yo no sabe. I don't know. You see, school was another nightmare for my Ma and I. Teacher conferences were always the most uncomfortable game of Telephone. There we were, my mom and I at a table with my teacher and of course, the school's interpreter. I had to watch my mother and my teacher awkwardly smile, nod politely, and stare at the office lady who was attempting to convey that I qualified for accelerated learners, but not gifted. Even then my mother, foreign with the English curriculum, would smile and agree. And like them, I'd also smile and agree. Smiling and agreeing worked in my favor for a bit. But you see, you can't smile and agree at social school gatherings, you have to converse in English. I hate to admit it, but I was embarrassed to bring my mom to mommy-daughter dances, PTO nights, or holiday events. Whenever my teachers or friends' parents tried to introduce themselves, my mother would smile and agree in response to their, "how are you", or "did you read the school newsletter?". The silence made me cringe, and I had to respond as if they were asking me. Understandably, I would often spend hours persuading my older sister to chaperone me to school events, enough to the point that my friends' parents would refer to my sister as my mother. I don't know how to explain that one to Ma.

Even in English, some conversations are too difficult to say aloud. My mom never made it past 7th grade, my father and brother barely completed highschool, and my older sister graduated late. But me, I was the "chosen" one in the family. I was the one who would be a role model to my little brother, I was the one who was going to make the best grades, I was the one who was going to graduate college first in my family, I was the one who was going to be someone. That was until my 6th grade year. I met another no sabo kid, and his name was Gus. In middle school, I was kind of a loser. You know that movie scene where the kid sits in the bathroom stall with her brown lunch bag, sitting on the toilet? Hi, that's me. I was that outcast. As a no sabo kid, you're stuck in two worlds. The Spanish speaking one, and the English speaking one. I wasn't considered "Hispanic" enough to be with the Mexican kids. My accent wasn't great at the time, and it wasn't like I could talk to them. I also wasn't considered "English" enough either to sit with the Caucasian kids. I stuck out like a sore thumb at a table of white kids, and it's not like my mom could talk to their mom about us hanging out. So Gus and I got along, both of us as outcast losers. Gus however, sought to build some kind of social superiority, even if it meant over me. My mother was very confused when she saw me covered in bruises, cuts, and sometimes burn marks. She asked, "¿Qué pasó con tu mano?". I mean hey, what can I say? I guess I'm one hell of a clumsy kid. At one point, every shade of purple was visible on my body. Telling my sister that I fell one too many times down the stairs was getting old. Telling my older brother that I wanted to be left alone was getting suspicious. Telling my little brother that I was too tired to play was becoming heartbreaking. I didn't know what to do, what to say. I mean come on, my family had enough going on in their lives raising my little brother and I. Through all that pressure though, I did confess. I 'fessed up about my situation to my sister, to the interpreter, and to my mother a little too late. You know what it's like not being able to tell your mom you're sorry that you did something really dumb? I didn't mean it. I swear, I just snapped after a bad day. God, all of her hard work as a mother would've gone to waste. I remember sitting there bound to the hospital bed by that stupid plastic zip-thingy, dumbstruck by the action I committed. I wanted so badly to tell her it wasn't her fault. I wanted so badly to comfort her and tell her-her baby wasn't going anywhere. I wanted so badly to tell her I cared and loved her. But I couldn't, I didn't know how. Yo no sabe.

If my parents weren't going to pick up English, I was going to pick up Spanish. At the ironic age of 15, I began to take my first Spanish classes at high-school. My Mexican heritage celebrates female 15 year olds as women, independent women. I sure was independent and ready enough to finally speak another language. Did you know you have to conjugate words in Spanish? That Spanish words have assigned genders? Or that it was the verb before an adjective. Yo no sabía. And god, do you know how nice it is to hold a conversation with your mom or dad? I didn't know. For once, I could tell my mom how my day went besides, "¡Bueno!". Or that I had other emotions besides "cansado" and "feliz." I'll never forget my first Spanish sentence, "estoy aprendiendo Español." I am learning Spanish. And I'll never forget the look on my Mama's beautiful face. Her eyes glistened for a moment, and the crow's feet around her tired eyes lifted with her smile. You know...her smile is everything to me. Fast forward 4 years and I received my Spanish biliteracy seal on my diploma. I can tell my mom I have early release tomorrow. I can tell her that I'm going to hang out with my friends at the park. My bilingual friends can introduce themselves to my mom, and she can smile and agree enough to get through the conversation. But most of all, I'm happy to talk to my parents. People undermine the beauty of common language, and the wonderful blessing that it truly is. Being able to communicate is a gift that not everyone has. Do you also wanna know something else? Despite my four years of Spanish education, I still act like no sabo kid. That's because I don't know every word in Spanish! I'm still learning. If you look on the back of my school computer, you'll notice I have a small, but growing collection of Spanish stickers from every game I've won in my Spanish honors class; I have four stickers by the way! So go on, call me a no sabo kid. Because honestly I still don't know what I'm doing.