Mirtha was the walking, talking embodiment of the word "mirth." She was my mom, a woman whose very name exuded joy and laughter. Recently, while writing a blog, I used the word "mirth," which triggered a cascade of memories, so I couldn't resist sharing one of my absolute favorite anecdotes about her.
Mom was from Cuba, and growing up, she attended an American school and learned to speak some English. As a young adult, she enjoyed traveling to the United States, but she never imagined what was to come.
When the storms of communism rolled in, she was married, had a five-year-old son, and was nine months pregnant with me. The incoming regime had its radar on my dad for suspicion and insubordination. He had already been arrested once. A shadow cast over their lives as they planned to leave everything behind, believing eventually, Cuba's political situation would stabilize and they could return home. Dad's family were already living in New York, so they obtained travel visas once mom's obstetrician wrote a letter certifying that she was only seven months pregnant. Her suitcase was filled with conspicuously hidden photographs, a few pieces of newborn clothing, an heirloom baptism gown embroidered by my great-grandmother, jewelry hidden under her breast, my brother by the hand, and 11 American cents in her coat pocket. After a heart-wrenching departure, they boarded a Pan Am flight direct to New York.
They arrived in the bustling metropolis of New York City, where Mom's journey through the quirks of the English language truly began. The United States became their home, and they never returned to the island.
Over the years, she diligently took English classes, striving to master this new tongue. Yet, despite her determination, her English remained adorned with a delightful accent, think Ricky Ricardo from "I Love Lucy." But it wasn't just the accent that made her English uniquely hers; it was her way of mixing up the order of words in a sentence.
Like on the day when hilarity reigned supreme, we were visiting my brother and his American wife. Her father, a stern man, was also present, but he was not feeling well that day. When the time came for our farewells, Mom, the queen of kind gestures, approached him with an outpouring of empathy.
After giving the man a kiss on the cheek and a hug (Cubans hug and kiss everyone; it’s a thing). She looked him square in the eye, her accented voice tinged with sincerity, and said, "I hope to feel ju better."
She had no clue about what she just said being wrong, but we all burst into laughter! A moment frozen in time, where linguistic chaos transformed into pure comedy gold.
My mom, with her endearing mix of English and enthusiasm, had once again brightened our lives with her unintentional wit. Her mirthful spirit is forever immortalized in her name and our hearts.
We miss you Mami.
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