You’re a GRINGA, mom. You’ll NEVER understand

My teen and tween daughters sit close together laughing and gossiping at the kitchen counter on tall wooden bar stools with woven straw backs. Music from the neighborhood, called “Barrio Cinco” streams through open windows.

It’s a duet (Christian Nodal and Angela Aguilar called Dime Como Quieres, my 16-year-old later filled me in) a young female voice warning a young male voice that her dad will run him off if he shows up to serenade her.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Ge4AKbnr6ME

My 12-year-old tween reacts to that line of the song, saying something to her sister who responds with eyes flashing an expression of complicity, shared knowing or experience. Their eyes lock and laughter increases.

Curious, I stick my head into their sister space and ask what’s so funny. To which my younger daughter responds impatiently in English, “You’re a gringa, you’ll never understand.”

“Maybe you’re right,” I agree, “but give me a chance, throw me a bone here!”

No bones for mom. Backs turn to me as they returned to their orbit and their native language. Nothing out of the ordinary, they’re sisters, I’m mom. They’re Mexican by birth, I’m only Mexican on paper.