Street Sounds of Soyapango

Today is Spanish Friday so this post is in Spanish. If you participated in Spanish Friday on your own blog, leave your link in comments. English translation is below!

Como escritora, me baso en la memoria de los sonidos del ambiente para llevarme de vuelta a otro lugar y tiempo. Cuando trabajo en una de mis novelas que se lleva a cabo en El Salvador, cierro los ojos y recuerdo lo que he oído.

Puedo oír el tráfico, los carros al ralentí, los bocinazos de los carros, los autobuses que pasan, y el chirrido de los frenos cuando hacen sus paradas.

Puedo oír las campanas del paletero, la voz cantarina de la mujer que vende quesadillas temprano en la mañana, los loros que hablan en los árboles, y baten sus alas verdes.

Puedo oír un aguacatero ladrando, una mujer barriendo la acera, los niños placticando en su camino a la escuela, los murmullos de un borracho caminando por la calle.

Puedo oír la lluvia a media tarde comenzando a caer – las gotas de lluvia caen gordas y lentas al principio, pero después hay un aguacero ensordecedor que ahoga todos los otros sonidos.

— Tu turno! Piensa en un momento y lugar. ¿Qué sonidos oyes tú?—

[ENGLISH TRANSLATION]

As a writer, I rely on the memory of ambient sounds to take me back to a different place and time. When I work on one of my novels that takes place in El Salvador, I close my eyes and remember what I heard.

I can hear the traffic, cars idling, cars honking their horns, buses passing by, and the screech of their brakes when they make their stops.

I can hear the ringing bells of the man pushing his ice cream cart, the singsong voice of the woman selling quesadillas early in the morning, the parrots talking in the trees and flapping their green wings.

I can hear a stray dog barking, a woman sweeping the walk, children chatting on their way to school, the mumblings of a drunk walking down the street.

I can hear a mid-afternoon rain begin to fall, the fat rain drops slow at first, and then a deafening downpour that drowns out all other sounds.

—Your turn! Think of a time and place. What sounds do you hear?—

La artista

Today is Spanish Friday so this post is in Spanish. If you participated in Spanish Friday on your own blog, leave your link in comments. English translation is below!

Cuando yo era niña, yo quería ser una artista – una pintora específicamente. Mis padres me compraban un caballete, pinturas y brochas. Sólo me faltaba una boina. Me encantó pintar, pero cuando veía a cuadros al óleo profesionales, me desanimé. Años más tarde todavia quería ser una artista pero, decidí que quería ser una arquitecta. Mis padres me compraban una mesa de dibujo y papel cuadriculado. Me encantó diseñar casas de mis sueños, pero cuando me di cuenta de que los arquitectos tienen que ser muy bien en matemáticas, no me interesaba más.

Así pasó por una docena otras opciones de carrera. Poco a poco dejé de dibujar pero a veces me interesa otra vez. Ahora si podría trabajar como artista, quería ser la persona que crea nuevas ideas para las tarjetas telefónicas. Las tarjetas telefónicas siempre tienen nombres bien chistosas y me imagino que es divertido dibujar las imágenes para las tarjetas.

Aquí hay una tarjeta telefónica Carlos compró recientemente.

¿Y tú? ¿Qué otros trabajos te gustaría hacer?

[ENGLISH TRANSLATION]

When I was a little girl, I wanted to be an artist – a painter specifically. My parents bought me an easel, paints and brushes. A beret was the only thing missing. I loved to paint, but when I saw professional oil paintings, I became discouraged. Years later I still wanted to be an artist but I decided I wanted to be an architect. My parents bought me a drafting table and graph paper. I loved designing houses, but when I realized architects have to be very good at math, I lost interest.

That’s how it went for a dozen other career options. Gradually I stopped drawing but sometimes I feel interested again. Now if I could work as an artist, I would want to be the person who creates new ideas for phone cards. Phone cards always have funny names and I imagine it’s fun to draw the images for the cards.

Here is a phone card Carlos recently bought.

How about you? What other jobs would you do?

Chiky

Today is Spanish Friday so this post is in Spanish. If you participated in Spanish Friday on your own blog, leave your link in comments. English translation is below!

Carlos está sentado en la mesa después de trabajar y está comiendo una merienda con una sonrisa en su rostro.

