When I was ten years old, I would crawl into bed with Mama every night. Before we went to sleep, I grabbed her spanish spelling book and we studied El Silabario together. She read the words to me and I repeated after. “Pa, Pe, Pi, Po, Pu.” “Pa como Papá” she’d say. I read the words over and over because she wouldn’t let me sleep until I completely got them right. Though I laid there agitated and hiding my face in the blanket, she would tell me it was for my own good. My Abuelo Adan had done the same with her before the Salvadoran war took his life. Mama told me his story thousands of times; I know every detail.