The guests have arrived. They called earlier because they wanted to confirm that the supper really started at 3PM. She knows that they were probably very surprised that dinner, or supper, started so early. It’s Thanksgiving, of course, but they are from Spain. They probably didn’t know. Just as she wouldn’t know anything about customs in Spain.
“So you like Spain?” the younger brother asked. She is full of smiles even though she’s slaved the whole day for this amazing feast that could feed twelve people full, let alone three! She nodded, “Yes, I always wanted go there!” Her name is Natisha, a name her Mother says with such pride that she mind as well have been the first black woman president of the United States. But she works as a technician at a psychology lab at Yale University, still pretty prestigious. It’s Thanksgiving, and Natisha is not in Chicago, not because it’s so much warmer in the humble New Haven while the Windy City just started to snow. It’s not something she wants to talk about, but then again, her guests never asks why. They probably don’t understand fully how important Thanksgiving is for families here.
She’s all exhausted, but her smiles, her eternal smiles, never fades at the dinner table. She adds, “I’ve read so much about it. I feel like I belong there. I want to live there, not just travel. I want to learn the flamenco dance, and speak the language.” Her guests are very polite, and nod in fascination. The younger brother asks, “I didn’t know you spoke Spanish.” “Oh no, just a few words I learned from TV,” she laughs out. She doesn’t see the puzzled look in the two brothers, especially the older one, who requires that every English sentence be translated to him by the younger brother. “It’s such a beautiful language; I get a big tingle just listening to you both talk.” The younger brother, whose English isn’t completely proficient, seems to have a hard time understanding her sentence, from which she neglects to remove her accent.
He had put on makeup on just before the two brothers arrived. She had to wipe off her sweat even though she had just walked out of the shower. It had been a long day already. Getting up at 5AM to prepare the turkey and then making all the rest of the feast, all by herself. It gave her some satisfaction, as usual, cooking for people. It was the first time in a long time that she didn’t cook for her family. She was thankful to the Lord that one of her co-workers would be her company, along with his brother, so she wouldn’t be spending a first Thanksgiving alone. Her high cheekbones are accented by her laughter whenever she starts to talk about her home in Chicago. The younger brother rapidly translates for his brother who seems very impetulant whenever the young man neglects a single detail. She talks about her huge family and their move to Chicago before she was born. She finds herself talking faster, forgetting to speak in a standard accent for the young man to completely comprehend, and though her smile remains, her heart starts to race along side the words of her memories.
But she would pause to make sure they are eating more. They are too polite to refuse, of course, and they seem genuinely be loving the food, many of which they had never had before. She was smiling even when they gave grace together, which the two Spaniards weren’t used to. They almost started eating without thanking the Lord. She made them say grace too, and when the older brother did it in Spanish, she was all goosepimples and just loving the sound of praise to the Lord in her favorite foreign language.
“I want to see all the castles, all the ruins,” she declares. The young brother adds, “But you have to try the wine, it’s great!” She seems a little embarrassed and says, “Oh, I have never had a drop of wine in my lips, ever. I can’t imagine starting.” The two brothers are puzzled in the most polite way possible. Then the older brother says something, which is translated to, “But at least the seafood. We are from Valencia, and we are most famous for seafood from the Mediterranean!” To which the younger brother adds, “And oranges! Zumo de naranja!”
Her eyes light up and then she attempts to pronounce the phrase for “orange juice” in the Castillian accent that is of the two Catalonian brothers. She giggles at the sight of the younger brother putting the tip of his tongue between his teeth to make the “Z” sound. She starts talking again about the first time she started reading about Spain, just a year ago, a little after she got her job here. She says she read a little about Valencia, and although she never does much with fish but deep-frying them, she admitted that what she read about food in that city and in other cities just made her mouth water.
After two hours of stuffing stomachs, the two brothers just can’t continue anymore. She smiles in delight and thanks them for the effort. She thanks them for coming without sounding like she wants to kick them out. On the contrary, she tells them that there’s dessert later, after their rest, to which the two brothers bulged their eyes in surprise. They try to help her with the dishes, but she almost shoves them into the living room, where they lie in couches to rest. She brings them coffee, which, like the other food, comes with a big smile. She sits down and watches the two brothers speak in Catalan, which she assumes is just Spanish from a different region, sort of like the Southern accent. They stop soon to avoid being impolite speaking a language their hostess doesn’t understand, but if they only knew how much she just appreciates hearing the language that takes her imagination to the land of the sun, friendly people, great food, and…. She asks, “Are their many black people in Spain?” After the required translation, the two brothers give a friendly smile and the older one answers, which translates to, “Only from Africa. We don’t have many black Americans.”
Her eyes light up a little more. Then she asks with a slight frown, “Will I look weird? You think they would think I am from Africa? Cuz I ain’t.” The younger brother answers, “I think most people don’t care; they will notice you’re not from Africa since the Africans are mostly illegal immigrant men and are always selling something on the streets. They will be very happy to talk to you because you’re American.” She thinks for a moment and smiles with a sigh, “That’s great. I always knew Spanish people are great. But I guess I really have to learn some Spanish first?” The two brothers speak more about Valencia, its people, its history, and its language, at which point she becomes fascinated that Catalan isn’t Spanish at all. Her love for this country suddenly escalates to a new height. She never found her own country, her own city, here or back in Chicago, that interesting!
And by the time they had to leave before falling asleep in the couch, she is already making up her mind. She is going to talk to the young brother, her coworker, when the break is over, about how to live there, how much, what she would do for a job. Her heart keeps pounding with excitement as if she was leaving tomorrow. But when they disappeared behind the closed door of her apartment, her heart stops, almost. She sees in front of her a big, empty apartment whose only memory of her guests, her only company for Thanksgiving, are the dirty dishes and the hardly eaten turkey in the kitchen. Her stops. And her whole body collapses and she sits on the cold, hardwood floor of this apartment that is hers alone and doesn’t share with nine other people who are not working and just drinking away, or worse. She buries her head in her lap and wraps her arms around her knees. No one else is embracing her. Then the voices start returning. She remembers now that she’s just some lonesome black woman that no one wants and just wants to run away from those voices, voices that say she’s fat and ugly, voices of ingratitude for her hard work for them, and voices of anger that she had abandoned. And then the tears begin to flow. Spain has to be for later. It might not be beautiful enough to silence those voices.
