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Spanish helped me re-connect to my Mexican roots – and feel more American Spanish helped me reconnect to my Mexican roots – and feel more American
(about 5 hours later)
In my California-born and bred Mexican-American family, the sentiment that speaking Spanish is un-American has stuck around for generations. In my family, we pronounce our last name the Anglo way, TELL-ez, instead of the Spanish way, TAY-es. It’s partially why I didn’t grow up speaking Spanish. My mom, who is bilingual, didn’t want my brothers or me to have an accent. And my dad couldn’t have taught me – he spoke only English in his house growing up.In my California-born and bred Mexican-American family, the sentiment that speaking Spanish is un-American has stuck around for generations. In my family, we pronounce our last name the Anglo way, TELL-ez, instead of the Spanish way, TAY-es. It’s partially why I didn’t grow up speaking Spanish. My mom, who is bilingual, didn’t want my brothers or me to have an accent. And my dad couldn’t have taught me – he spoke only English in his house growing up.
The first sign that maybe not knowing Spanish was a bad idea happened when I was little, when I’d go to family gatherings and not be able to understand my aunts or my great-grandmothers. “Cierra la puerta”, my aunt told me once, while we were visiting at her house. I stared at her and didn’t move. My little cousin, who is fluent in both languages, giggled. This girl doesn’t even know how to shut the door!The first sign that maybe not knowing Spanish was a bad idea happened when I was little, when I’d go to family gatherings and not be able to understand my aunts or my great-grandmothers. “Cierra la puerta”, my aunt told me once, while we were visiting at her house. I stared at her and didn’t move. My little cousin, who is fluent in both languages, giggled. This girl doesn’t even know how to shut the door!
When I was around 10, we visited the house in Tijuana where my mom had lived as a child. We drove down a bumpy dirt road and pulled up to a small pink house. Again, I stared. My mom had grown up here? We lived in a four-bedroom house in a fairly new subdivision. I was dying to listen to my mom’s conversation, but once inside her childhood home, my brother and I couldn’t understand anything so we sat there and watched TV.When I was around 10, we visited the house in Tijuana where my mom had lived as a child. We drove down a bumpy dirt road and pulled up to a small pink house. Again, I stared. My mom had grown up here? We lived in a four-bedroom house in a fairly new subdivision. I was dying to listen to my mom’s conversation, but once inside her childhood home, my brother and I couldn’t understand anything so we sat there and watched TV.
My Mexican cultural education might have consisted of those few things – family gatherings where I couldn’t understand people, the tamales that my grandma made at Christmas, the Little Joe albums that my mom sometimes played. But I moved to Boston for college and realized that the rest of the world saw me differently than I saw myself. New friends saw my dark hair and eyes and asked where I was really from. Strangers stopped me on the street to ask for directions in Spanish.My Mexican cultural education might have consisted of those few things – family gatherings where I couldn’t understand people, the tamales that my grandma made at Christmas, the Little Joe albums that my mom sometimes played. But I moved to Boston for college and realized that the rest of the world saw me differently than I saw myself. New friends saw my dark hair and eyes and asked where I was really from. Strangers stopped me on the street to ask for directions in Spanish.
Other Latinas lived on my floor freshman year, and I thought I’d have someone to commiserate with. But they were from South Texas and spoke Spanglish. I had never heard anyone mix English and Spanish in one sentence, and it was much harder to pretend you were cool and understood.Other Latinas lived on my floor freshman year, and I thought I’d have someone to commiserate with. But they were from South Texas and spoke Spanglish. I had never heard anyone mix English and Spanish in one sentence, and it was much harder to pretend you were cool and understood.
Knowing Spanish suddenly felt like a gift I’d missed out on. The language had weaved itself through a good two-thirds of my family, and I had a Spanish-language last name and (people told me) looked Mexican. But my parents hadn’t connected me to the Mexican culture or tongue because, well, we were American.Knowing Spanish suddenly felt like a gift I’d missed out on. The language had weaved itself through a good two-thirds of my family, and I had a Spanish-language last name and (people told me) looked Mexican. But my parents hadn’t connected me to the Mexican culture or tongue because, well, we were American.
That seemed like a lame excuse. By the time I graduated college, I vowed that I would someday learn Spanish – to fill in that crack in my identity, to mark my place in the world. The only way to really become fluent was to live in Mexico, I reasoned. It took several years, but in 2008, I quit my newspaper job. In 2009, I moved to Mexico City with my husband.That seemed like a lame excuse. By the time I graduated college, I vowed that I would someday learn Spanish – to fill in that crack in my identity, to mark my place in the world. The only way to really become fluent was to live in Mexico, I reasoned. It took several years, but in 2008, I quit my newspaper job. In 2009, I moved to Mexico City with my husband.
My life took off before I even knew what was happening. I fell in love with the food and decided to devote my time to learning about it. I roamed the streets, talked to vendors – at first, haltingly; but more confidently once my Spanish improved – and wrote about food and the city’s markets on my blog. I started a company that gave street food tours to tourists eager for a taste of authentic Mexican food. I went to cooking school for Mexican gastronomy, completely in Spanish. Then I wrote a Mexican food cookbook.My life took off before I even knew what was happening. I fell in love with the food and decided to devote my time to learning about it. I roamed the streets, talked to vendors – at first, haltingly; but more confidently once my Spanish improved – and wrote about food and the city’s markets on my blog. I started a company that gave street food tours to tourists eager for a taste of authentic Mexican food. I went to cooking school for Mexican gastronomy, completely in Spanish. Then I wrote a Mexican food cookbook.
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I couldn’t have done any of it without knowing the language. And now that I know Spanish, funnily enough, I feel more American and more comfortable with myself than ever.I couldn’t have done any of it without knowing the language. And now that I know Spanish, funnily enough, I feel more American and more comfortable with myself than ever.
When I hear people like Donald Trump yammering on about Americans needing to speak English, they should know that there are plenty of Mexican-Americans who agree with them. But I feel sad for them, and for their kids who’ll miss out on the gift that I dedicated a decade of my life to learning. It is worth it to know two languages.When I hear people like Donald Trump yammering on about Americans needing to speak English, they should know that there are plenty of Mexican-Americans who agree with them. But I feel sad for them, and for their kids who’ll miss out on the gift that I dedicated a decade of my life to learning. It is worth it to know two languages.
A few years ago, I went back to my mom’s childhood home. The relative whom we’d met all those years ago still lived there. This time I greeted her in proper, polite Spanish and talked to her, and I listened to stories about my mom when she was young.A few years ago, I went back to my mom’s childhood home. The relative whom we’d met all those years ago still lived there. This time I greeted her in proper, polite Spanish and talked to her, and I listened to stories about my mom when she was young.