No, I Don’t Speak Spanish
The Uncomfortable Story Behind It I’m Still Writing
My father made fun of my early attempts to speak Spanish. I don’t recall really if it was outright mocking or he simply laughed at my American-born intonations. But I do know the way I felt and — to use a phrase gringos must. stop. using. — it was “no bueno.”
My older sister speaks, reads and understands Spanish fluently. I vaguely remember or just know from hearsay that my father helped her learn Spanish. I didn’t get that special treatment. I’m not sure why but all I remember saying as a kid was that “my father gave up on teaching his kids Spanish after me.”
I could always understand Spanish. I pick up enough in conversation to make sense of what’s being said. I took Spanish classes in grade school for 2-4 years and then another 2-3 in high school. (But conjugation still kills me.) In a pinch, I could probably give directions without getting people completely lost. But I still don’t feel fully comfortable speaking Spanish. It’s never felt natural to me even though my Rs do roll off my tongue.
I don’t think I ever got over being undermined from the start. I went into an emotional lockdown on that part of my cultural ancestry and maybe never let go of guarding myself against it.
I made excuses. I clung to my second generation status. My American upbringing. My English-speaking education. “I was born here” and “my mom is white” were my go-to responses and usually appeased anyone questioning. Marking the difference with “I understand it, but I don’t speak it,” if there was persistence and my answers weren’t enough to get me out of the conversation.
It’s never a comfortable one, whether it’s a Spanish-speaking person tsk-tsk-ing me for not continuing on my birthright or someone who doesn’t speak it just not understanding how such a thing could happen. The assumption is always there: “with a name like that” and wow how it’s “such a shame.”
When I used to audition regularly, it was exactly what you would expect. I was not white enough for “regular” roles and not ethnic enough for Latino roles. It may not be what stopped me from the whole process but it surely didn’t help.
I have played roles that required some Spanish, some Spanglish and even thick, put-on accents (I do love the Castilian dialect still). Hiding behind a character made it easier to speak Spanish. I have sang in Spanish. I have even written things in Spanish — though I definitely felt the need to have my work checked for authenticity.
When my father passed away, it was hard to reconcile the things I wished I had said to him. And hard to get over things he never said to me. We always exchanged I love yous — more and more the older we got. But something always felt missing.
We had no long conversations, no recalled stories from his youth or experiences that might have provided me with guidance, no deep heart-to-hearts about the life lessons he learned, his dreams, his aspirations. All I knew about him was acquired second-hand from my mother or observed from our mostly non-verbal interactions.
I blamed the language barrier for our relationship never really being where I wished it to be. And so him making fun of my Spanish still weighs heavily on me. It’s a struggle I fight within: not wanting to pin blame all on him but also not wanting to take full responsibility myself.
Would speaking in the same tongue have even changed our dynamic? Was that what really stopped us from forming a deeper bond? Maybe not. But now I’ll never know.
Becoming a father myself has certainly been bittersweet. My father died the year before my daughter was born. So there is a lot to contend with; I’m usually a mess on Father’s Day. Whoever plays me in the movie will have some really meaty inner turmoil to portray.
So, to answer the question: No, I don’t speak Spanish. At least not too well. Yes, there’s a story behind that. But likely not one I want to tell.
