Seen on the Purple Line to Linden at about 8:50 a.m.
has always struggled with the language of his ancestors. It’s almost as though
learning English in school purged his blood of his Mexican heritage. He looks
Latino, but he feels like his body is merely a shell for a Caucasian American
male. When he can’t understand something his relatives are saying, he can see
the pain and doubt simmering in his mother’s pupils. ¿En verdad es mi hijo?
Now Manuel is trying to work his way through La Muerte
de Artemio Cruz, but the Spanish paragraphs are like thorny briar patches—his
gaze gets all tangled up and the words sting his eyes. He closes the book and
stares out the window, wondering where to search for his lost identity.
Many thanks to my wonderful friend Felipe for helping me with the Spanish. I can do reasonably well with French and Chinese, but my Spanish is virtually nonexistent. I'll have to learn someday.
I am sleepy. Story of my life. French couchsurfers arrive tomorrow. Gogo show with The Fortunate Sons on Friday. Hope your life is as fun and as busy as mine!