A Love Letter to My First Love

How I Fell in Love With You, Again

By: Daniela Kunkel-Linares

To My First Love,

I fell in love with you when I realized how special you made me. Not everyone in Mrs. Theresa’s pre-K class knew how to speak two languages; that was something only the Kunkel sisters knew how to do. No one else got to feel like a spy speaking in code to their partner in crime, their little sister, on the playground—talking about how someone wasn’t sharing the good swing, that was close enough to the ground for my feet to touch, and plotting how we would take the swing back. You made me feel connected to my land, where the green and rocky Andes Mountains stand strong, their histories of fearless hijos del sol lingering in the clouds above them. Connected to my people, who bluntly say what is on their minds and speak a clever mix of Spanish and Quechua, always remembering who they were before the Conquistadors. The pride I felt in being able to perfectly roll my r’s when asking my mom to make my favorite dessert, arroz con leche. Comfort in being able to tell my abuelitos how much I missed them, not needing my mom to translate for me. You made me so proud and so comfortable in who I was when I was 4 years old, and yet you made me so angry. You made me frustrated when my monolingual classmates outpaced me in standardized tests while I was learning how to express myself in both of my native tongues.

You made my parents anxious that I wasn’t learning to read or write as quickly as my classmates. Looking back, I see we weren’t doing anything wrong. It was natural to be behind—I was learning two languages and was bound to level out by the second grade. If only we were more patient. If only I knew that I would never be able to forgive my parents for putting an end to us. If only I knew that I would never be able to forgive myself for not fighting it. I remember my mom and dad coming into my room before bed one night and my dad saying, “Daniela, we aren’t going to read books in Spanish anymore. You go to school to learn and speak English.” My mom's eyes lowered. The overwhelming fear of me not reaching the same benchmarks as my peers was enough to put an end to our relationship. I was no longer going to be able to learn everything about you. As if the better I could understand you, the closer my family would be. The closer the four thousand miles between my family and me would feel.

I quickly moved on from you. English took over my thoughts and my ability to be in love with you. I no longer had vivid dreams or had thoughts pass through my mind in Spanish. I stopped bringing Peruvian food to school in my lunch box. I let my friends make comments about how my mom had a stupid accent. I let them take every bit of pride I had in being a Spanish speaker—every last bit of you I had left in me. It's painful to think of how much of myself I had to, and allowed myself to, give up. I am fearful of giving up that much of myself again. As much as I hate how much of myself I lost, I found a new love. 

English allowed me to be invited to sleepovers and have friends to sit with in the lunchroom. The first day I sat with them, this girl with pale skin and tight blonde curls turned to me and lifted her nose. She asked me, “Why is your food yellow and why does it smell like that?” At least I had friends to sit with at lunch, I thought. Friends who ate peanut butter and jelly sandwiches every day. English allowed me to prove my intelligence and be placed in a gifted program with 20 other kids, in which I was the only Latina. It allowed me to make jam from strawberries and rhubarb from my grandma's garden and be captivated by the stories my grandpa would tell about growing up on the farm.

My love for English was and is complicated. My abuelito always brags to his friends about how his nietas live in Minnesota and speak English. His comments are ALWAYS accompanied by him rubbing his upper arms and going “brrr.” Every time he mentioned us being American, my heart would sink in my chest. Visiting Peru became about how my mom was making it in America, as if the American accent I had when speaking Spanish or the American money I’d exchange was a mark of success.—a mark of the American dream we were making a reality. If only they could see how we were struggling. How my mom had been harassed in two jobs because of her accent. How I didn’t know who I was. How I still don’t know who I am. 

The pride my abuelitos had for me in being American and speaking English made me feel like maybe I should forget anything I had left of you. It sometimes feels like they want me to be as American as I can be, that they don’t want any of me to be Peruvian. That feeling allowed me to let go of you. It hurt too much to hold on to you, and anyway, I had a new love. A new love that I thought allowed me to navigate the world more easily.

When I started high school, you and I were distant. I could no longer roll my r’s to ask my mom to make arroz con leche or speak in code with my sisters. I hadn’t spoken to my abuelitos in over a year. Every time they called, I would get a lump in my throat and a tightness in my chest. I felt embarrassed that I had to rely on my mom to translate everything I said. I felt like a fraud, claiming latinidad when I couldn’t speak the language. A betrayal to my mom, her lucha, and her family's lucha. You made me feel distant and withdrawn. As much as it had hurt to hold on to you, I would soon realize how much more it hurt to lose you. I couldn’t ask my family about their lives or tell them about mine. I could only read the Whatsapp messages and ask my mom to translate something to send back to them. Thinking about this time when I couldn’t communicate with my family still regenerates that same dry lump of guilt in my throat and makes my chest tense up with anxiety. That guilt is something I will never be able to let go of. The guilt that allowed the connections with my family, culture, and myself to diminish.

The first day of high school was overwhelming for many reasons, the biggest being that I would have to face you again. The very system that told me learning Spanish was holding me back was now telling me that I needed to learn a second language to be prepared for the “real” world. I watched white students in my Spanish classes get patted on the back for picking up Spanish conjugations and going to Spain or Costa Rica over spring break, as if this would make them more knowledgeable ambassadors of our complicated, complex, and beautiful cultures and histories than myself. I was ridiculed by one of my teachers, a gringo from Iowa who thought that his Spanish studies made him a Latino. He ridiculed me for not knowing the Mexican dialect that the curriculum mandated. He kicked his shoes off, his forehead creasing with disappointment as he said with anger in his voice, “Grumpy Daniela, if your mom is Peruvian, then why don’t you know the difference between a torta and a pastel?” I skipped his class as many times as I could. In high school you made me feel like I wasn’t enough. Like no matter how much I knew about my culture, food, or history, it didn’t matter—I couldn’t speak my language as well as my non-Latino peers. 

Last year I went to Peru for the first time in six years. I couldn’t wait to meet one of my cousins for the first time, or sink my teeth into warm and crispy picarones, drenched in way too much miel, fresh from the fryer. The excitement of getting out of the cold and dry Minnesota air and being greeted by the humid and heavy Lima air was no match for the anxiety I felt. As the airplane on my screen got closer to Lima, my heart beat more quickly. My mind fixated on the fact that I would have to dig you out of the neat little box I’d hidden you away in. I was so scared of facing you again. Anxious about  daily walks with my abuelito to buy fresh bread, because they would be awkward with my imperfect Spanish. Terrified that I would never be able to express myself to my abuelitos the way I could express myself in English. Scared of having to rely on my own Spanish after my mom and sisters went home. I don’t know what happened between you and me on that trip, but I have never felt so connected to you. Staying for two weeks after my mom and sisters left allowed me to fall back in love with you because I had to rely on myself to communicate with my family. Watching my abuelito break down in tears after saying goodbye to my mom allowed me to feel vulnerable with you again. 

Seeing him not leave his bed for two days after my mom left was something I wish I never had to see. He told me about the paralyzing pain he felt when my mom first left for Minnesota and the grief he feels every time she leaves again. I won’t forget holding back my tears as I said goodbye to my abuelitos in the crowded Lima airport—hot and humid from Peru's tropical air, filled with too many people greeting loved ones and taxi drivers yelling out their prices. I won’t forget how quickly my eyes filled with tears and hoping that they wouldn’t escape when my abuelito whispered to me between his own tears, “Nunca olvides, Perú también es tu hogar.”