Rodarte's Spanish Manifesto
During Hispanic Heritage Month, Spanish-language fluency is burning an indelible path through my mind. Spanish — that beautiful romantic language that has eluded me much of my life. This op ed focuses on a subjective experience shared by millions of other professional Latinos in the United States. It’s also a subject that makes me want to throw darts during this important cultural month. And just so you understand the core of my opinion, I’ve felt this way a long time. It’s also a declaration that has to bust out into the open.
First of all, I am proud to say that I am a third generation Mexican-American who is a descendant of hard-working ancestors born in rural Mexico who sacrificed their lives by leaving their homeland and families to make a better life for their children and grandchildren.
I have ties to Uvalde and Brownsville, Tejas, as well as the Mexican states of Michoacán, Guanajuato, Durango and Zacatecas. I am Mexicano by blood, American by birthright. My people spoke beautiful Spanish in their lifetime.
Researching my ancestral roots and returning to the homeland on a few occasions has increased my love for my Mexican culture. If you know me, you know this is a given.
I can cook posole from scratch using the exotic skins of the Chili Ancho leaves and am most comfortable dancing when I hear the rhythmic sounds of Tejano/Mexicano music. I can even pray the “Ave Maria (Hail Mary)” in Spanish if you ask me to.
I am Latino, I am Hispanic, I am Americano!
What I am not is fluent in Spanish. This seems to bother some; maybe because I am the publisher of a magazine named Mi Gente. Maybe they just can’t fathom that I have brown skin, yet do not speak the language of those born in Latin America (excluding Brazil, of course). Some folks truly do not understand emigrational patterns and the effects of the Latino diaspora on the offspring, but I’m sure their children and grandchildren will — someday.
My Spanish vocabulary is modest, but growing, and I understand some when spoken to in Spanish, but the fluency just isn’t there. My grammar is a work-in-progress. Friends tell me my spoken Spanish has improved dramatically, especially after I return from my trips to Mexico. I even studied Spanish in college, but still I struggle and continue to try to learn the tongue of my ancestors. I mosey along.
If you happen to be a third or fourth generation Mexican-American born in the Midwest, chances are you do not have Spanish-language fluently either. And if you know some Spanish, phrases, etc., you are inhibited to speak it around those who clearly know the language — the NATIVE SPANISH SPEAKERS who were born in Mexico or other Spanish-speaking countries. They, coincidentally, through no fault of their own, are sometimes the same folks who have come to Michigan and speak terrible English, BUT who are offended or annoyed if you cannot understand them because of their accents.
Recently, I have chosen to speak more Spanish whenever I can, typically to those who I know will help me. I choose to speak slang and cuss words with my buddy José while we dine at El Rancho Grande. Hey, those Spanish phrases and words come easy. I’m not going to lie.
I choose to try and pronounce someone’s name or the name of their business in Spanish rather than with the English pronunciation, and I have been laughed at, corrected, even belittled due to my shortcomings in Spanish verse. This is terribly wrong, especially if they themselves are not perfect in Spanish. Would a linguist laugh at Shakespeare’s attempt in French or German?
Still, I choose not to be afraid to “Try” to speak Spanish no matter how inaccurate or clumsy, just so I can feel that cultural connection to one of the most beautiful languages in the world. How else do you truly learn a language except through practice, practice, practice?
When I hear anyone speak Spanish I have to really listen to understand. I have to ask them to slow it down. I have to ask them to clarify. When they degrade me for not knowing — and that’s what it usually is — I want to bust out with that song by Lefty Frizzell “I was born in Saginaw, Michigan.” As if this will explain to them why I don’t speak Spanish.
Not knowing Spanish does not make me any less intelligent than someone who does speak Spanish. But if they tease me or laugh at me, it does make them a lesser person.
So to my fellow English-dominant Latinos: Keep trying, do not be afraid. Do not be intimidated by Chilangos (folks from Mexico, D.F.) or anyone else from south of the border. Do they still speak their native indigenous languages that dominated the land stretching from the Pacific Ocean to the Atlantic before the arrival of the La Nina, La Pinta and La Santa Maria? No, they’ve lost their native language because after all their hubris the majority of modern day mejicanos now speak the language imposed upon them by los conquistadores españoles.
So to my fellow Michigan-born bilingual aficionados, learn as much of the beautiful language of our ancestors as you possibly can. Hang on to our culture as much as you can.
To my Spanish-dominant compadres y comadres: Help me, don’t laugh at me or try to make me feel inferior. Chances are your English sucks!
I’ll keep trying…In the words of Benito Juarez “El respeto al derecho ajeno, es la paz”. We are all paisanos regardless of birthplace. Adelante!
