Hispanic Fanatic

The new year, of course, is a time for resolutions, proposals, reflection, and big shiny ambitions. However, I’ve never been one to declare things like “This year, I’m going to go skydiving and become a chess grandmaster!” I’m busy enough following through on my long-term goals.

Among those goals, as I’ve written in previous posts, is regaining my knowledge of Spanish. To that end, I’ve been studying online as much as I can. But as appreciative as I am toward the people who offer free lessons on the net, they are seriously freaking me out.

This is because I keep running into practice sentences such as “Todos tocaron la piel de zorro para que les diera buena suerte.” As we all know, this translates to “Everyone felt the fox skin so it would give them good luck.” Or I might spend several frustrating minutes trying to decipher “El traficante de armas no había leído mis libros,” only to discover that it’s the very common phrase “The arms trafficker had not read my books.”

Perhaps it’s because there are only so many innocuous, straightforward sentences that can be created. But I find it hard to believe that some of these examples will ever be uttered in the real world. While we’re at it, I’m mystified over the instructors’ fascination with the word “zanahoria” (carrot), which shows up regularly and is apparently the only food eaten in Latin America.

More disturbing, of course, is when I have to wonder if the instructors’ deep secrets are coming though in their examples. What else can one make of the practice sentence “Maté a mi amigo y tengo mucha vergüenza” (“I killed my friend and I’m so ashamed”)? Or how about “Llegaron a México los cuerpos de estudiantes muertos en Ecuador” (“The bodies of the students killed in Ecuador arrived in Mexico”). I mean, what the hell is going on at translation websites?

In any case, I will keep at it and try my best not to wonder what kind of person cranks our foreign-language examples filled with death, murder, and carrots. At the very least, I’ll be amused by phrases such as “Te perseguimos fuera de la sala de baile” (“We chased you outside the dance hall”). In fact, when it comes to that sentence, I really want to know how the story ends.

As I wrote in my last post, my interest in learning Spanish has been renewed. My hope is that by chipping away for a few hours each week, I will regain my long-lost fluency.

My studying recently consisted of an attempt to watch Spanish television. Flicking on the station at random, I caught the last fifteen minutes of what appeared to be a Mexican version of the “Jerry Springer Show.”

On the program, an older couple confronted their young adult daughter about her lifestyle. At one point, the parents really let her have it over some shameful behavior.

Evidently, the woman had sex with four men in one month. Or she had a walrus for lunch. I was unsure because, like I said, my Spanish is poor. Then it became impossible to track what was going on because they all started yelling at each other. The body language, however, was easy to translate.

Besides diminishing my already low opinion of human nature, the program also intimidated me. Listening to native Spanish speakers roll out rapid-fire questions and declarations verified how much I have to relearn. Up to that point, I felt pretty confident about understanding basic sentences. But the furious accusations on the show were far removed from the leisurely paced, innocuous dialogues on my Spanish-class podcasts.

The brilliant David Sedaris has pointed out the surreal nature of learning a new language as an adult. He writes that the conversations used in language courses “steer clear of slang and controversy. Avoiding both the past and the future, they embrace the moment with a stoicism common to Buddhists and recently recovered alcoholics.”

Yes, it’s quite a leap from comprehending someone’s observation that the sky is blue to understanding what that guy is screaming about at the top of his lungs. I guess I’ll have to watch more Spanish television to fully get it.

But for now, I’m taking a break from Univision. Instead, I plan to watch the sublime “Pan’s Labyrinth” without the English subtitles. I think that will go a lot better.

[youtube=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EqYiSlkvRuw&hl=en_US&fs=1&]

All the members of my family speak Spanish better than I do. Some of them were born in Latin America, which gives them an unfair advantage. Others took to studying the language when they were younger, while I was busy mastering “Ms. Pac-Man.”

Regardless, I am now in solid adulthood and burdened with a foreign-language aptitude that can only be described as muy malo. I could easily let it go, because despite the shrill warnings of xenophobes, English is not going away anytime soon.

After all, English is the lingua franca of American pop culture, international business, and the internet. Nobody has achieved success in America without knowing at least some English. And people from Mexico to India to China are learning that it’s in their best interests to study the language.

So with English firmly ensconced, why should I, or anyone, bother to learn Spanish?

