Two to Tango, page 2
Soon enough, the house is bursting with sound from my aunts getting everything ready for dinner. Tía Silvia is throwing a tablecloth over the dining table, tía Ana is in the corner of the kitchen pouring glasses of red wine, and tía Cecilia, back home after a quick trip to Argentina, is talking loudly over soft music playing in the background.
My dad was outside tending to the asado, but he steps in quickly to grab a couple of beers.
“Hola, pa.”
He kisses my cheek, the smell of smoke and charred meats lingering as he greets me, and then heads back out just as fast.
Grabbing the silverware, I decide to head to the dining room. I start setting the table quietly, enjoying the ritual in this warm, loving home. The table gets pieced together with mismatched chairs, the leaf extended to fit all of us. The center is adorned with wine glasses, a bowl of baguette slices, and the tomatoes that Delfina has just set down.
This house is lived in and loved in. It’s not new, built in 1960. I’ve always loved that fact though. This house was built the same year my mother was born. I love to think that when she came into this world in one country, bricks were being laid in another. A foundation was being set for a place that she would—in thirty-six years’ time—call her own.
I remember when we immigrated to the States when I was little. My mother and father came first, accompanying my grandparents to a competition they were attending. My parents fell in love with it here, and started daydreaming about all of the possibilities for them, for the family. A whimsical, elaborate daydream that took flight when my father decided, almost too quickly, that he wanted to move. It involved a lot of conversations, weighing the risks, and then, once it was decided, we packed our belongings into large luggage and made the trek to a new world.
My father Julio, along with my mother Maria, and Dario—who was almost three at the time—moved to build a new life in a new place with a new language. I often wonder how they did it. How they got the courage to uproot their lives, everything that they had ever known, and move it to the unknown. They were filled with hope and bravery, the kind I can only dream about.
The rest of the family soon followed. My tía Ana—my mother’s sister—and her husband Fernando packed up and moved with Agostina and her older brother Leo. My tío Luis, his wife Silvia, and Delfina joined us after that. And then my tía Cecilia came over last.
Maybe having all of us together helped the process. My cousins and I grew up together and learned to navigate this new country, learning the language and the customs together, too. We’ve all been close since birth.
And even as we’ve all grown up and fallen into our adult lives, one thing still stands, and that is Sunday night family dinner. Always hosted by my mom, who cooks enough to feed fifty, and sends us all home with a mountain of leftovers.
Dario, Leo, and my uncles walk into the dining room, ready to feast now that most of the work has been handled.
“Che, y las empanadas?” Dario asks, eyeing the dishes on the table.
“Ya vienen,” my mom responds sternly from the kitchen. As if she always needs to remind him to be patient.
I love this ritual almost as much as I love my family. As much as I love my culture. And I do love it. It’s a deep-seated love that I still struggle to figure out. My family likes to joke that I’ve become too Americanized. “She’s an American now,” they tease. “She’s forgotten where she came from.”
I haven’t, but it’s been a hard balance. I don’t dare tell them that it’s a struggle most days, though. A struggle of being born into one culture and being raised in another. A push and a pull, a divide over which direction to go in. Over how to split myself up to make it work out for everybody. My job needs me to be American with the commodity of being able to translate. My family wants me to be Argentinian with a successful, American job.
I can’t tell them how tiring it’s become. I could never.
Meanwhile, I meet once a month with a Latina networking group run by loud and proud Yuli, a Cuban woman who loves her heritage so much, she embraces it bravely. I, in turn, always feel out of place. Too Hispanic for some, not Hispanic enough for others.
Maybe it was growing up in a country that just wanted me out. So, I hid myself instead of being proud. I hid myself so that nobody could ask too many questions or pry too much. Instead of leaning into my culture, showing others who I was, I felt ashamed.
As older cousins, Leo and I took on a lot of the high emotions that came with the move and the immigration hardship. The others were too young to realize or understand it. They didn’t have to deal with the worry and the struggle. Instead, they had the luxury of being free of it and just getting to be kids.
Delfina and Agostina watched telenovelas well into middle school. Leo and I got into American music by watching MTV. We spoke Spanish when we needed to, but rarely conversationally outside of our families. And we never cared for mate, the drink that’s a staple in Argentinian culture.
And even though Leo was the oldest, I was the girl, and so much more was expected of me. Leo really got out. He went away to college then opted to move to a city over an hour away. I could never dream of doing that. The condo I bought, with my family’s approval, was loved more so because of its location than any other reason.
“Julieta, mi amor, cómo estás?”
The greeting pulls me out of a stupor. We’ve got a special guest at dinner tonight.
“Hola abuelo.” I give him my biggest smile.
Facundo Rossi is a soft-spoken man. Kind brown eyes, neatly brushed thin hair, and a genuine smile that always feels like a warm hug. He hugs me now when he sees me, giving me kisses on both cheeks.
My grandparents didn’t make the move with us, opting to stay in their home country with their friends and their lives. They traveled a lot for shows, but I know my grandmother loved the feeling of going back to Argentina once the competitions were done. Going back to her community, her neighborhood, her home.
