Between Spanish Lessons

A Blogging 4 Books entry:

Sitting between my grandmother’s legs, her fingers intertwined in my clean, moist hair, my eyes pulled back into painful slits as she braids the ponytail sitting high on top of my head , I quickly learned as a child what "no mueves" means. Sitting at the kitchen table between my siblings before the bus arrives, eating the thick ham steak and sugary-hot oatmeal and heavily-buttered toast my grandfather systematically made each new day, I instinctively learned what both “come más” and “come todo” mean. Listening to conversations in the first grade between Lorena , Sandra and Laura (all names necessitating a roll of the tongue), I eventually learned what things like “¿Que tienes?” and “Juega con nosotros,” and “¡Estúpida!” mean. Between my parent’s late-night squabbles that I strained to overhear and my uncles’ soused wordplay while tossing horseshoes at summer cookouts and my aunts’ whispered gossip while they made the macaroni salads and salsa, not to mention the eight tracks that lamented “por un amor” and Chispita, my mother’s favorite telenovela, playing in the background of my youth, I learned enough Spanish to plainly ask you, in the name of God, where have you been? And will you please shut up! And watch out, man! And I cannot believe how that woman lies. And I’m so sick. And, by the way, I love you!

Several years later, between my first and last college semesters, I took two Spanish courses and eventually learned how to string together a chain of coherent, drama-deficient, functional sentences that demonstrated immediate usefulness. I could proficiently tell the guy at the door selling tamales that we’re all stocked up and could even go so far as to give him directions to the nearest gas station where they fix flat tires. I could order my burritos with mild green chile and ask for extra onion and understand when they explained that, for fifty cents more, I could add a medium drink to go with it. But I still kinda liked the drama-laden Spanish, and so I used my improved skills to sing along with Chavela Vargas about the Black Dove, feeling her very heart palpitate as she tells the object of her affection, in one breath, that her glowing love continues to await her lover, and in the other, that she wants to be free to live her life with whomever she so chooses!

Then I moved to eastern Oklahoma. And everything changed in an instant. My unofficial teachers were no longer within reach. My conversational dance partners were missing, too. Forget jalapeños and corn tortillas, I couldn’t even find one single Spanish radio station to get my fix of lyrics that ooze with emotions running the gamut from rapturous to suicidal all in one song. No telenovelas. No tamale salespeople. Not even a Taco Bell. I had never been so bummed. But, even worse, I was slowly unlearning everything I had tried so hard to accidentally learn over the years.

Nine years and four kids later, I can no longer call myself an eastern Oklahoma transplant, but I’m still 500 miles away from the nearest aunt, uncle, grandparent, and first-grade friend. My TV is more likely to be tuned into Oprah than the telenovelas, and my radio station only moves off of NPR when the babies are crying and need a shot of happy music, my voice singing “Señor Grillo,” maybe. I'm trying to inject Spanish lessons into my children's lives between home and day care, occasionally at the dinner table, and sometimes while they are getting their teeth brushed or their butts wiped. Mostly, it’s when I remember, which might very well occur while hair is getting pulled into a not-so-tight ponytail. I’m afraid their Spanish-learning experience may not be quite as fun as a family cookout filled with conversation and tipsy banter, an evening of eavesdropping on their parents, a breakfast with grandpa or a bilingual elementary school playground. But, between you and me, I think it all might come out in the wash, anyway. My hope is that I will at least teach them enough to know how to speak courteously to their Spanish-speaking elders. That I can help them understand the lyrics to those songs that make me cry so damned easily. And, together, maybe we can keep from forgetting. With any luck at all, they’ll take a couple of courses in college, and a tamale salesperson will move into the neighborhood. Hey, it could happen.