NaNoWriMo

I was five when I read my first novel, all by myself. Yes, it was a children's novel, but it was a NOVEL, not a picture book. That was the year that I fell head over heels with reading, and by extension, writing.

And, because I don't have enough to do as it is, I may have just signed up for National Novel Writing Month. Because the idea of writing for fun is appealing, because writing is one of the ways that I can de-stress after a day of dealing with students and wedding plans, because it feels so liberating to think that I can just WRITE about anything without any pressure. So, there. I told the internet. That means I have to do it.

Aaaaand, if you're as much a nerd as I am, go sign up!

On language, Part 2

So this is the promised second part. I guess when I said Saturday, I meant Monday; it's been hectic.

My students in VA called them chents, my students here call them "hicks" for some reason that I still can't understand, but basically, there's a distinction between those Latinos who speak English and those who don't. Worse, there's a distinction between those who speak English and do and those who can and choose Spanish. Choosing Spanish, it seems, is just as bad as not speaking English. It breaks my heart to see how often my kids want to downplay what they know, how they want to cover up the fact that they do actually speak Spanish, for fear of being labeled any of the above terms, which, if you didn't know, are negative.

I expect the resistance from those on the outside, but the rejection by those who look like me is a sharper sting. I've spent a life building up the protective layers for the former, but the latter still surprises me. We might share ethnic or even national ties, but it's that damn LANGUAGE issue that trips us up. Within the community there's a recognition that the Spanish language gives you greater authenticity as a member, but at the same time, it's ENGLISH that gives you the cachet. So we downplay el español and play up that English, and pretend that's not the same form of self-hatred that prompts us to stay out of the sun and straighten our hair and diet our hips away.

That Guillén poem, though, just blows my mind. Here it is again:

PROBLEMAS DEL SUBDESARROLLO

Monsieur Dupont te llama inculto,
porque ignoras cuál era el nieto
preferido de Víctor Hugo.

Herr Müller se ha puesto a gritar,
porque no sabes el día
(exacto) en que murió Bismark.

Tu amigo Mr. Smith,
inglés o yanqui, yo no lo sé,
se subleva cuando escribes shell.
(Parece que ahorras una ele,
y que además pronuncias chel.)

Bueno ¿y qué?
Cuando te toque a ti,
mándales decir cacarajícara,
y que donde está el Aconcagua,
y que quién era Sucre,
y que en qué lugar de este planeta
murió Martí.

Un favor:
Que te hablen siempre en español.

I love this. First off, the title: Problems of "Underdevelopment" - Third World problems. And guess what? The problems are not corruption or lack of clean water or terribly deficient educational systems. The problems are that the French think we're uncivilized because we don't know the minor details of French literary history, that the Germans get angry because we don't know about their historical figures, and that the Brits and US Americans are annoyed with the way we speak and write their language. It's that familiarity of being looked down on for the language we speak.
Ah, but the catch: We can ask them to say tongue twisting words, to point out some geography, to identify a historical figure, and to give us some details on Latin American literary history. And the other catch? Do it in Spanish. We're always playing along, adopting the other's language - it's exhausting and exasperating. We are just as educated, cultured, relevant. And guess what? So is our language.

Whether we've been here for five weeks, five years, or five generations, we have to learn to respect the humanity of those who don't speak English and those who do but choose to love and cherish Spanish as well. There's an element of dehumanization in disrespecting languages, I think. If I can't understand you, then you aren't as much a person as I am. And that's dangerous.

