By Jennifer A. Serafyn

I still remember the sticky notes. Yellow squares on the window, chair, and bathroom mirror — la ventana, la silla , el espejo — my mother’s desperate attempt to teach her children the Spanish she grew up speaking in Havana.

This Hispanic Heritage Month, I think about those notes and what they represent: not just vocabulary lessons, but a language slipping away from our family with each generation.

My mother was born in Cuba, and Spanish was her first language. I grew up in Elizabeth surrounded by her words and culture — the smell of ropa vieja simmering on the stove, guava on crackers while watching ¡Sábado Gigante! on the TV with my abuelo.

Despite being immersed in that world, I never became fluent in Spanish. Now, my own children hear almost none of it. I

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