piojos (pee-OH-hos): lice, bugs
pobrecita (po-breh-SEE-tah): poor little one
poco (PO-co): little, not much
pollo (PO-yo): chicken
por favor (por fah-VOR): please
preciosa (preh-see-OH-sah): precious
pues (poo-ehs): well then
puesticito (pos-teh-SEE-toh): little corner store
purísima (poo-REE-see-mah): purest
puro (POO-ro): pure, whole
puros (POO-ros): only
qué (keh): what
¡qué diablos! (keh dee-AH-blos): slang, “What in the world!”
¿qué pasa? (keh PAH-sah): What is going on?
¿qué pasó? (keh pah-SO): What happened?
quiere (kee-EH-reh): wants
quiero (kee-EH-ro): (I) want
quinceañera (keen-seh-NYEHR-ah): celebration of a girl’s fifteenth birthday, usually a large party, that is her formal social debut; a quinceañera is also a fifteen-year-old girl
ranchito (rrahn-CHEE-to): little ranch
raspa (RRAHS-pah): snowcone
ratoncita (rah-ton-SEE-tah): little female mouse; slang term for “petty thief”
remedios (rreh-MEH-dee-os): remedies
revolución (rreh-vo-loo-see-ON): revolution
rosada (rro-SAH-dah): pink
rosas de castilla (RRO-sahs deh kahs-TEE-yah): roses of Castile, originally brought to the Americas from Castile, Spain, by missionaries and land grant owners during the Spanish conquest of Mexico; is now an iconic symbol of beauty and Mexican heritage
rumor (roo-MOR): rumor
Sabinas (sah-BEE-nahs): a city in Coahuila, Mexico, along Hwy 57
sacrificio (sah-kree-FEE-see-oh): sacrifice
sala (SAH-lah): living room, family room, or receiving room
santísimo (sahn-TEE-see-mo): holy
semillita (seh-mee-YEE-tah): little seed
señora (seh-NYOH-rah): lady, married woman
señorita (seh-nyoh-REE-tah): young lady; also a title given to an unmarried woman of any age
serpiente (sehr-pee-EHN-teh): snake
sí (see): yes
sol (sol): sun
sopapilla (so-pah-PEE-yah): puffy pastry treat made from flour tortilla pieces, fried and dusted with sweetened cinnamon or powdered sugar. It puffs up with hot air and is often served with honey on the side.
sospechoso (sos-peh-CHO-so): suspicious-looking man
su (soo): your
tablas de Lotería (TAH-blahs deh lo-teh-REE-ah): individual game boards for Lotería, much like bingo cards
taco (TAH-koh): often crisply fried tortilla folded over a variety of fillings such as seasoned meat, lettuce, tomatoes, and cheese
tamal (tah-MAHL): a specialty dish made from a corn based dough, filled with spicy pork, meat, chicken, or other protein, wrapped in corn husks and broiled. Served as a main dish. Dessert tamales are filled with a combination of fruit and cheeses.
taquito (tah-KEE-toh): smaller version of tacos, tortillas filled with meat, chicken, or any other breakfast or lunch protein and served as a main dish.
tarada (tah-RAH-dah): brainless, dim-witted
Tejano (teh-HAH-no): Texan, of or originating from Texas
telaraña (teh-lah-RAH-nyah): spider web
Tenochtitlan (teh-nosh-TEE-tlahn) [Nahuatl]: capital of the Aztec civilization, now the capital of Mexico, modern-day Mexico City
tiene (tee-EH-neh): has
tlacuache (tlah-coo-AH-cheh): possum
tocar (to-CAHR): to play (instrument) or touch
Tonantzin (to-NAHN-tzin): Aztec mother goddess
torta (TOR-tah): pie
tortilla (tor-TEE-yah): thin, round bread made with flour or cornmeal, rolled flat, and usually served hot with a filling or topping
traidor (trah-ee-DOR): traitor
tu (too): your
tuna (TOO-nah): prickly pear, cactus fruit
un (oon)/una (OO-nah): one
vago (VAH-go): vagabond or wanderer, lazy person
vámonos (VAH-mo-nos): let’s go
velorio (veh-LO-ree-oh): viewing of a body before burial, accompanied by rosary prayers
venadas (veh-NAH-dahs): deer
verde (VEHR-deh): green
virgen (VEER-hen): Virgin
virgencita (veer-hen-SEE-tah): little virgin
viuda (veh-OO-dah): widow
y (ee): and
ya (yah): all right
yerbabuena [sometimes hierba] (yehr-bah-boo-EH-nah): a species of mint [spearmint], used in teas to sooth body aches or stomach cramps
zopilote (so-pee-LO-teh): vulture
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
First, I’d like to acknowledge my husband, Jim, who gets me as a writer, but always manages to keep it light. Once, when I apologized for having to write madly, passionately, and for long, exhausting periods of time, he said, “Baby, you are beyond obsessed — you are possessed, but I love you anyway!”