“Estas galletas,” me dice, levantando una galleta cubierta en chocolate y admirandola antes de comer una mordida, “Estas galletas siempre quería comprar cuando era niño en El Salvador.”

“Y por qué no las compraste, pues?” pregunto yo.

“Eran muy caras,” dice Carlos, “Sólo los niños ricos las tenian.”

Las galletas que compramos son de marca “Chiky” y cuestan aproximadamente $2.50 por una docena paquetes que contienen 6 galletas cada uno. Imagino que cuestan todavía menos en El Salvador.

“Somos ricos,” digo yo, “Aunque tenemos un montón de billes sin pagar, tenemos Chiky.”

[ENGLISH TRANSLATION]

Carlos is sitting at the table after work and eating a snack with a smile on his face.

“These cookies,” he says, lifting a cookie covered in chocolate and admiring it before taking a bite, “I always wanted to buy these cookies as a child in El Salvador.”

“So why didn’t you?” I ask.

“They were very expensive,” says Carlos, “Only the rich kids had them.”

The cookies we buy are “Chiky” brand and cost about $2.50 for a dozen packages containing 6 cookies each. I imagine they cost even less in El Salvador.

“We’re rich,” I say, “Although we have a lot of unpaid bills, we have Chiky.”

Identity in a Brown Paper Bag

sack lunch

Image source: Jeffrey Beall

My 13 year old is going on a field trip this week to a museum in DC and because buying food at the museum is cost prohibitive, I’m packing his lunch.

This is new territory for me because under normal circumstances our kids don’t bring a packed lunch – they buy lunch at school. I carry a little guilt about this since my mother usually packed my lunch when I was a kid. In a plastic lunch box or brown paper bag I could expect either a turkey, baloney or peanut butter sandwich, a Hi-C juice box, an apple and/or carrot sticks, some type of snack cake, and once in awhile, a note written on my napkin telling me how loved I am.

This lunch is different from what I pack for Carlos – arroz con albóndigas, tacos, escabeche, galletas María, semita de piña … I can’t pack these things for my 13 year old, can I? Sure, he eats them here at home but – in public? Around gringos? … I think about a story I read on TikiTikiBlog.com about what it’s like to bring “ethnic” food for lunch when your gringo classmates bring “normal” things.

The dreaded grade school lunch trade – when my ethnicity was undeniably made public, with the contents of my lunch making who, and what, I was unmistakable.

I wanted to blend in, to be one with the bologna and mayonnaise sandwich crowd, the chocolate chip cookies, the plastic bottles filled with Sunny-D.

But nothing screamed “Not One of Them” louder than my sliced white goat cheese and Goya guava jelly sandwiches, with a chunk of pineapple thrown on top for extra Latino measure.

Oh the squeals and screams of the other non-Latino children as they recoiled — as if watching a horror movie.

- Alexandra on TikiTikiBlog.com

This is what I don’t want my son to go through – although popular and well-adjusted, he already deals with people asking him if he’s Mexican and if he’s related to George López. And so, while at the grocery store picking items for his lunch, I stood, feeling kind of torn, in the middle of the aisle – a bag of all-American Cracker Jack in one hand, and a bag of plantain chips in the other. He likes both equally. Do I strengthen his identity or allow him to blend in?

Cracker Jack vs. Plantain Chips

I decided I would buy both and let him choose, but I couldn’t wait until I got home to find out which he would take in his lunch. I put the bags into the cart and texted him.

Field trip snack – Cracker jack or plantain chips?

Thirty seconds later, he texted back.

Plantain chips.

I found myself smiling – but does this mean anything? Maybe, maybe not. Maybe it means he’s confident in who he is. Maybe it means I’ve done a good job of instilling Latino pride into my boy. Maybe it means he’s not worried about trying to fit in and refuses to succumb to peer pressure… or maybe it means he’s just in the mood for plantain chips.

I have to say though, he asked if he could pack a semita de piña as well and I won’t pretend I’m not happy about it.

_______________________________

Related Reading:

Trading Lunches
El Lonch-eh Latino

Feminine Strength vs. Machismo

Image source: Ray Larabie

In high school we would have one week of gym class that we spent in the weight lifting room. It was in a dark, windowless room down a forgotten hallway. Students were allowed access to it after school but it was often forgotten, except by the jocks. The girls stood in a corner talking, watching the boys, examining their nails and refusing to do anything other than a minute on the rowing machine – preferring to take a zero for the day. I, however, loved our week in the weight lifting room.