On language, Part 1

I've been thinking a lot about the idea of the perceived superiority of the English language and the implications that has on identity and self-esteem and racial/ethnic tensions. This is not to say that I have my thoughts "together", but that it's been floating around a lot.
I'm teaching Spanish again, my first language, and one that I love now, so I'm always thinking about language, the politics of language, and the connection between language and Latino identity. This past spring during my Cross-Cultural Skills class, I started thinking of how I identify as a speaker of Spanish in public places.
I love to speak Spanish in public for several reasons, though I won't deny that one of them is just that it makes some people uncomfortable. Is that terrible? I'm not trying to be mean, and believe, I'm most certainly NOT talking about you, I'm just pushing the envelope on what's acceptable for a middle-class, well-educated, young woman who's spent most of her life in the United States. I mean, it's understandable when recent arrivals speak their languages in public, but it's somehow less accepted for someone who's been here since the age of four to do the same. If you speak English, why speak Spanish?
For me, the answer is simple: my family speaks Spanish. My aunts, my uncles, my grandparents, my cousins, my parents - they all speak Spanish. With few exceptions, that's all they speak, and I love them and want to communicate with them. Too easy, right? Right. Because that doesn't explain why I speak Spanish at the grocery store and on the street when I'm with bilingual folks. Spanish allows me to express myself in ways that I can't in English. There's a musicality to it, a reassuring structure, an identification of the nuances of gender and class and age built into the very foundations of the language. Not to mention the loveliness of words like "desahogarse" and "humildad" and "bendito". There are ideas that can't be translated, links and connections between states of being that can't be as fully expressed in English because it would require two nouns and a conjunction. There's always something lost in translation.
Spanish is beautiful, so rich and layered and homey. Algo cómodo y a la vez lleno de vida y pasión. I admit that I am smitten with accent marks, arching gracefully over vowels, coaxing my tongue into proper pronunciation.
But this has not always been my attitude towards my first language.
There was a time when I felt that Spanish was the language of lesser intelligence; a time when it marked me as a child who might need extra help. I was ashamed of my heritage and that came out in hatred towards my mother tongue.
It wasn't a conscious shame, but rather a subtly internalized sense of inferiority passed down by well-meaning clueless teachers, folks at the store who looked at me with mixed suspicion and pity, and curious but insensitive classmates. Poor little brown girl, with her inferior skin, inferior language, and (logically) inferior brain. Which is not what they were literally thinking, but in a world where White, English-speaking men are the standard, I do not measure up.
And so English became my defense; it let people know that I was, indeed, smart. See how well I speak your language?

It wasn't until high school, when I started to develop a real sense of ethnic identity, that I brushed off my Spanish and wore it as a badge. It was a sign of how "truly Puerto Rican" I am, which, really, what does that MEAN?! Apparently, in my head, it meant speaking Spanish. And I'm glad it did, because once I got over the greater part of my militancy, I just fell in love with the language, with the way it feels in my mouth, with the incredible diversity of it, and the myriad influences which have shaped it. And have I mentioned the PRACTICALITY of Spanish? It's one the top three most spoken languages in the world, and the United States actually has the second largest Spanish-speaking population in the world. (Which is why I'm not talking about you when I speak Spanish in public. I know better.) It has served me well, allowing me to communicate with people from all walks of life, opening doors for me when it comes to jobs, and giving me the opportunity to read Neruda and García Márquez as they are meant to be read: en español.

But there still seems to be a stigma associated with the language. I notice it all the time in overt and subtle ways, and I'll get into those later, tomorrow or Saturday. But for now, a poem from my favorite poet: Nicolás Guillén:

PROBLEMAS DEL SUBDESARROLLO

Monsieur Dupont te llama inculto,
porque ignoras cuál era el nieto
preferido de Víctor Hugo.

Herr Müller se ha puesto a gritar,
porque no sabes el día
(exacto) en que murió Bismark.

Tu amigo Mr. Smith,
inglés o yanqui, yo no lo sé,
se subleva cuando escribes shell.
(Parece que ahorras una ele,
y que además pronuncias chel.)

Bueno ¿y qué?
Cuando te toque a ti,
mándales decir cacarajícara,
y que donde está el Aconcagua,
y que quién era Sucre,
y que en qué lugar de este planeta
murió Martí.

Un favor:
Que te hablen siempre en español.

I think I just fell in love

With these shoes.

Which I am NOT ALLOWED to buy, just because I need boots more than I need another pair of fabulous pumps.

