I'm I old enough to be 25?

This is my second day being 25 years old.

As I wrote 2 years ago, I have a theory about age: that at some point, its just another year tacked onto a number: it stops meaning something - stops being an indicator of increased development.

I want to really feel that I've earned my 25 years and that I've packed in enough growth and wisdom the last year to merit the addition to my age.

I don't know if I've done it. What is certain is that I don't feel 24. 24 is too young, too searching, undefined and uncertain to be what I am now. But 25? Isn't this when I'm supposed to start "settling down" or something? I guess what's most uncomfortable about this increase in age is it seems to represent closed doors - forgone opportunities. I will never be 24 again. Did I do it right? There were so many other things I could have done with this year. There are millions of 24 year olds who've put different experiences in their lives. Someone made a million dollars when they were 24. Someone won an olympic gold medal when they were 24. Someone had their second child, someone made a music album, someone won a surfing competition, someone published their first book. When I was 6 years old, all of those and a billion more possibilities were in front of me. Now they are behind me and they will never happen.

I am of course, proud of my choices. I have carefully, consciously taken the steps that have led me here. I think I'm ready to be 25. But I'm not sure that 25 is an age I've earned, more like one that I will live up to.

I had such a lovely birthday. I received so many birthday wishes through email and facebook. Peep and my mom showered me with love and generosity. I was spoiled. Maybe I'm not sure if I feel 25, but I definitely feel like a princess.

Matador de Hormigas

"They're sending out a panic message, you see? You kill one, and then they all start to run around, crazily and ferociously. You see them? They're panicking. But what they don't realize is that they're running right into my hands. The matador is coming..."

-Peep Laja, 11:30 am in the kitchen on Saturday

The Fight to Learn Spanish

As seems to be my tradition, I started reading one of my sister's Harry Potter books in the US and I left the country dying to know what happens in the last 300 pages. So I went to a bookstore and bought Harry Potter y la Orden del Fenix. My dictionary and I are getting through it much faster than I expected: I've learned lots of useful words such as varita magica, espada, mazmorra. I just have 20 pages left.

In addition to this, Peep has made it possible for us to take Spanish classes (one on one tutoring). We also see the occasional movie dubbed or subtitled in Spanish. Sometimes I think in Spanish. The reality is I have so many Spanish words in my head - I can understand even hours of complicated conversation. And as I slowly decipher the code, and words begin to unravel into meaning, a monster is exposed. It seems I have a prejudice against Spanish.

Anyone who is from Texas, and I would guess Southern California and Florida is exposed to Spanish regularly, mostly because of the large populations of Mexican or Central American immigrants. I learned the word "mande" as a 4 year old kid because I heard the maid say it when my grandmother called her. I saw brown Spanish speaking men come to my house to cut down Cedar trees and watched my Dad struggling to speak to them in Spanish. There are more Spanish signs and Spanish restaurants in the poorer parts of my hometown. I didn't meet a single college educated native Spanish speaker until I was in University.

Even though my knowledge and vocabulary are increasing every day, I can't seem to make much progress speaking. It's like I'm fighting against something large and heavy that's inside my own head. It has happened a few times when I'm really warmed up and the Spanish is flowing, and I hear myself using colloquialisms perfectly like "dale," "pues," "ay" and I stop. There's a feeling like panic in my chest and a thought in my head that, if it were brave enough to admit its own existence, would be something like "I sound like one of those people who speaks Spanish." And then the flow stops, and I'm sure my cheeks get red.

It's like Spanish is so useful where I come from, and its good to know it, but you don't wanna get too good. You always want to sound a little bit like a white person.

I can remember several conversations in my life where someone says something like, "look at that Mexican guy over there." and some well meaning white person nearby says "Shhhh. Don't call him that." As if his nationality is a disgrace.

Even though it burns my cheeks and churns my stomach to write this blog post and expose my horrible lurking prejudice to the world, I know I'm not alone. Now that these dormant ideas are unraveling before my eyes, I recognize that probably every one I know is prejudiced, even though they don't want to be and would hate to discover that they are.

So far, it is the greatest gift that Panama has given me. Here, Mexico is a rich older brother: it is a source of culture, maybe the way Americans think of France. When people here say, "I got it in Mexico." the response is "Oooooohhh, fancy." I'm reading books. The phrases that I thought only day laborers used are also used by Hermione and Professor McGonnal. Spanish is rich and sophisticated. It has poetic possibilities that English does not. It's still a heavy fight, but I'm gonna try with all I have to speak like a Mexican (the accent is more elegant than the Panamanian ;) and to go beyond the level of Spanish needed to give good instructions to maids and laborers.


This photo is of the main characters of my favorite Novella. It's my favorite because its my friend Fito's favorite, and he got me hooked. Mariachi is something slightly exotic and sophisticated here.