Like many, our dad had a sobrenombre for each of us. Actually, he had three nicknames for four kids.

Negra! Tienes un lápiz pa’ que me escribas una carta.

Guero, ve y cambia la manguera pa’l otro árbol.

Prieto, búscame el remote pa’l TV.

Negra! Ahora dime lo mismo en español. Que es este pinche pedo que no sabes hablar español.

Unfortunality – como dice mi tía Dora – those weren’t the names Dad used to introduce – or even reintroduce – us to friends and family. N’ombre, that was something else. 

To Dad, these names explained our place in the family. To us, the names described who we were in Dad’s eyes.

Ven pa’cá. He began.

Párate aquí. He made sure we stood directly in front of the person we were about to meet.

Dale la mano.

Dile cómo te llamas y cuantos años tienes. 

Me llamo Cármel Zavala. 

Tengo diez años.

Basically, Dad taught us how to properly introduce ourselves to people.

Stand directly in front of a person.

Look him in the face.

Extend your hand.

Tell him your name.

The age thing? That was all Daniel Zavala. 

But still, that wasn’t the worst part. It was how he introduced us. Talk about leaving emotional scars. 

Mira, pariente, ésta es mi’ja, la grandota. 

In Dad’s mind, I was the oldest.

To me, Dad was calling me the fattest. 

Ven pa’cá.

Párate aquí.

Dale la mano.

Dile cómo te llamas y cuantos años tienes.

Tío, éste es mi’jo, el guero.

In Dad’s mind, look at how light-complected the boy is. Reminds you of my brother, Tere, right?

Danny had the best nickname. Tell me what Mexican family doesn’t gush over that one member with light-colored eyes, blondish hair, or whose complexion could link the family to a long, lost relative of Spanish descent. 

Ven pa’cá.

Párate aquí.

Dale la mano.

Dile cómo te llamas y cuantos años tienes.

Prima, éste es mi’jo el malito.

In Dad’s mind, look at how far my son has come after his many life-threatening surgeries.

For Roel it was more like, thank you for calling attention to the one thing I don’t want to be known as – handicapped. Pobre prieto.

Ven pa’cá.

Párate aquí.

Dale la mano.

Dile cómo te llamas y cuantos años tienes.

Buenos días. Mire señora, ésta es la cuata, la más chiquita.

In Dad’s mind, Corina is our youngest. She was a twin. Would you believe that neither family has ever had twins? 

How hard must it have been for Corina to be called a twin, yet stand there alone. To see someone’s reaction go from excitement to sympathy in a second. 

La grandota

El guero

El malito

La cuata

Dad would prod us to introduce ourselves properly way into adulthood. It went from verbal directions to a grimace on his face and an overt nod of the head toward the person. He came across as rude now that he was an old man, but we learned to make light of it.

 “¡Ésperate, Daniel Zavala! Dame chansa.”

And being who we are, we added our own spin to it. Something Dad wasn’t too happy with.

Me llamo Carmel Díaz.

Soy la grandota.

Tengo 36 años.

Sí, estoy iqual de gorda.

Soy Danny Zavala, el guero.

Cue point the finger to the dark, brown hair brought on by many years of playing and working in the sun.

Tengo 32 años.

Y yo soy, Roel.

El malito.

Cue the raising of his bad hand and finish with,

Tengo 30 años.

Hi. Corina Zavala.

Sí, soy la cuata.

No, ella se murió dos semanas despues que nacimos.

Tengo 22 años. 

Corina’s never been as cagapala as the rest of us. She’s the nicest one, so her introduction was more informational than anything.

We learned to appreciate the sobrenombres for what they were – terms of endearment – and what they taught us. The names explained the order of Dad’s life. What he’d accomplished. We are the fruit of his labor.

The sobrenombres are windows into in his heart, and no longer embarrassing.

Me llamo Cármel Zavala Díaz.

Soy hija de Daniel y Mariana Zavala.

Tengo 54 años.

Mucho gusto en conocerlos.