The Monkey on My Back

I remember the car ride well. Dad drove, and Alicia and I sat in the back seat--both because we were too small to sit in front of an air-bag and because we would fight over the privilege of sitting "shotgun". We rolled up and down the hills of US-58, and dad, casually as if it were the weather, asked us if we wanted to learn Spanish. That day will live forever in my mind.

Kathryn and I are spending the Christmas holiday in Mexico this year. We arrived at the airport in Mexico City on the 19th and will depart on the 30th. In the meantime, we have been traipsing across the country-side surrounding the city, seeing the sights and meeting/visiting family. Thankfully, dad made the trip as well and has played tour-guide and travel agent. We've had a fantastic time thus far and are incredibly grateful to finally spend a holiday with family (unfamiliar as they may be).

As a result, the past week has put my linguistic inabilities in stark relief. Obviously, I play spectator to most conversations. Dad interprets important parts, but otherwise I do the best I can. Kathryn, after dedicating herself to Spanish classes, studying, and a week of immersion school, participates a bit as well. She would tell you it's not that much and that it's all wrong, but I'm a connoisseur of self-deprecation. When she wants to, she can almost always communicate what she's thinking. Her Spanish skills have come along by leaps and bounds in the past year, and this week has shown that.

I, on the other hand, am limited to observing. I'm rarely a talkative person, so that's nothing new; but this is a whole new experience. Despite Peace Corps language training, a half-hearted attempt at Spanish class, and sporadic self-guided study sessions, I can say only that I usually get the gist of what's happening. And this is why I mentioned the car ride with dad.

Riding down the road, hit by a ton of bricks, I answered no. If memory serves me, Alicia did, too. We were probably 7 and 5, respectively. At the time, the only Spanish we'd been exposed to was either on TV, at the convenience store our parents owned, or when dad called our "Abuelita" at Christmas. I can say with absolute certainty that we had no idea of the gravity of our decisions. I can also say, however, that since the moment I answered, I knew I made the wrong choice.

Since then, I've been Francisco Fernandez, the English-speaker; Francisco Fernandez, the white boy. I cannot begin to count the number of people who have looked at me quizzically when confronted with this bit of information. It's like, for a split second, I opened a third eye in my forehead. And then comes the inevitable, the dreaded, "Why?".

Over the years, I've created a lot of different reasons--particularly since I decided not to take Spanish in school. A common answer attributed the decision to the stubbornness I inherited from my father. If he tried to teach me, we'd butt heads and suffer for it. Then there's, "I just never needed it." And, most recently, I've convinced myself that if I have to learn to read French and German as well as Hebrew, Spanish will only make things worse. The more I listen to myself, the more I realize I'm simply making excuses.

This week has eaten away my excuses like acid (hydrochloric "eat-your-face-off" acid, as my high school chemistry teacher would say). It's easy to write-off a bad decision when you don't have to face the consequences. Here, on the other hand, I'm confronted by a host of family who want nothing more than to share their love and their lives with me, and I'm simply incapable of doing so. Nonverbal communication only goes so far. I'm embarrassed because I can't communicate, but I'm afraid of embarrassing myself by using what little Spanish I know incorrectly.

So why have I done this to myself?

Because I want to be right. I want to remember that car ride and know that I didn't lose 20 years where I could have been learning Spanish. Unfortunately, I did lose that time. And in that time, I've also lost the chance to build relationships with aunts, uncles, and cousins. I'd like to say that it's never too late for those things, but going to my grandmother's grave tomorrow, I know that's not true. Now all that's left is embarrassment, shame, guilt, and jealousy--of Kathryn and my dad and every other multi-lingual person who has taken advantage of the opportunity I squandered. The only upshot is that this cocktail of terrible emotions just might serve as motivation enough to get this monkey off my back.

I apologize for the narcissistic nature of this post. The past two night's I've been unable to sleep thinking about Spanish, so I'm hoping that the least I'll gain from this is a little rest. Also, I feel I owe it to all those whom I've answered insincerely when asked about speaking Spanish. In any event, if you've made it this far, I'll reward you with some brand-new pictures from our adventures south of the boarder. Whatever the tone of this post, we're loving Mexico.

Peace,

Cisco



Arrival at the airport with dad and Tio Rafael.



Kathryn stretching between Izta and Popo, the volcanoes overlooking Mexico City (inactive and active, respectively).



Kathryn and the young cousins celebrating with sparklers shortly after midnight on Christmas Eve.