Already known for challenging boys to arm wrestling contests at lunch time, (and sometimes winning), my reputation was further sealed by my behavior in the weight lifting room. The boys gathered around to see how much I could bench press, taking bets that I wouldn’t be able to do it each time the peg was moved lower and the weight got heavier. I fed on their pessimism. I loved being underestimated. I took a deep breath, felt the muscles ripping but pushed, pushed, pushed, my lips closed tight, my nostrils flaring. I heard them say knowingly to each other, “She can’t lift it” – as I struggled. My arms shook and I pushed harder still until I would feel the weight give way and my arms straightened above me in victory.

I didn’t care that I wasn’t the kind of girl you ask to the prom, but instead the kind of girl you ask to help push the car when it breaks down. I come from a family of strong women. My mother is well-known for re-decorating while my father is at work – sometimes moving heavy furniture up and down two flights of stairs by herself.

I associated femininity with weakness and wanted no part of it, but I realized how simplistic this point of view was when I gave birth to my first child. Giving birth is an act that is simultaneously the height of femininity and strength. Now, as the mother of two boys, the lone female in a household full of males, I value my feminine side more than I did growing up. Being married to Carlos though, has made me examine my femininity from a cultural perspective. It hasn’t been easy to sort out.

I will try to open a jar of pickles. Carlos will offer to help, reach his hand out for the jar, and I’ll turn away with the jar, stubbornly determined to do it myself. This is when Carlos will tell me I’m like my mother or say, “Why do you have to be so American?!” … to which I’d reply, “Why is it an insult to your manhood for me to open the pickles myself?!”

Over the years, I’ve learned to (usually), hand over the jar of pickles. It makes Carlos feel good to do it for me. I never pretend I can’t do anything, but if it’s difficult, why not give him the satisfaction of feeling that he takes care of me?

I thought that over the years, Carlos and I had mostly ironed out this one cultural wrinkle. We both have made compromises. I let him open jars of pickles that are difficult for me to open, (damn you, carpal tunnel) – and he doesn’t expect me to act completely helpless – fair enough… but at the grocery store while I was unloading the cart at the cash register, I retrieved the case of bottled water from the bottom of the cart and hefted it up and onto the conveyor belt. I thought nothing of it but Carlos whispered through clenched teeth, “Hey, you should have asked me to do it. You’re embarrassing me.”

Embarrassing Carlos was not my intention or even something I had considered – I just wanted to get the groceries checked out so we could go home, (and for the record, the cashier seemed completely unaware of the battle going on right in front of her.) I guess the lesson here is that Carlos and I will always have cultural issues to work on – nothing is ever resolved so completely that it won’t pop up again, so ingrained are the traits we bring from our two different backgrounds.


What is your take and your experiences on the topic of feminine strength vs. machismo?

Immigrant Voices: Christmas

Image source: wallyg

Immigrant Voices is a new feature I hope to do here on Latinaish.com once in awhile. Basically I will pick a topic and those who identify with being a Latino/a immigrant will send me their thoughts/memories on that topic to share here. Those who participate are welcome to remain anonymous if they wish. If a name is given, I’ll also provide a link back to their Twitter profile and/or blog.

Today’s topic is “Christmas.” I hope you enjoy the stories shared here today.

“My first Christmas in the United States, I don’t really remember. I had only been here a couple months and I wasn’t working yet. All the days passed the same sometimes. My second Christmas here, in 1997, Tracy and I had a wedding date picked in January but she lived with her parents and I still lived with my brother. That year my brother went with his wife and daughter to Puerto Rico to visit her side of the family. I was all alone in their apartment on Christmas Eve and there wasn’t even any food in the house. I didn’t have money or a car. I didn’t really have any friends. It started to snow outside the windows, and someone knocked at the door. It was Tracy and she came with grocery bags full of food. We pulled the sofa bed out of the couch and spent the evening eating and watching T.V. together. It wasn’t anything like Christmas in El Salvador, but I was happy during those hours she stayed with me.”

- Carlos López (Blog)

Image source: Bryan Gosline

“My best memory is that of the Christmas I spent with my grandpa in Tejutepeque, a small village in Cabanhas.

My sisters and I ended up living with him for a while and part of that time included the Christmas season. He didn’t have a tree or anything else as he wasn’t accustomed to having kids over or in general, decorating his house.