They would visit occasionally, and we took some trips to see them, but we all built our respective lives where we were. My mother made new friends, a group of women from church, and found her and Ana jobs working in a factory to make home furnishings: curtains, pillows, upholstery. My father became a custodian and handyman in a large apartment building.
My parents built this incredible life for us out of nothing, and I can’t look at that and not want to be my best self. It’s a crippling need to be successful for them, my immigrant parents that sacrificed so much for us.
“Bueno, a comer,” my mother states, waiting for everybody else to sit down before she can get comfortable. My father and tío Luis are already digging in, filling up their plates while my mother encourages them to eat. The spread on the table is a gorgeous display of celebration. There is a tray of grilled steaks and sausages, those glistening, bright red tomatoes, the baguettes. There is a platter of my mother’s practically famous empanadas, and glasses of red wine—some with ice cubes floating in them. And there’s my loud, loving family surrounding the table.
“Y Diego cómo está?” tía Cecilia asks Agostina in reference to a guy she dated for all of five minutes.
“I thought it was Brett,” Delfina says, filling up her plate, recalling another guy she dated.
“First of all, I would never date somebody named Brett. I have some standards.”
Tía Ana just huffs in response to this. “When are you going to get serious, Agostina?”
“Déjala,” Cecilia chides. Let her be. Let her have her fun.
Tía Ana just stares at Cecilia, something probably meant to intimidate. Shit, it’s working on me. I make it a point to just keep my head down so I don’t have to deal with her wrath, but Cecilia just laughs it off.
“Qué ganas de joder tenes,” she says, in a teasing tone that clearly states you’re in the mood to be a pain in the ass.
Agostina just keeps filling up a plate, not bothering to respond to any of it.
Cecilia has been on our side since we were born, but she was really a help when we were boisterous, curious teenagers.
When I was in the fifth grade, we had sex ed. We learned about periods and body parts and were shown too many pictures of STIs. My mother was appalled.
My Catholic upbringing was one where sex was never discussed. Periods were barely discussed. I was, in turn, terrified of boys and dating, not knowing what to even do. There were no open conversations. Sex was shameful. Cecilia allowed us to come to her with questions, welcoming every out of the box topic, and answered them in earnest while hiding it from our parents to our request. Delfina and I would spend nights reveling in the shit Agostina would get into, the mess of boys she would get involved with. Instead of retreating because she didn’t have the answers, she went barreling headfirst into it anyway. Because she wanted it, because she wanted to. And Delfina … well, she romanticized everyone. And I just focused on my studies, too nervous around boys as it was, not even allowed to date until I was seventeen.
And tía Cecilia is no stranger to dating either. She’s brought plenty of her own dates to these dinners and holidays. She dated a painter once, a beautiful woman with long red curls and gorgeous porcelain skin. I was always fascinated by her, by how they both talked about art and life. How they both seemed so otherworldly. But when that ended, she decided she needed some stability and routine in her life—‘not the whimsy of an artist!’ she’d said. So, she dated a tax accountant, and Mitchell was fine. I liked him, he was nice enough. But he gifted her a planner for her birthday once. And let me tell you what Cecilia doesn’t like: planning and somebody telling her she needs to plan. So, she kicked him to the curb, too. These days she says she’s dating herself. But I see a lot of Agostina in her. I think Cecilia does too, which is probably why she’s always going up to bat for her.
That, and her and Ana don’t always get along. Sisters, I guess.
“We’re still waiting for Julieta to find somebody, too,” my mom chimes in. From anyone else, this might seem insulting, but it’s just par for the course from my family.
“How's work?” Cecilia asks me instead.
“Busy.”
“Yeah? You look a little tired.”
I am tired. A bone-deep exhaustion that I can’t shake. The words from Larissa pop into my head again, unwelcome.
“She works so hard,” my mom says. “But what a wonderful job she has. And how great it is to have work, especially in these times. Gracias a Dios.” I know she’s proud of me and all the work I’ve put into my career, but right now, with my grandfather present at dinner, it feels more like an act.
“Mi hija abogada,” she says to the table, showing me off. She looks like she might cry. My mother has always been proud of my success as a lawyer, and she has always made sure to let me know just how happy it makes her.
"Si," I nod. "I am lucky to have this job." It's true, and I am very grateful.
“That doesn’t change the fact that she’s tired,” Agostina adds in, speaking to my mother.
“Ya sé, Agostina," my mom responds, eyeing her. She turns to me. “Come más, Julieta.”
She adds more steak to my plate, even though I didn’t want it, and the conversation continues.
An hour later, most of us have finished eating, and dinner is starting to wind down. We’re still sitting around the table, talking, when mother brings over a box of alfajores that abuelo brought for us.
Tío Luis grabs one first, unwrapping the gold foil wrapper and biting into the cookies sandwiched with dulce de leche, enrobed in chocolate. I reach over to grab one, but my abuelo calls me over instead. I notice he’s holding a box as I walk to him and sit down.
“I was cleaning some things out last month and I found this,” he starts. “I didn’t even know it was in the closet, and I feel terrible that I found it so late, but I’m glad I can deliver it to you in person.”
