Through humor and play, two generations navigate cultural shifts within their family.
by MOISÉS R. DELGADO, BA AND BFA 19
2024 Nebraska Arts Council Individual Artist Fellow Recipient
It was James Bond Tuesday at the theater, and it wasn’t until the end of the third movie that Jesus broke the silence. Jesus loved James Bond, but Jesus loved James Bond in México. He hadn’t known how to tell our mom because she was excited for us to get to know him better. Jesus loved James Bond, Ruby and I loved movies, so James Bond Tuesday was perfect.
Our mom and Jesus had been dating for eight months, and they had faith they’d be together for another eight and so on. It wasn’t that we didn’t like Jesus. He made our mom happy which made us happy, but we never knew what to say, except for that moment because what the heck did he mean he loved James Bond in México? Was there a Mexican James Bond? A crime fighting Juan Bueno?
On screen, James Bond was chasing some guy, and if it were Juan Bueno in a telenovela, there’d be fainting and gasping. But that wasn’t it. Jesus’ English was woven into his work. As in: if James Bond went around saying he could mow lawns, trim hedges, build fences then it’d be clear as day. If James Bond hung lights for Christmas, shoveled snow, salted driveways, then Jesus would be there, braving the cold too. All else was movement. Sometimes it didn’t matter. You didn’t need English to understand gunshots. To know someone had died.
Jesus was ashamed. Twenty years in this country and his English fit in his jean’s pockets. But men’s jeans had deep pockets! I said.
Our mom’s English could fit in her purse, and some of the women whose houses she cleaned in the western part of Omaha had tsk tsked at it. At least she got the job done, so whatever, they said.
Our English could surely fill an apartment complex, but we’d been born here. We ate the English cartoons fed us the way we ate tamales, meaning we ate a lot. We’d be lying if we said our Spanish could fill as many rooms. Ruby and I would be embarrassed to lose our mom’s tongue, but if we did, then we had to agree to lose different words.
Anyway, we didn’t want Jesus to feel bad, so Ruby stood and mirrored the screen. Soy Bueno, she said, Juan Bueno. And I stood too, shaped my hands into a gun and said, Levanta las manos! Te tenemos atrapado, Bueno! And Ruby did a kick, sent my gun flying, and she forgot the translation for underestimate, so she said, Soy Juan Bueno! Y Juan Bueno nunca muere! And then Jesus was up, hands like guns. The English on screen was still all babble, but it didn’t matter. Juan Bueno wouldn’t escape! We’d find him, donde sea que vaiga! We ran in circles until a movie later Juan Bueno was on the floor, muerto. And we would’ve stuck around to see him come back to life, but we were hungry and left.
