Kitchen Código
BIO
Victoria Muñoz-Lepore, aka Vicky Munyoz, was raised by a Nuyorican mother and Italian-American father in Medford, Massachusetts in the 1980s and 1990s. She has dedicated the majority of her adult years to mastering Spanish, and in 2011 graduated with an M.A. in Spanish from Middlebury College. Most of her time is spent teaching Spanish to high school students with learning disabilities in Brooklyn and she does so through storytelling, conversation, and theatre, with a thematic focus on Latin American histories. In her free time, she listens endlessly to tarot readings on YouTube, and, when inspired, draws her own cards.
for Abuela Grace
-With special thanks to Mamá Nélida, her Amigas, my Tías, Café Bustelo, and Gloria Estefan’s 1995 album Abriendo Puertas
beneath the clang
and canto
of cucharas, boiling leche, ay dios míos and ave maría purísimas
sipping coffee with
mitad café mitad hot
milk
the rapidez
of a beautiful
lyrical code
raised and cuddled
me
pero only with other
women
the ritmo del
lenguaje
comforted me somehow
even though i
sometimes giggled
to myself porque i
didn’t understand
con el código, i
heard
storytelling,
secrets
and what it is to be
mamá
y to be mujer
to be trusted con
los secretos
to sing con esa voz
y to be mujer
how I longed to
crack that código
buried deep within
my love for mi Mamá
and
la Mamá de mi Mamá
who i only dreamt of
and longed to know
y mi Tía Carmen wondered
how i could belt
Gloria’s latest disco
Abriendo Puertas con tanta confianza
y without kitchen
code
pero i had to
mi Mamá played it
for me in the car
on the way to school
because she wanted
me to
speak the código too
maybe she waited too
long
but bringing me to
esas cocinas
donde las mujeres tomaban sus cafés
con cuentos y confianza
revived my nostalgia, for an herencia
for an abuela
that I missed out on
but that birthed me
pero sometimes
the code gets
stuck in my mouth
like rusty keys
jammed in the door they’re supposed to open
and the more you
bang and twist and turn and try again
the only obvious
thing is that you can’t open the door (to your bloodlines)
you’re locked out of
of your family party (because
your mouth won’t open)
and then the code
gets stuck
in my ears
like cotton balls
i turn white and
fuzzy
I.
Can’t.
Hear. You.
i’m w
h i t
e now and only talking with
assimilation
stuck in some
purgatory waiting room
where the
receptionist can’t figure out how to account for your person
You’re not really, Spanish
except I obviously
am have you seen this white skin?
high grade
conquistador sangre imported all the way from the kingdom of castilla y aragón
mixed with that of subservient
Brown women that needed saving
have you seen my
Mother? and her Tías?
like throwing
generations of my Ancestors in the washing machine
washing off the blood,
sweat, and come
until the Clorox
poisons your memory:
Assimilation.
Is. Amnesia.
pero sometimes
el código me sale
me sale algo lindo
como si tuviera la abuelita that I never met by my side
me levanta a esas cocinas de mi niñez
to the fragancia
of the third round
of Bustelo on the
burner
en estos momentos ya no es código
porque we’re dancing
a backyard salsa
without the lessons
not giving a fuck
about the on the 2 or on the cuban or the whatever
porque the rhythm
just hits the tongue, not mine, not yours, a collective tongue
like a first kiss
that gives birth to new stars,
the bright shiny
ones
even though you
weren’t raised to look up
and didn’t even know
you could stargaze your bloodlines
y ahora Sí
estoy comunicándome
me siento como mi mamá
y la mamá de ella
y canto
y bailo
con my Abuelita
in the Sky