God Bless My Genes

As he prepares the poster I'm buying as a present for Australian Katie's birthday, he tells me he's really glad that someone has finally bought this print. It is a cartoon picture of Madrid's main square, and it's a different view from all the postcards and typical posters. He says as much. He really likes this poster. I smile and say that yeah, it's nice; I tell him that I also think that the one of Barcelona, by the same artist, is really cool. He shrugs somewhat and says "Yeah, but this is more, I don't know, Spanish." His capitalizing comes through clearly in his speech. He winks at me conspiratorially, and we are suddenly both two feisty Madrileños downing the oppressive separatism that plagues Barcelona and environ. I suddenly decide not to tell him that I'm learning to speak Catalan. He continues praising the poster of Madrid, telling me that the artist is that famous guy who did all of the commercials in the 80's, don't I remember? I stuff my Georgia Driver's License back into my wallet hastily. This man thinks I'm Spanish. I pay in cash and purse my lips, determined not to breathe an incorrectly pronounced syllable. My grandmother's Puerto Rican genes, weakened as they are by two generations of intrusive American DNA, shine through still.