His solution: chop down a coffee tree from the local hills. He then proceeded to decorate it with whatever was around the house like packing peanuts, etc. In the end, everyone in town wanted to check it out because it was so unique.”

- Angel Magaña (Blog/Twitter)

Image source: marthax

“For my mom, my sister and I, living ‘sin papeles’ was hard enough, but when the holidays came around it felt like we had it twice as hard…mainly because we moved around a lot and we never knew if we were even going to have a Christmas or where we would end up. But somehow my mom always worked her magic and found a way to get a tree and put gifts under it for us. And if we needed a place to stay, we knew we could always count on friends or family. We may not have had much, but just being around family and friends during the holidays was very comforting and gave us some of the best memories of our childhood.”

- Rafael Gameros (Twitter)

“I was 7 when I came to live in the States. Besides the general cultural shock, the Christmas tradition shock was even greater. I had always spent Noche Buena with my Abuelitos in El Salvador, but only my Abuelita migrated with me. Abuelito refused to come. So the first 3 or 4 years, right after opening presents, stuffing my face with “Sanwiches de Pollo Salvadoreños” and having fun with my family, my stomach would become a knot and I would retire to my room, to cry. It would not be a melancholic cry either, it would be a hysterical sob fest. I still get chills remembering my 9 year-old self crying into my pillow, missing my Abuelito and the Salvadoran Christmas of my younger years. Abuelo passed away 3 years ago, and I only saw him twice after emigrating to the US…”

- Emisela (Twitter)

Image source: ley.la

Celebrating Christmas as a Latino in the U.S. means strategically finding the line between your own cultural beliefs and society as a whole. For us, it means going to mass on Christmas to celebrate the birth of Jesus but also enjoying Santa and all the commercialism of the day. When my “American” friends ask how we celebrate Christmas, I find it hard to say that we had tamales – my response is usually, “traditional/family.”

- Hector Flores (Twitter)

Image source: mexicanwave

“Growing up, my sister and I would have to board a plane every other year to spend Christmas with our dad and his new family in Houston. We were always happy to visit and be with him, but I could never get over the fact that Christmas in Houston was much quieter and serene than it was in El Salvador. I always missed the smell of pólvora (gun powder) and going to sleep way, way past midnight to the sound of cuetes being lit all around.”

- Ana Flores (Blog / Twitter )

Image source: Joe Shlabotnik

Early Christmas Day… we groggily made it out of bed, following my mother into the living room…There, smiling from ear to ear next to the white three story bookshelf he’d built with his own hands was my father, not saying a word, just pointing at what was sitting on each layer of the shelf…Immediately we raced across the room, screaming and hollering, jumping from one end of the room to the other with our brand new toy cars in our hands. The size, make, model, and even the color of our cars, today, are memories long gone, many, many years ago, but the one thing that has always remained in the deepest and most treasured of my childhood memories is the feeling in our hearts that morning.

We knew we didn’t have any money. We didn’t have a Christmas tree, or even so much as a single Christmas light anywhere inside or outside of our house, but somehow, some way, whatever little money they had, our parents had managed to make certain we didn’t wake up to just another day on Navidad. Even better, my two older sisters didn’t get anything at all and they were just as happy and excited for us as we were.”

-Juan Alanis (Blog / Twitter)
(Read this story in its entirety: Miracle in Edingburg, Texas)

Image source: kfergos

My first Christmas was in Michigan. I was recently married, so it was the first Christmas with my hubby, (so romantic). I loved the idea of a white Christmas, a freshly cut tree, a fireplace, different food to what I usually had etc. But then it hit me. I had no family to hug at 12 o’clock, no fireworks, no kids’ laughter, no cumbia music in the background. I felt very nostalgic. I felt so lonely and even though my husband had tons of love and presents to give me, there was an enormous emptiness in my heart. I talked to my family, every single one of them. They were all together at my house. They told me what the menu was going to be, all the fireworks they had bought, and how much they missed me.

-Claudia (Blog / Twitter)

Image source: emilyonasunday

Salvadoran Nacimientos vs. American Nativities

Our nativity scene

Nacimientos, or nativities, are something that both Carlos and I grew up with. In my case, the nativity was a simple wooden manger scene with plastic figures: Mary, Joseph, baby Jesus in a bed of straw, an angel, the three wisemen, a cow, a donkey, a couple sheep and their shepherd. My mother always placed the nativity beneath the Christmas tree and my sisters and I were allowed to play with it just like we played with our Barbies or any other toys where we’d act out elaborate storylines while laying on the carpet, completely lost in our own imaginations.

