Predict

Will Arturo and his friends miss their real names?

The one who hates my name most is my abuelita. Grandmother always dresses in cricket-black, in luto for my grandfather, who died. She’s eighty-something. So old, her skin looks like it’s woven from brown cobwebs. She’s got two braids wound so high on her head, they must have been growing during her whole life. Unlike my parents, Abuelita’s no dove. Like a little fighting rooster, she’s got bravura to spare.

Even though she’s feisty, God guides her life. She closes most conversation with an after-breath of “Dios mediante,” God willing.

Since Grandfather died, she lives with us. She came all the way from Aguascalientes, Mexico, on a Norteño bus, with only her prayer book, a photograph of Grandfather, and her molcajete.

A molcajete’s a three-legged grinding stone, carved of lava spit from some old volcano. It’s hollowed and pitted, like a cupped hand scarred with acne. Abuelita uses it to grind chilies. For salsa and stuff. Takes longer than forever. Jeez! She could do it with one zzzzzip of the blender switch! If that lava-lump was mine, I’d chuck it out.

“Theeesss name Arter—eeet burns in my earsss like poissson.” Since my Spanish’s a little crippled from pouring the English on, Abuelita hisses her English to be sure I can’t escape her point. Muele, muele, muele. She grinds her disfavor into me at every chance. The heat of peppers fills her voice as she pulverizes chilies extra vigorously, for some tasty Mexican dish. If my new name were a chili pepper, she’d pulverize that, too.