Snow Day

The evening I hosted a Progressive Democrats of America (PDA) meeting for the Run Bernie Run campaign was the end of our son's first Snow Day for his classmates at CAVA Community Day. That meant a field trip up the mountain (it doesn't snow in our valley, except for that one Valentine's Day) and with this year's weather, it doesn't snow up in the mountains all that much either. But there was a hill lined with man-made snow with five or six tubing runs.

It was all fun and games for both my boys, enjoying the exhilarating rush of the wind on the downhill ride. It was all fun and games except for one moment as we finished our third or fourth ride up the escalator ramp up to the top of the hill and a sandy-haired boy, maybe 11 or 12, saw Ethan, looked at his face and asked, "Do you speak Spanish?"

Ethan doesn't. Because I don't. Because my mom doesn't. (BTW I have learned some, but it is mostly organizing language centered around justicia y paz y vecinos y votantes.) So, of course, he responded with a simple, "no" though slightly confused at the question.

I wasn't confused because I recognized the look that passed between that pre-teen boy and the two classmates that he had ridden up with. An almost ready to chuckle out loud, but smarmy smirk accented with superiority and amusement at their own boldness.

I felt like I had gotten socked in the gut witnessing the subtle aggression on my son for some unknown purpose. I watched Ethan dismiss the confusion in about two seconds, and we went on our merry way.

After the Bernie Sanders' meeting, when I rejoined the boys and my husband at home, I waited to see if it would be something Ethan would ask about at bedtime.

We often review the day, and sometimes a question will emerge about one thing or another that had caught his attention or piqued his curiosity. Occasionally, the questions are serious and he will look at my face deeply as I reply. Gratefully, more times than not, he finds enough resolution in my words to comfortably settle into his bed with the notion that all is right in his world.

So, he didn't question the language question, but after he and Ezra fell asleep, I did. Or rather, I reflected upon the questions that I have been asked that have left me wondering since around the time I was Ethan's age.

Do you speak English?
What are you?
Is your real name Roberta?
Do you speak Spanish?
How come you don't speak Spanish?
Are you Mexican? American? Mexican-American?
Are you from here?
Where are you from?
Where were you born?
How'd you get a name like Bobbi Jo?
Why is your hair curly? Frizzy?
Are you black?
Are you part black?
What are you? (a lot)

What part of Mexico are you from?
What part of Mexico are your parents from?
Where are your grandparents from?
How come your eyes are like that?
How come you don't have an accent?

When I was seven, a boy shouted at me the word, "Beaner!" I didn't understand what it meant or the reasoning, but I knew instantly that it was meant to hurt. That it meant something ungood. I had never heard it before, but I know that almost instantly I connected it with the questions that had presupposed my otherness to the askers.

As I think of this since that day this last winter, as I often do, I waver in deciding whether or not I hate Snow Days.