Dad stood up and stretched. I put the pictures back into the shoeboxes without saying a word. He looked down at the pictures again and said, “Would you like to talk to Nana tonight? I could stay on the other line and translate for you. I’m sure she has all kinds of stories to embarrass me with.”
“Yeah, that sounds great, Dad. Maybe after dinner? I’ll need to write up a list of questions for her before we call. I want to be prepared.” I put the top back on his shoebox of pictures.
“Sure, Lois Lane. It’s kind of fun to see you so interested in something that I can help you with, rather than your usual projects. I’m going to wake up Mom. Be sure you put all this stuff back the way you found it, okay?” He raised his eyebrow when he said it and then walked into the hallway.
I rushed through putting the “family archives” back in order. I could hardly wait to pull out my journal and start my new list of questions. There were so many I wanted to ask . . . then I remembered something important—Dad was going to be the translator. Didn’t that mean he could not ask a question I wanted, or not tell me the complete truth about what Nana said? Would he do that? What if there really was something he didn’t want me to know, even though all I really wanted to know was about myself?
I spent the rest of the afternoon writing and re-writing questions for Nana. My journal was filled with lists and crossed-out lists.
Finally, we all sat down for dinner. I barely sat still. Max kicked me under the table twenty-seven times. I ignored him. Finally, as he passed me the rice, he said, “So how’s it going, Sherlock?”
Mom raised one eyebrow and my father smiled. “Do you mean Cesi’s little family history hunt, Max?”
Max’s mouth was full of lettuce so he could only nod.
“It’s funny you should mention that because Cesi and I are going to call Nana as soon as the dishes are done. Ces has a few questions she wants to ask. I’m sure Nana would know more about all this stuff than I do.” Dad looked at me and winked.
Mom smiled, even though I could tell she was kind of surprised. “That’s great, John. Cesi was talking to me the other day, and I didn’t even know where to begin. Max and I can work on the dishes so you two can get right to it.”
Max burst out, “But, Mom, tonight’s Cesi’s dish night . . .”
“Oh, Max, one night won’t kill you. Besides this is a family project. I’m sure it will be fun for all of us to find out what Cesi discovers.”
Max kicked me again under the table. This time harder. But I was too excited to let it bother me.
“Hello, Nana?” I yelled into the phone. Although Nana was only in San Diego, and the connection was good, her hearing wasn’t that great.
“Cecilia?” she answered back.
“Hi, Mom,” Dad added.
After hearing his voice, Nana broke off into Spanish with Dad only interrupting with a few “uh-huh’s” whenever she stopped to take a breath.
Finally, Dad said, “Go ahead, Cesi. She’s ready.”
I sat down on the cold kitchen floor. I had a feeling this was going to be a long conversation. Dad sat in the living room on the other phone. It was weird to hear his voice in one ear from the living room and in the other ear from the phone. I took a breath and then asked, “Where did Dad and his sisters and you and grandpa live when he was young? What was it like?”
There was a deep breath taken in San Diego, and then Nana started to reply in rapid Spanish. When she stopped speaking, Dad began to translate, “She was born in Nogales. It’s a town that stretched across the Mexican and U.S. border. That was where she met Dad and where all of us kids were born. When we were old enough to start school, Dad got a new job and we moved into a town in Arizona. We went to school there until I was in fifth grade—then we moved to California. Arizona is the desert, so it’s hot during the day and cold at night. We lived in a small town, in a little tiny house. All three kids shared one room, and Mom and Dad shared the other room. I guess that’s it.”
“What was Dad like when he was a kid?” I asked.
I heard Mom laugh at that question as she dried the dishes. “Perfect, I’ll bet, “ she said quietly.
Nana’s voice took on a happy sound, almost like she was smiling, even though I could barely understand a word she was saying other than the occasional m’ijo.
Once again Dad’s voice came back on the line and he said, “She said I was the most wonderful child a woman could ever want. I would have to agree with her.”
I laughed and then asked, “What was he like in school? What kind of grades did he get?”
My father asked the question in Spanish, and Nana answered again, but this time, while her voice started out happy, it changed, and Dad said something back to her in Spanish. They had started a different conversation, and they went on like that for a few minutes. It almost seemed like they were arguing about something. Finally, I cut in, “Dad, what are you guys saying?”
He cleared his throat and said, “Nana said I was a good student. I always got good grades, but I stopped speaking Spanish so much at home and started only speaking English to my sisters. She thinks I was trying to pretend I wasn’t Mexican. It wasn’t that though, Cesi. I was just trying to practice my English. It was really important for me to know it, for my family to know it. So I practiced.”
“Oh,” I answered. I took a deep breath and then looked back at my list of questions. I realized suddenly that despite all my careful planning, I still didn’t have the questions I really wanted to ask Nana written down. As a matter of fact, I really didn’t know what I wanted to ask. I asked a couple more questions, but it seemed like the fun we had was now a little strained by the school argument.
I tried to end the interview as quickly as I could. Then I said good-bye to Nana, leaving my father to finish up the conversation, and Max and Mom to finish the dishes. I needed to get some air. I pushed open the front screen door and went out to the porch.