“I got it!” my mom shrieks in excitement as she hangs up the phone. She has just gotten a new job.
“Congratulations,” I respond and give her a hug. The sensation I feel as I embrace her is unexplainable. I am so proud.
“Thank you, mijo,” she replies, as her eyes begin to water.
The bliss on her face makes me smile, but I know deep inside, there is pain. Welts and bruises, as she has aged. She came here from Mexico only speaking Spanish. Her job as a maid in a casino requires her to speak English. I’ve been helping her improve her pronunciation.
“Hijo, como se dicen estas palabras para mi trabajo?” she asks and hands me a paper listing bathroom supplies in Spanish. I translate them, and she repeats the phrases. As her words trample over one another, her eyes move from left to right, right to left, anguished by the order in which the letters are placed.
“Small tawul?” She glances at me with dejection, waiting for a correction.
“Towelle,” I accentuate.
My heart cries in agony for her. She thanks me and continues with her day, looking abased. I think about how she’s doing each moment she is at work. I feel as if she’s struggling, as if the words are revolting against her. I feel as if they’re treating her differently, and I think of the linguistic discrimination she experiences.
Every word she pronounces wrong is followed by a jolt of laughter.
Just come home already, I think as I anxiously wait on our comfy couch. My insides cry for her to be here with me. My mom bears the brunt, as I could imagine, mortified.
My mom isn’t the only one going through this. Every day people are being made fun of because of how they pronounce words. The truth lies under that smile. The smile she gives me every time she leaves for work. Learning a new language is the least of her worries. She works hard every day to provide us with food, shelter, security, and a future. I’m proud to call her Mom.