REINALDO
by Helen Peluso
En el sur de Florida todos las personas
hablan al menos un poquito de español.
It’s a part of the curricula of our school system
y un idioma familiar. Little phrases, a comfort.
It was nice to speak Spanish when I came home,
por que nadie en Virginia hablan español,
was what I told the stranger en route to the airport.
He was from Cuba, en los Estados Unidos por dos años.
When I first met him, he held a quiet confidence
sure of himself the way most men were, but gentle.
I asked if he needed help lifting a bag–
Sorry, he rolled an r, no speak English
By accident I wasn’t shy, and said
without thinking, ¿necesitas ayuda? Es pesada.
I watched his shoulders relax, the weight
of understanding – a wave washing over us.
The U.S. no tiene una lingua official, he explained,
but it’s hard to get a job here without ingles.
I spoke with my Uber driver
the language of my closest friends.
Reinaldo told me about his son back home
in Cuba, and his white American wife.
¡Pero, ella conoce menos que tú!
He spoke with his hands as he drove
in the unmistakable accent of a cubano
on a roll, dropping letters and blending words.
I apologized frequently, lo siento, disculpas.
I promised, I listen better than I hablo.
There’s something unique about being
conversational, as you approach that limit
just beyond your grasp, when you run
out of words like printer ink.
Later, I would tip 30% and tell him
es importante. But I can’t remember what
I was trying to say. When I left he would
wish me luck en la escuela, before I hugged him.
Stuck in traffic together over the turnpike
Reinaldo and I watched the sunset.
He softly called it tranquillo.
Tranquillo, tranquillo, tranquillo.