I watched my mother hammer a nail into the wall. She missed, hitting her thumb.
A stream of Spanish obscenities leaked out of her. I was alarmed, and not just because she was shaking her hand and hopping around. I had never heard so many undecipherable words at once. Then again, I was six years old.
When my mother calmed down, I asked, “What did you say?”
“Never mind,” she said.
“But what does ‘puta’ mean?” I asked.