A New Reflection

3. Chilaquiles

"What in the world?"

I review the instructions for my history assignment once again, then scan a few paragraphs of the textbook, tapping my pencil eraser impatiently against the kitchen table. The bright yellow tablecloth decorated with elegant, flowing designs of red roosters is covered in eraser dust from my multiple attempts to sketch a map of Europe.

"Seriously, what the heck?" My voice bellows through the dining room as my agitation grows. In the kitchen, Mom is preparing chilaquiles, one of my favorite dishes. My mom's side of the family is Mexican, but she grew up in the United States.

I see my mom containing her smile as she swiftly slices open an avocado on a wooden cutting board. She says nothing of my outburst.

I'm seriously about to crumple up the map and chuck it across the room (something I'm not proud to admit, I've done many times over the years while struggling through frustrating assignments at the dining room table). I can be somewhat of a perfectionist when it comes to schoolwork, and I have a secret hot temper only my parents know about.

Instead, I take a breath and glare once more at the instructions sheet. All at once, I realize I'm looking at the wrong textbook page for the current step. I flip ahead in the chapter, find the pertinent information and heave a sigh of relief. Soon, I'm humming one of my piano songs in a purposely ugly, scratchy voice as I color in my map.

My mom stirs her sauce on the stove, suppressing a smile in her lips. I know she's laughing at me.

"Another light bulb moment?" she teases with loving sarcasm. This is my nightly routine. First, I get worked up over pointless, unclear assignments. Then, I eventually figure it out and hum jollily for the next hour as I complete my work. I like school, and for the most part I don't mind doing homework either. The workload is sometimes challenging to balance with sports and piano lessons, but for the most part I have it managed.

The front door opens gently at exactly 6:30pm, and my eyes light up as I throw my pencil down and hop up to greet my dad.

"Hey, pops!" I call out, running to hug him. He envelops me in a strong, warm embrace and kisses me on the forehead. I've always been close with both my parents, and to be honest, I prefer spending time at home with them rather than out with friends.

My parents greet each other; then Dad heads down the hall to wash up for dinner as I clear my school supplies off the dining room table. I'm forcefully blowing eraser dust off the tablecloth when Dad returns, as Mom sets out the yellow plates and silverware.

"Nati and her erasing," chuckles my mom. Over the years, my teachers have sometimes expressed concern over my levels of erasing. I think they assume I'm super stressed out, but in reality, I'm just trying to get it right; erasing means something has clicked and I've figured out a a better way, so I'm making the necessary improvements. Is there something wrong with that?

The three of us sit down for dinner. The chilaquiles are fresh, crispy and flavorful, with just the right amount of spice. I can handle insane levels of spiciness, but Dad (who's white, by the way) is more sensitive, so Mom attempts to strike a compromising balance in her cooking.

"How was practice today?" asks Mom. Without my permission, my brain flashes immediately to Alex grasping my shoulders, his face close to mine as he attempted to pump me up with confidence.

"I played like a Kindergartner," I say matter-of-factly, basically cracking up.

Although I tend to feel embarrassment intensely in the moment, I think the reason it doesn't fester and eat away at me is because I generally talk through whatever happens in my day with my parents over dinner. Speaking my shame out loud allows it to dissipate.