On crazy writing nights, he puts up with the punching of the keys while he’s trying to sleep. On crazy writing days, he forgives me for not listening to everything he had to say and brings Diet Coke and tacos to my computer desk to keep the creative muse from starving or dehydrating me. On crazy weeks-long writing binges (like Christmas break), he stays out of the writing cave and fields all calls and lets me play in there all by myself without being bothered.
Thank you for being my first reader, and looking at everything I write with a critical eye and a kind heart, and for believing in me and my work. Gracias, mi amor, for being a great father and soulmate, and for taking care of so much while I chase this dream.
I’d also like to thank my editor at Tu Books, the talented Stacy Whitman, who fell in love with my girls and helped me tell their story honestly and with integrity while letting me be my poetic self. Thank you, Stacy, for being a fantastic editor, a great teacher not afraid to use a red pen, all the while asking a million valid questions and guiding me in absolutely the right path. You taught me so much in such a short amount of time — I am a better writer for it, and tremendously indebted to you.
I’d like to also thank Isaac Stewart for creating a magical, gorgeous cover for Summer of the Mariposas. You are a genius!
I can’t forget to thank my sisters, Alicia, Virginia, Diamantina, Angelica, y Roxana, for being themselves: sharing, arguing, caring, fighting, hugging — but always in the most sisterly way. Your love, courage, and sense of adventure inspired these characters — I am blessed to have you as mis cinco hermanitas.
Once again, I’d also like to thank my McAuliffe family, my brothers and sisters in education, most especially my writing cheerleaders, and dearest friends: Veronica Huerta, Ceilia Bowles, Maria Ramirez, Rosalinda Casillas, Nina Huerta, Gabriela Sandoval, Gayle King, and Mayo and Amalia Caceres. Your encouraging words give me wings — thank you.
ABOUT THE
AUTHOR
Guadalupe Garcia McCall received the Pura Belpré Award for her debut YA novel, Under the Mesquite. She was born in Mexico and moved to Texas as a young girl, keeping close ties with family on both sides of the border. Trained in Theater Arts and English, she now teaches English/Language Arts at a junior high school. Her poems for adults have appeared in more than twenty literary journals. McCall lives with her husband and their three sons in the San Antonio, Texas, area. You can find her online at guadalupegarciamccall.com.
Loved Summer of the Mariposas? Don't miss Under the Mesquite, also by Guadalupe Garcia McCall.
When Lupita's mother falls sick with cancer, it is up to Lupita to keep her family together as she discovers what it means to grow up. Winner of the 2012 Pura Belpré Award and named one of the Top Ten
Best Fiction for Young Adults by the American Library Association.
Read on for an excerpt of Under the Mesquite.
chismosa
I thought I was being clever
by sitting just outside the kitchen window,
but I was wrong.
“¡Chismosa!” Mami chastises me
when she catches me eavesdropping
on her and her comadres.
Then she orders me to go scrub
the bathrooms, toilets and all.
After her friends leave,
Mami calls me into her and Papi’s room.
“You embarrassed me today,”
she says, sitting on the edge of the bed
with her arms folded.
I sit down cautiously beside her.
“Secretos should not be kept
from the oldest daughter,” I tell her.
“You may be the eldest, Lupita,
but there are some things
you are too young to understand,”
she says firmly, her face still angry—
disappointed.
“I know I shouldn’t have
been listening,” I admit.
“But I’ve been worried about you.
Mami, I’m good for more than
changing diapers and putting little ones
to sleep. I can bear up when things
go wrong. You’re the one
who raised me to be that way.”
Mami puts her arms around me.
Then she kisses my temple
and rocks me back and forth
as if I were a baby.
But I haven’t been her baby
in fourteen years.
“It’s okay,” I whisper
against her cheek. “I know.”
My heart aches
because I have heard the word
that she keeps tucked away
behind closed doors.
“What do you know?” Mami asks.
We lock eyes,
and she knows I know.
“Don’t tell the others,” she begs,
and I hold her while she cries it out.
Read more in Under the Mesquite by Guadalupe Garcia McCall! Available in print and e-book. leeandlow.com
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