In Carlos’s case, the nacimiento of his childhood took up a large area of their house during the Christmas season. The clay figures included all the same characters we had, plus many more. Salvadoran nacimientos often look more like a bustling city than an intimate scene. No figure is considered inappropriate, from a woman at a pupusería, national soccer players, politicians, drunks, Chavo del 8, and short-skirted cheerleaders with batons known as “cachiporras” to the devil himself.

Carlos’s childhood nativity sounds like a dream come true! I can only imagine how many hours my sisters and I would have played with such a scene – except that Carlos tells me that playing with it was absolutely not allowed.

Now that we’re grown and married with our own household, we put up our own nativity scene. The first year we bought it and put it up, we had an argument about baby Jesus. Carlos couldn’t understand why I put baby Jesus into the manger and I couldn’t understand why he kept taking it out and hiding it. Carlos says that in El Salvador, you don’t put El Niño Jesús in the manger until he’s born. What I was doing – displaying the complete scene with the baby weeks before Christmas – made absolutely no sense to him – (Although cheerleaders attending the birth of Christ apparently makes sense, but I digress.)

For a few years, although I thought it was weird, I let him hide baby Jesus. I also insisted that by his logic, the three kings should be hidden until January, but he ignored me. At this point I must have gotten used to his way of doing things because when I set up the nativity, I handed Jesus over to him without a word and watched him stick him behind a picture frame on a shelf.

This year I’ve tried to make our Nativity a little more Salvadoran. I added a house plant as a palm tree and some rocks from la Libertad, but I definitely want to buy some characters in the years to come. I like the idea of expanding the nativity to look like a town in San Salvador… as long as Carlos let’s me play with it.

What kind of nativity do you have? Do you allow your children to play with the nativity? Why or why not?

Other links to check out:

Los tradicionales nacimientos de barro – Youtube video from ElSalvador.com

El Trompo

Una tía de El Salvador está visitando. Nos trajo trompos y fuimos al parque para que Carlos pueda enseñarnos (yo, y los cipotes), cómo hacerlo.

An aunt from El Salvador is visiting. She brought us toy tops and we went to the park so Carlos could show us (myself, and the kids), how to do it.

Participaste en Spanish Friday? Deja tu link en comentarios!
Did you participate in Spanish Friday? Leave your link in comments!

Pollo Campero & Lakeforest Mall

We went to Pollo Campero for the first time in El Salvador. Since then, my only taste of it has been from buckets of cold chicken smuggled on Taca flights brought by visiting family.

(Fun fact: Carlos’s sister used to work at a Pollo Campero in El Salvador.)

I knew that the fast food Guatemalan chicken restaurants had been popping up in the United States for quite awhile but I just didn’t get around to visiting one until last weekend. The Lakeforest Mall location in Gaithersburg, Maryland has been open for several years.

Now, I was born and raised in Montgomery County, (or MoCo as it’s called by unassuming non-Spanish speakers who think that sounds cool.)

Lakeforest Mall is where my mother took us for back-to-school shopping – It’s across the street from the townhouses I lived in for the first year of my life. It’s where I skipped class and went to watch Jackie Chan movies, (there used to be a theater where the food court is now.) … Lakeforest Mall is 5 minutes down the street from where I met Carlos and it’s where Carlos and I spent time walking around as novios… In other words, it’s a familiar place – so when I heard rumors that Lakeforest Mall had become “ghetto” – I wanted to check it out.

(“Ghetto” – not my word, by the way, in case anyone out there is offended – I’m quoting.)

Anyway, visiting Pollo Campero was a good enough excuse for me. Off to Lakeforest Mall, pues.

So first we eat. Honestly, I can’t even remember what Pollo Campero tasted like in El Salvador, so I can’t compare them. The chicken was spicy and really good. The horchata was good though slightly watered down. The platanos were okay, (A little too ripe for my personal tastes and I prefer mine cut differently – that’s just me being picky though.)

The yuca frita dipped in this spicy Campero sauce was awesome. I will definitely go back for that.