*sigh* Heartbreak.

Mine

Yesterday I went to the gym and put in a good, long workout. I've recently joined a gym for the first time ever because (a) I'm getting married in December and want my arms to look SICK (b) my current housing situation is not conducive to at home workouts, and (c) I can actually afford it. I've only been going about three times a week, but as I was trying on clothes yesterday after my wonderful workout, I looked in the mirror and thought, my body is mine again. I don't know exactly why that popped in my head the way it did, but it made sense. There was a familiarity in the soreness of muscle, in the reemerging definition, in the increasing flatness of my abs, that I'd missed during the year of sporadic workouts that was grad school. My body feels like it's MINE again, like I OWN it and care for it and love it again. It felt good, feels good. Which is not to say that I am one hundred percent happy with the way I'm shaped and the way I carry my weight and what have you, but I'm closer to that satisfaction again.

On a different note - my car window was smashed today while I was at church. $3 in quarters were taken and they looked around the center console for more goodies (there were none there). I'm glad that the repairs will cost nearly $300 for the $3 theft. *sigh*

And to end this with a happier story:
We sang this song at church this morning. My mom used to sing it to wake us up when my sister and I were kids, and I hated it then because my sister loved it and my mom has the kind of singing voice that I have: a not in public kind of voice. But it's grown on me over the years, and today when we sang it I thought of my mom singing the song that she'd learned at a Christian high school to her daughters back when we were oh-so-Catholic. I thought of the way God's worked in our lives, I thought of the love I have for my mamita and my sister (who's made me an auntie, by the way!) and I missed my family so much. But singing that, it was like I was connected to them for just a moment.

Shameless plug

This is my friend M. She's amazing and she's going to be in my wedding. You should buy her stuff.
Also, she's not charging an arm and a leg for it, which I appreciate.

I mean, look at this cuteness:

Cute green earrings!

Apple apron!

Lap blanket which I covet!

Check her out because you never know what she'll post next. That girl likes to keep you guessing. ;)

Like a tumor

When I moved out to PA, I pretty much hated it. I was living out in the western suburbs of Philadelphia, the single whitest place I've ever lived, and I hated it. I hated the looks I got at the grocery store, the relative lack of any type of authentic ethnic cuisine or ingredients (beyond Italian), the cold, and the way people were so unfriendly. Oh, and have I mentioned the TERRIBLE DRIVERS? And the INABILITY TO MERGE? And the INVASION OF LANES?
But, it's where I was going to school, and I had to be there. And then I graduated, and could have gone back down South to NoVA - Northern Virginia - or DC and worked and lived where my foreignness blends in, where I could find authentic Ethiopian, Salvadoran, Pakistani, Greek, Peruvian, Indian, Afghan, etc. restaurants and/or grocery stores in a five mile radius; where the winters aren't so bad, and where our traffic sucks, but dammit, we can MERGE. (And STAY IN OUR OWN LANES!) But B. was here, and he still had to finish school, and so I came back. To Philly.
So now I'm in the city itself, way out in West Philadelphia (go ahead and sing it, because I know you want to) and I work in North Philly, and I'm starting to like it. Or if not like it, warm up to it. To be fair, I still prefer our Southern hospitality to the cool Northern way of interacting, and I still think Philly drivers are the worst, but, it's growing on me.
I don't want to think about winter, because that might have me cursing the geography again (not so much the city, just its location), but for right now, in this lovely illusion of fall, Philly is growing on me. It's filthy, the drivers suck, and the roads are a disaster, but there's something about it that I'm warming up to.
Maybe it's the fact that I can find little pieces of Puerto Rico here: the bars on porches to create a marquesina, the Puerto Rican bakery that sells quesitos, pan sobao, and pastelillos, the passion fruit popsicle that I got from a man who called it una paleta, because that's what it's called, thank you very much. Maybe it's the fact that I'm finally settling in.
I don't know.
I can't say that I love it like I love NoVA and DC, but I must admit it's growing on me. Even if folks can't drive.