Uno, dos, ouch!
Uncovering the pain and shame of being bicultural and not bilingual.
When I said I was ready to dig deep into my feelings about not knowing Spanish I didn’t think it would happen overnight, geeze!
This morning I got up and put on some music to get the day rolling. Sometimes it’s a SoundCloud DJ mix or little Motown, but today I decided to put on Gloria Estefan. It felt good to listen to familiar Spanish songs while moving through the kitchen beating eggs and occasionally stopping to look out the window at the quiet darkness of our neighborhood.
I found myself wishing I understood more of the lyrics of Con Los Anos Que Me Quedan or Abriendo Puertas and decided I will look those up to study the words more thoughtfully this week. In the background, I could hear my two daughters stir and get out of bed. By the time I looked at the clock again, it was 7 am!
After zipping through breakfast and wrangling my five and two-year-olds into fresh clothes for the day — everyone was just about dressed. We had a few minutes while I was combing their hair so I decided to sing the alphabet song with my youngest daughter Eleanor, then practice counting. We had almost got to ten when my older daughter, Selenita, chimed in that she wanted to play eye-spy.
“One minute please,” I said. “I want to practice numbers with Eleanor. How about we all try our numbers in Spanish!”
I reached out to grab Selena’s hand so we could all count together when I saw her shrink back with frustration. She started to pout and her whole body shifted into a slump.
She didn’t want to count in Spanish. She wanted eye-spy — so why couldn’t I just do what she wanted? I know that’s a normal reaction of a five-year-old, and at the same time, I think I’m starting to notice a resistance toward Spanish in general.
It’s hard for Selena. I’m not consistent or fully bilingual in our home so there’s a lot that’s lacking for her to really learn the language. Still, I feel it’s important I teach them what I do know, even if it is very little.
Here’s how I know this is a SUPER sensitive spot for me. Her reaction sparked immediate anger inside. I felt it rise up in my chest and before I could even take a breath to gain a moment of awareness — I snapped at her.
“Seriously? Why the attitude? OK, I’m done. I need a break.”
It wasn’t just about the Spanish or the pouting.
Every morning seems like a monumental effort to get out the door. My husband and I are constantly asking someone to sit down and eat, put on on their pants, brush their teeth, or just be still so we can wipe the poop off. Parenting is intense at this stage, and I’m no Mary fucking Poppins. Even as I acknowledge all the stress that comes with the mornings, I also need to acknowledge those snap reactions are wrong and more often than not there’s more to it.
Ten minutes later I regained my feelings and was hugging Selena telling her I was sorry. I shouldn’t have snapped.
“This is not just about you. This is about mommy too. I’m sorry. I’m just trying to teach you Spanish. I just want things to be easier for you than they were for me. Life will be a lot easier if you know another language.”
And there it was.
The words escaped from my heart and mouth faster than I could even process them. I was unearthing a very old pain.
Growing up I got a lot of shit from people I met for “not knowing the language”. The senors y senoras would often look at me in shock, disbelief, pitty, and judgment. As I got older I got used to comments like, “Why don’t you know Spanish? You should know your language!” School was no better. The kids that knew Spanish had a special connection. Many of them had parents or family from similar parts of Mexico and they often stuck together. They couldn’t understand how someone like me could even consider themselves Mexican if they didn’t speak Spanish. “Pocha!” I would hear them say.
My feelings of shame and doubt were only compounded by the fact that when I tried to speak Spanish it came out mangled and almost impossible to understand. My tenses were all wrong and I could feel my brain grasping for words. It feels a little like like gasping for air intellectually.
Eventually, a jumble of poorly parsed together Spanglish would gurgle out of my mouth, only to be met with confused looks from the other person. The writer in me still cringes. Language is my thing. What gives?
For many years I tried to shrug off my feelings around these interactions and eventually got super defensive. Why should I learn Spanish? English is what we speak in the US.
I’m right. They’re wrong, I’d tell myself.
Looking back I can see how those thoughts were a way to make sense of a lot of the rejection I was feeling. What I didn't realize then is that those kids in school and adults I encountered probably felt a lot of rejection of their own trying to adapt to a new language and culture in the US.
This morning I am realizing that all of those memories from my childhood have been with me for far too long. Something small like the interaction with my daughter can bring up all the old feelings, and tears quickly fill the brims of my eyes as if it just happened yesterday. In my head and heart, I just don’t want Selena to have the same experience. Deep down I fear she will be considered even “less Latina” than I am because she is of Mexican, Jewish and Irish descent.
I believe my daughters are a beautiful combination of cultures but I also understand cultural identity for mixed children can be challenging. While Spanish was not spoken in my home as a kid, my mom did make sure I felt a deep connection to having Mexican and Native American roots and also being American. For most of my life, I identified as Chicana. It was and still is a strong marker of my upbringing.
Calling our selves Chicano/a gave us a sense of pride to distinguish our family as Mexicans that had been born in the US for three generations. Still, as time has passed I see that while Chicana is a source of pride for me, it’s also a source of pain for others.
Chicana may actually be separating me from other Latinos. After all, at its core Chicano/a is a way of saying I am from the US — you are not. This can unintentionally project an air of superiority. A sot of “I am better than you because I am a US Citizen,” mentality. While the word of Chicano may not have started as a divisive term in the 60s, today I’m not sure it’s the word I embrace the most. Especially with the sort of president we have in the White House right now. Latinos don’t need one more reason to feel unworthy or divided.
My point here is not that Chicano/a is bad or good — it’s that on my journey I’m looking for more connection to my roots. More reasons to find common ground across Latino cultures. I want to pass on what I learn to my children as well. But in the end, it’s Selena’s journey not my own — and I can’t project my past experiences or future hopes on her little life that is just starting out.
This time of reflection on such a small moment has been good for me. While I won’t give up trying to offer up Spanish, I’ll definitely make a better effort to let Selena find her love of our culture on her own instead of forcing things. I’d like to pass on Spanish to both my daughters along with my love of education, reading, nature, feminism, spirituality and finance but maybe just leading by example is the best way forward.
This approach feels better. And, after praying about it I think I got just the sign I needed that I am headed in the right direction.
I randomly pulled a card from my affirmation deck that said, “I am surrounded by the love and support of my ancestors.”
Sounds about right to me. I think I’ll just let my heart and my ancestors help lead the way.
