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Paola Villegas

Mama, Me, Walt Whitman
and Celebrating the Self

Finally, finally, the cold voice of the DMV clerk calls
our number. I am eleven years old and eager to leave this
place of yawning boredom. I glance again at the form my
mother has filled out, and I tell her:

"You were only supposed to fill this part out if you
already have a license. And this part is asking for your
work address, not our home address."

I cannot mask my growing impatience.

My mother tells me not to worry. Later, shame
warms my cheeks when the clerk glances at the form and
tells us to fill it out again. My mother perceives that some
injustice is being committed, and protests the dismissal.
The argument sparks suddenly. I try to diffuse the
situation with young words that build into a crescendo of
frustration. My mother just continues. Her broken
English will not be dissuaded. The thick pronunciations,
confused syntax, and hesitant rhythm grate on my ears,
something that scrapes at my secret yearning to lose any
accent, lose any trace of foreignness. It is unsettling to
hear her verbal struggle, and my clutching trust in her
protection and power weakens.

The words come out of my mouth before I have mind
to halt them. The hunger of time has stolen the exact
phrases and memory can only ghost over their harsh
unkindness. My mother does not say anything. Her

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