Summary: A story about a teenage that does not know how to speak Spanish, but learns its ok to struggle with learning as long as she does not give up. | Word Count: 2,093
“¿Necesita ayuda?” asked the man.
“Ah- uh – no.” I stuttered.
He approached me while I was looking at a T-shirt. He was a Hispanic man in his fifties, well-dressed in a suit with slicked-back hair and a dark mustache. There was nothing to fear from a man with such a friendly demeanor. Yet, the correct words to respond to him did not appear in my head; I had failed again with any attempt to speak back in Spanish.
“I am just looking around.” I said, twisting my neck and looking the other way.
I found it hard to meet gazes with such intense eyes.
“Oh – of course. If you need any help, please, simply ask me. I am here to help.” he said, switching to English.
He politely gestured towards the register that sat on a tabletop of the front counter. I nodded, threw the shirt back on the rack, then spun around and walked away in a frightful fashion. My heart was still beating fast, but I was careful not to break into a run and attract attention. I could not bear the embarrassment of what happened.
That was my life as Jacquline Cortez.
My last name was a Spanish-sounding name, but I am not fluent in Spanish. I could make out some words when it was in written form or display signs. My ears can not pick out words at the speed most natural speakers speak. I was a complete failure at verbalizing my thoughts in Spanish.
Anytime I heard people speaking Spanish I became ashamed. The anxiety crept into the back of my brain and paralyzed me from remembering the most basic words other than “hola” or “gracious”, not to mention my pronunciation was terrible.
It was an ordeal to be who I am, to look Hispanic, yet be completely Americanized. I was born in the United States and culturally became that image. That was not wrong either, but I wanted to represent both images. I was born to a Mexican immigrant father who was proud of his heritage and an American mother who embraced his side of the family wholeheartedly.
We all call Mexico a second home. For all the pride I have, I have an equal amount of shame. I was at least fifty feet away from the man who tried to speak to me in Spanish. I shifted and hid behind a puffy jacket someone had lazily stuck on a random clothes rack.
That man was always here, on the first floor of JC Penny. He was probably the best salesperson around. Talkative, informative, and helpful to an incredible degree. Mr. Gonzalez went far and beyond to help every customer. I respected him as much as I feared him.
He would talk to all the Spanish-speaking people in their native tongue. He even knew a little Portuguese and Italian, which he practiced with tourists who came to this mall. He was multilingual; all I knew was English. And I barely passed my high school Spanish classes with a C, let alone being able to learn to speak it. I tried to get it to stick in my mind, but it never did. Being able to talk in Spanish felt like an impossible task.
Countless trips to the sister cities of Juarez and El Paso made visiting my other home very familiar. I had many memories visiting Mexico. My family would drive over a 1,000 miles to cross the border where one side was jammed packed with cars taking hours to get through and the other there was hardly a line. The border was only an imaginary line diving one cultural city. Spanish was spoken everywhere and the stores carried more Hispanic foods even on the Texas side.
Crossing the border, I remember the streets of roaming kids at night, the street side vendors selling food and souvenirs, and all the midnight visits between family members coming and going once they got word we had arrived in Mexico. Sometimes when we were at my grandmother’s or aunts house they would cook for all of us over a hot gas stove. There were pans of fried eggs, stacks of warm tortillas, tons of refried beans, freshly cut avocado, and a buffet of tender orange rice. It was all very typical Mexican restaurant-style food, yet when it is made with love and compassion by family, it tastes a hundred times better.
However great the family trips were, a great deal of anxiety came with it, not knowing how to interact with my dad’s side of the family. There was a strange distance, despite being so close to them. An uncertainty of what was on their mind and a gap of understanding that was hard to overcome.
I parted the clothes on the rack I stood behind and looked towards Mr. Gonzalez as he spoke to a couple in Spanish. He held up an expensive bottle of cologne and talked with the man.
I was envious of a normal human ability to speak another language. Talking is supposed to be easy, but relearning an entirely new way to speak is daunting for me. I did not pick up or remember a lot of words quickly. It took a strain on me to study Spanish in school. It was like reading the dictionary. Boring and repetitive even if it offered insight into how many new words could I realistically remember and then use in a sentence. Conjugation seemed easier to pick up as a kid as that is the way we naturally learned. I would just pick it up from being surrounded by a world of English.
Ten minutes after the couple left with two boxes wrapped and bagged up, I stopped pretending to shop. I went back to stare at the front counter. When I saw no one approaching the counter, I walked over to Mr. Gonzalez, who was restocking different items.
“Uhhh. I…” I started as I interrupted his work.
He looked at me silently, giving off no indication of anger or irritation, and waited for me to finish, giving me a gentle smile.
“I’m sorry for running away. I know it probably looked rude, but I got embarrassed – it’s not you or anything!” I exclaimed.
