The Language of the Sigh
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My mom had a sigh. It came from the depths of her soul and whenever she used it, you could feel the weight of it as she exhaled.
I hated it when she used her sigh on me. It was usually her response to my complaints about any number of things. How one of my kids woke me in the night, how a project at work had me stressed, or how much I missed being back in Virginia with my friends. She would start, “Ay Erikita” (her pet name for me), and then – the sigh – so much emotion and feeling in one breath. I hated that sigh because I knew that she had taken in all my worries as her own and they had hurt her heart, probably more than they even hurt me. I felt worse for having burdened her. But she always responded with faith and hope – “Primero Dios, todo va a salir bien, ya veras.” God willing, everything will be ok, you’ll see.
But while she was able to convey the world with a breath and a Spanish phrase, she always struggled with her English. When she’d misuse a phrase in English, any number of the colloquial phrases we all use without thinking, or anytime she got stuck halfway through a thought, she would laugh and wave you off, saying “Oh, you know what I mean.” And we did.
She was ashamed of her English, but she almost always made herself perfectly understood between her words, her hands, her expressiveness, her laughter, and her sighs. She may not have been able to manipulate the English language as she would have hoped, but she sure was able to manipulate her family into knowing exactly what was in her heart, eventually. (And too often was able to manipulate my actions with her combo of words in either language and every Catholic mother’s weapon – guilt.)
But I miss all of it, even the guilt, so much now that she’s gone. I miss the phrases she made up herself like “Oh, sugarfoot!” instead of using a bad word, or how “jelly” always came out as “yelly.” She always had something funny or kind to say, even though she operated most of her life in a language in which she never felt completely comfortable.
I’ve recently been working for an amazing organization serving the Latino community here in Charlotte. Many of my colleagues are native Spanish speakers. It’s the first time in my twenty-year career where leadership calls are often conducted in Spanish.
While my mom went to great pains to teach me and my sisters Spanish as children, the rust of years not practicing it shows all too plainly on these calls. It’s embarrassing and humbling to stumble over my words, to have people’s faces on the screen frozen in sympathetic smiles as I struggle to express myself. Like square pegs into round holes, I find myself trying to jam complex thoughts into simple vocabulary that doesn’t expand to fit the full idea. All I want to say is, “Oh you know what I mean!” and quickly move the conversation on from me. I’m finally getting a taste of what my mother had to endure her entire adulthood here in America.
Thankfully, I have a fully sympathetic group at work helping me when I get stuck, laughing with me, not at me, when I misspeak. But I don’t believe my mom had the same benefit in many situations in her lifetime. As a child, I stood alongside her at too many parent-teacher interactions and transactions at the bank, where our audience was clearly impatient with my mom’s broken English. The words “We speak English in America” clearly outlined on their face or in their exasperated sighs as my mom tried to find her way to her point. I’d be there as a translator, quick to jump in, eager to get the embarrassing interaction over with. I wish I could take the insight I’ve recently received back in time to help my mom with pride and grace instead of anxious embarrassment.
I don’t think I’m alone in this shortcoming – not knowing what it’s like in someone else’s shoes until we experience it ourselves. Perhaps that’s the work of anyone who wants to grow – to actively seek situations that make you feel less confident, less knowledgeable, less in control to know what it’s like on the other side. As parents, can we provide opportunities for our children to understand this early on? I hope sharing these stories with my kids will at least make them more aware, and more likely to give grace to others.
Despite not having her here anymore, I’ll always have the faith and hope my mom imparted to me in both languages. And so often, in no language at all, with the sigh she shared when she truly put herself in my shoes.
- Erika
Erika Lopez is a DC native living in Charlotte, NC with her husband, two kids, and two fur babies. She is a mother, wife, non-profit consultant, wannabe writer, lover of food, and words. Read more: https://landingserikalopez.wordpress.com/.