I also liked the decor of the restaurant. This Spanglish sign was the best. “Flavor you can’t CAMPERO” – get it? … Clever.

And a little educational Latino pride never hurt.

Now, as for Lakeforest Mall itself – is it “ghetto”? In my opinion, not at all. It was clean, and though some high-end stores have been replaced, the quality and selection are still good. Maybe it isn’t as beautiful as it once was, (I remember there being fountains but they were turned off), but it’s still a nice mall.

So, what has changed the most? … The demographics of the shoppers. It felt almost like being in Miami again – the shoppers at the mall were an obvious Latino majority. This is drastically different from just 10 years ago, and worlds different from 20 years ago.

I tried to look at this from a gringa point-of-view. My conclusion is that maybe “ghetto” is just a code word that some people use when they really mean “there are more brown people than white people and that scares me.”

So, here’s the deal. The gringos who are now uncomfortable shopping at Lakeforest Mall, you can drive on over to Montgomery Mall instead.

As for me – Yo me quedo aquí…Pass the yuca frita.

Sisters: peleas y travesuras

Carlos has just as many siblings as I do but he knows nothing about sibling rivalry. His brother and sister are much older than him so a good amount of his childhood was spent almost like a single child.

I, on the other hand, was born in the middle of an older sister and a younger sister. This usually meant that when we went to war, (which we did often), I always had an ally. My older sister and younger sister never teamed up together – that’s the benefit, (and injustice, depending on which side you fall), of being one of three.

Now as a mother of two boys I sometimes try to view their relationship from their perspective as siblings. Two brothers means there are no allies – it’s direct one-on-one combat – At least it keeps things fair?

When the boys fight, I usually turn a blind eye and let them work it out on their own, knowing it’s just one of those things siblings do, but Carlos considers this “American parenting” and will have none of it. When the boys fight, Carlos takes action. “Ey! You’re brothers! What’s wrong with you? Brothers don’t act like that!”

“Yes, yes they do,” I say to myself as I watch Carlos force them into a stiff-armed hug under threat of the chancla. Carlos’s heart is in the right place, but I think sometimes you just have to let them work it out by themselves. Conflict management skills come in handy in the real world anyway, verdad?

The funny thing is, when our hijos “fight” – their acts of revenge aren’t even that bad. The things they do to each other are fairly innocent compared to what my sisters and I did to each other when we were all under the same roof. Our youngest son has erased his older brother’s user account on a video game. Our older son has hidden a toy from his younger brother – That is usually as far as it goes.

Some of the routine things we did to each other as sisters included:

• Insisting our little sister was adopted until she cried.
• Turning out the lights and terrorizing our little sister with scary monster noises.
• Locking each other out of the house.
• Stealing our older sisters clothing/perfume/jewelry.
• and, picking up the phone while our older sister was talking to a boyfriend and saying things about her that would humiliate her.

When my mother left our older sister in charge, it was time for our older sister to get revenge. My little sister and I usually ended up locking ourselves in the bathroom so she couldn’t beat the crap out of us for all the things we’d done to her during the week.

Our older sister had one boyfriend in particular that we didn’t like. My little sister and I took some dinner rolls and drew wings on them with a marker, then we chucked them at him from the next room. (Not sure why we bothered to draw wings. It was creative cruelty.)

Then there was the Thanksgiving my family will always remember. At the table my older sister kept putting her finger in my face and doing the “I’m not touching you” thing. Being someone who values their personal space, I warned her that if she didn’t stop, she would be sorry. Of course she did it again. I grabbed her shirt collar in one hand and punched her in the face with the other. She got a bloody nose and I broke a necklace she was wearing. My mother cried because she envisioned a Martha Stewart-esque meal. (Sorry, Mom.)

My older sister had to put up with a lot from us two, but she’d get a break once in awhile when my little sister and I got into our own battles. One time my little sister stole a book from me. She ran to her room with it and locked her door. I kicked her door so hard I made a hole in it. She also did this to my door on one occasion. I think that was the same day she threw an iron at my head. My little sister also chewed up the feet on my Barbies multiple times – They were so deformed they couldn’t even wear their high heels.

This all sounds dysfunctional written out like this, but I’m pretty sure it’s normal. There was a lot of fighting, cruel pranks and rivalry, but we loved each other and still do. The good memories far outweigh the bad, and I love having two sisters, (even though I once told them I’d trade them both in for a brother.)