Is Spanish a Threat to American English?
Spanglish: The Making of a
New American Language
Author Ilan Stavans explores a new lexicon
Spanish in the U.S.
The many dialects of Spanish spoken in America
In Praise of Blended Language
Lilly Gonzalez tells how her hybrid language of English and Spanish draws pity and criticism but also helps her find best amigas. It’s her mother tongue: She grew up on the Texas-Mexico border and it sounds like home to her. (The research cited in this essay was first published in 2001.)
It was 1985 and I was in a pre-kindergarten class at Palmer Elementary in the small South Texas town of Pharr. My teacher, Mrs. Herrera, thought I didn’t know any English, and I had no plans to let her know I did (thanks to my eldest sister, who had made sure I knew English before I entered school). All the other kids in my class spoke only Spanish; I didn’t want to be the conceited one who spoke in English. Then one day Mrs. Herrera stumped me with a question I couldn’t answer in Spanish. I was forced to say it in English – and just like that, my secret was out. When my Spanish-speaking mother wanted to know why I had refused to speak English in school, I was stumped again. The Spanish word for “embarrassed” (avergonzada) wouldn’t come to me, so I tried a translation based on phonetics and told her I had been too embarazada. I thought she’d understand my little Spanglish invention, but she just burst out laughing. I, her four-year-old daughter, had just told her I was too pregnant to speak English.
And that was my first experience with Spanglish, a hybrid of English and Spanish used by U.S. Latinos who live between two coexisting worlds (Mexican Americans, for example). It wouldn’t be the last time Spanglish backfired on me. In fact, every time I’m surrounded by native Spanish speakers, I pray that my Spanglish doesn't intrude into the conversation. But it usually does, and the Spanish pros either smile at me with a pitying look that says I’ve lost touch with my heritage or glare critically at me as if I’ve just raped their language.
Strangers usually give me the pity smile
Those who know me better give me the critical glare. I hate the critical glare. Every time my family heads to Mexico to visit relatives, I dread the inevitable. I'll be talking with my cousins and my Spanglish will trickle into my otherwise fluent Spanish. They’ll call me pocha, which means “sellout.” In my Spanish literature classes at Northwestern University, near Chicago, there’s added pressure to speak perfect Spanish. Professors jeer when I speak up in class and Spanglish flows out of my mouth.
My thoughts are in Spanglish
I left Texas to go to Northwestern in 1998, but every time I hear Spanglish, I feel I’m home again. There’s no better icebreaker than discovering that you and a stranger both speak it. It carries an implicit understanding of each other’s background (immigrant parents, bilingual environment) and plight (trying to make it in a country where Latinos are still a minority). Suddenly, you’re amigos, and you’re dancing effortlessly between the two languages. At Latino nightclubs, Spanglish wins me friends in the ladies' room. Wherever the employees are Spanglish-speaking Latinos, it gets me perks. And at Northwestern, it has given me my best friends. I was in a dorm hallway my freshman year when I heard them speaking Spanglish, and I impulsively poked my head in their room and joined their conversation. They didn’t mind – Spanglish speakers embrace other Spanglish speakers. It’s an unwritten law.
And that’s why I refuse to give it up, despite the pity smile and
the critical glare. I’ve had a lifetime love affair with
Spanglish, embarazada or not.
Reprinted courtesy: Texas Monthly, Inc. 2001
William and Flora Hewlett
© COPYRIGHT 2005 MACNEIL/LEHRER PRODUCTIONS. All Rights Reserved.