“It’s ok. I have seen you around here before and thought maybe you were looking for something in particular. I did not mean to startle you.” Gonzalez commented.
“Well, it’s more than being startled. You see…I…can’t actually speak Spanish. I am half-Mexican, but I just haven’t learned yet ….but I will!” I said, holding my fists together.
I put on my most serious face possible.
Mr. Gonzalez looked surprised.
“My apologies. I should have been less presumptuous.”
“Oh! I mean. It’s alright. I get that a lot. My extended family always keeps bugging me for not knowing. And even strangers who speak it ask why I have not learned my inherited language.” I said with bitter feelings.
Mr. Gonzalez leaned on the glass counter and smiled.
“No one should expect you to know, even if they want you to know.”
I was left speechless through vindication I never thought I would receive.
“But, shouldn’t I know it by now? I am a senior in high school. My grandmother only knows my personality because my dad translates for me.” I said regrettably.
I had always been depressed to know that my family could never fully express themselves to me and vice versa – all because of the language barrier.
“I bet your abuela knows the language of love. That is a universal language.” he said to reassure me.
I was still too angry with myself to feel any better.
“But yes,” he continued as he saw my downcast look, “knowing another language would help with a lot of things in life. I bet people try to find fault with that, which causes you to feel bad.”
I blinked several times.
He saw through me like he could read my mind and all my worrisome thoughts about this issue.
“I do feel bad,” I shrugged, “I have tried for a long time to learn, but it’s hard. I barely passed Spanish class in high school. Some people blame my dad for not teaching me, but he has always been busy working. There isn’t time to teach and the time he has, well, it’s hard not to talk in English just to communicate. It’s easier when we are all tired. Plus, teaching is hard.”
“No te preocupes – don’t worry. Everyone learns in a different way. Not to mention, you have to be surrounded by Spanish to learn. I bet that is how your dad learned?”
I nodded.
“Yeah, he came here without learning English. It still amazes me how courageous that is – coming from a different country without knowing how to speak the language, then adapting to a radically different way of life. I could never be so bold.”
“Be yourself. Give yourself time. You have many other important things in life to worry about. Being forced to do something is different from having to decide what priorities come first.”
I placed my hands on the counter and stared into his eyes with determination.
“I do consider this a priority! I just don’t know how to balance it. As you said, there is a lot going on in my life. I find it hard to learn tens of thousands of words to be able to speak.”
The words of Spanish have always been teetering on the edge of my mind, so familiar yet so indecipherable.
“Take it slow.” he said, waving his hand as if to extinguish my passionate flames, “figure out how you learn. Then find a small bit of time to let yourself learn. I think the best practice is when you speak it despite sounding foolish. Meter la pata – to make a mistake. You learn many things better from making mistakes. You gotta try; that’s how the brain works.”
Mr. Gonzalez tapped his head with one arm and kept the other one behind his back.
“I know…but it’s hard. It feels more awkward than answering the wrong question in class. Especially practicing it with strangers. The words don’t come to my mind, even when I had previously learned them.” I complained.
Mr. Gonzalez stood up and held up his finger like a teacher.
“You must have a combination of structured learning and actual experience. If you were dropped in the middle of any Spanish-speaking country, then you would be immersed in the language in its entirety. Every thought you would need to make would be filtered through Spanish. Everything, every word would become relevant to you. Right now you should focus on the most useful words.”
“I can try. But I don’t even know where to start.”
“Nosotros estamos en un centro comercial – we are in a mall. So let’’s start here.”
“Un centro comercial.” I repeated, knowing the first part of what he said already.
“See. This environment is one that you are used to too – Necesitas pagar en la caja – you need to pay at the cash register. You come here often, right?”
“Yeah. While my father works until 8 pm at a factory and my mom is busy on business trips, so I take a bus to the mall and wait around here to be picked up.”
“That’s great!” he exclaimed, “I am here all night. When I am not with customers, come up to me and try to speak Spanish. I will not judge you the least.”
“You would do that?”
“Of course. I have enjoyed teaching several of my younger cousins English, although my job takes precedence, but if I have free time. I love talking! It’s how I got this job.”
“Thank you! Your name is Mr. Gonzalez right!” I asked, already knowing.
I was enthused not to be pressed to be graded on what I know will be a great deal of mistakes and terrible pronunciations
“David Gonzalez at your service. Cómo te llamas?”
“Oh – it’s Jacquline Cortez.” I said, holding out a hand.
I actually recognized what he said.
“Encantado de conocerte.” Mr. Gonzalez said as we shook hands, “it’s nice to meet you.”
Learning Spanish is a journey – one I routinely rolled off one path and onto another, then jumped back on the same path some time later. I am not stupid for not knowing it, as it is a lifelong quest – one – that I hope to find peace rather than anxiety when I hear the language that feels so natural as breathing.
Off Beat Off Kilter 