“This is for me?” I ask.
He gently places the box on my lap, nodding.
I glance around the room at everybody who has stopped conversations to look over at us.
It’s a shoebox, still in good condition, with minor bends on the corners. Even though that should tip me off, it still comes as a shock when I take off the lid and come face to face with the contents.
“Holy shit,” I hear Delfi whisper.
Agostina gasps. “No fucking way.”
My mother places a hand over her mouth, while tía Cecilia just sits there smiling wide.
In the box, perfectly worn and loved, are my grandmother’s dancing shoes.
“No entiendo,” I furrow my brow, looking up at my abuelo.
“La tarjeta.” He points, signaling to a note tucked on the side.
I open it up to find my grandmother’s delicate loopy script on white sturdy stationery: Para Julieta.
“She left these for me? I still don’t understand.”
“Oh my God, this makes so much sense,” I hear Delfi mutter to Agostina.
My mother’s pursed lips are speaking volumes right now and my father has taken to eating another alfajor, unaware of the emotional turmoil about to erupt inside of me.
My grandmother passed away two years ago, a long road of health struggles coupled with old age. I still remember the phone call from my mother: early morning, I almost ignored it thinking it was Barbara calling. I spent the next week tending to everything, making arrangements, making space for whatever anybody needed. I don’t even think I slept.
Why would she leave me her shoes? Me, of all people? Agostina would make better use of these. She does everything. Even Delfi, ever the romantic, would love them and give them a happy home. But me? They’re just going to continue to collect dust in a closet.
And yet, I’m clutching them close to me. I couldn’t bear to give them away to anybody else. Not now, probably not ever.
“Gracias, abuelo,” I whisper and feel the sudden urge to cry.
I excuse myself to the bathroom to get it together.
I hear the murmurs as I walk out of the dining room and into the guest bathroom. My mother asks what was that all about and Agostina answers back just as abrasively, you know exactly what. All I can do is splash water on my face and take a deep breath to hold back the tears. To hold back the nausea. To help calm the nerves that are causing my hands to shake.
I head back to the dining room, all eyes on me as I settle into my seat. The box of alfajores sits in the middle of the table, but now I’m too uneasy to even eat one.
“Bueno.” My mother sighs, defeated, as she stands up to start packing leftovers for everybody to take home.
Delfi and Agostina start to busy themselves, clearing the table. The men sit and chat with my grandfather, loudly, vivaciously. Not a care in the world. I stand to help, still uneasy, still confused.
We clean up the dining room and the kitchen, leaving everything as clean as we found it. This is part of dinner, too—always chipping in to help. My mother hands me a plastic grocery bag filled with containers of leftovers. I stuff an alfajor inside, and Cecilia throws in an extra one, giving me a wink.
“Chau,” I say, giving her a kiss on the cheek. I make my rounds to say goodbye to everybody else. My brother and other cousins are starting to pack up as well. I make sure to grab my purse, leftovers, and the box, avoiding too much eye contact, desperately sidestepping the elephant in the room.
And when I walk out to my car, I feel strangely defeated. I think about the new weight that has settled onto my shoulders, the cross I’m bearing in these hand-me-down shoes, and I can’t help but think that something heavy has just been added to my never-ending to-do list.
Chapter three
Logan
The airport is surprisingly busy at this time of night as Tara and I walk down to baggage claim in silence. We’re both tired from the weekend, and the long flight that included an even longer layover, even if we couldn’t beat the price.
We spent the weekend in San Francisco at an intensive tango workshop teaching basics, fundamentals, advanced steps, and even hosting a milonga for the final night. It was a good time, as it always is, but my feet are tired and I’m sore.
“So, that was it,” I say.
“That was it,” Tara agrees.
Before we booked this weekend, we decided it would be our last workshop together. Silas, Tara’s long-term boyfriend who’s been crawling his way through medical school, is awaiting match results that will either keep him here or take them both to another state. Tara and I chose to keep teaching our local classes until that news came, but as for travel and competitions, we’re done.
Our bags come down the conveyor and we grab them before walking outside to the curb.
“God, I was just getting used to that gorgeous San Francisco weather," she says. "This humidity sucks."
We’re back home in Florida, greeted with humidity in late August.
“Didn’t Silas sign up for Arizona?”
“It’s dry!”
“I’ll get a car,” I say, laughing.
Her long sigh could be mistaken for exhaustion, compounded from a long travel day, but her shuffling feet as we stand on the curb are saying otherwise.
“You okay?” I ask.
“I’m tired.”
I should probably go to bed, but all the travel has just left me wired and restless and hungry. I don’t want to go home just yet. “Want to go to Waffle House?”
She gives me a small smile.
“Come on.” I jerk my head in the direction of the car that’s just pulled up. “Let me buy you some hash browns.”
“I could go for a waffle,” she reasons.
Our luggage gets thrown into the trunk and we hop in, setting our sights on those bright yellow lights.
***
My hash browns are piled onto my plate, a mess of smothered, covered, and chunked. Tara is picking at a waffle.
She clears her throat. “So.”
“So. Something’s up,” I say playfully.
“Silas matched.”