Well, first, there is the practical aspect. According to the U.S Census Bureau, about 12 percent of U.S. residents speak Spanish at home. They range from adults who don’t know any English to little kids who are perfectly bilingual. Within this range are millions of Americans who prefer to communicate in Spanish.

At some point, you will need to talk to someone who will throw a cascade of trilled R’s at you. It will happen. And when it does, gesturing randomly or yelling louder in English will not work. Even if the situation is not critical, your feelings of helplessness will be profound.

A second reason for learning Spanish is pure economics. Among the few booming occupations are jobs where Spanish is considered a plus, if not an outright requirement. Both the blue-collar construction worker and the white-collar marketing manager are learning that it’s smart to know the difference between “Lo siento” and “Claro que se.” In these recessionary times, a little awareness of Spanish can be the difference between landing the gig or spending another day watching soaps.

In addition to these practical matters, there is the fact that we are a multicultural society. We have always been a multicultural society, in truth. It just is no longer possible to wall ourselves off and demand that everyone acquiesce to the majority’s needs. Showing respect for other cultures, and gaining a basic understanding and empathy of others, is becoming a necessary skill – not a luxury for do-gooders.

Finally, exercising your brain and learning something new will never hurt you. So don’t worry.

Of course, for me, there is another, more personal reason. Growing up Latino without a firm grasp of Spanish is culturally confusing. It gets into messy questions of identity and authenticity, and we all love addressing those issues as middle age closes in.

So I’m going to hit the books and internet sites. When I get up to speed again, maybe I’ll take an intermediate class. It will take weeks, perhaps months, before I’m ready to tackle a conversation with a native speaker. When it comes, and I stutter past the initial “Buenos dias,” it will be a sublime breakthrough.

No sooner did I celebrate a timely focus on Latino issues (see my previous post) than a couple of developments erupted this week to let me know Hispanics have not quite earned full acknowledgement of such oddball concepts as civil rights and basic dignity.

First, in New Mexico, a hotel owner informed his Hispanic workers that, henceforth, their names weren’t their own. He demanded that, while working, they Anglicize such travesties as Juan by changing it to John, and the like. The owner, Larry Whitten, justified his order by claiming that English-speaking guests would be thrown when confronted with a real tongue-twister like Rosa.

Whitten further demanded that workers not speak Spanish in his presence. He said that he was concerned that they might be saying bad things about him. I can’t imagine what negative phrases the workers would say about the guy – certainly nothing like “Can you believe this prick is making us change our names?”

Whitten’s demands have sparked an outrage in New Mexico. To help him out of the situation, I have a suggestion: If Whitten is concerned about Latino names being cumbersome for the guests, why not call all the help the same thing? After all, they have no right to pick their own names, so one might as well do away with all pretense of individuality or dignity.

Just have all the women answer to the phrase “Hey, chica!” Yes, I know it still contains a vile Spanish word, but most guests can handle the extremely tricky pronunciation. As for the men, just call them all “boy.” It’s true that this word traditionally has been a demeaning term for black males, but I’m sure they won’t mind if somebody else borrows it.

There, now Whitten’s problem is solved.

The second development came out of Dallas. We all know that Texas has a huge Latino population (including Cousin #2). But apparently, the cops there are among the many Americans who think it is a crime to speak any language other than English. And I mean that literally.

Over the past few years, the Dallas police have ticketed about forty drivers for not speaking English. Needless to say, it is not illegal to speak Spanish, at least not yet, and the Dallas police chief has apologized for his troopers’ attempts to test people’s language proficiency.

That apology puts the cops one step ahead of the hotel owner. But neither story is a reason to celebrate.

Let me thank Macon D, Profe, Xey, Mimpiku, and Carolina, all of whom have recently commented on some of my posts. I also want to acknowledge Che, who disagreed with several of my posts (I assume he recently found the blog and read a bunch of pieces at once). But he kept the tone respectful. I thank him for that and for contributing to the site.

But others do not share the approach of these readers. Some people are determined to prove that the internet is where hate-filled wackjobs spew vitriol that they would never even whisper if they could be identified.

Specifically a reader, whose name I don’t want to publicize, responded to my post “The Most Perverse Kind of Pride.” The piece was about Hispanic gang members who targeted African Americans.

Rather than condemn the actions of the gang members, this reader praised them. The reason he endorses murder is because he hates blacks more than he does Hispanics. And yes, the n-word was unapologetically placed front and center in his tirade.

I have deleted his comment and, in a first for the Fanatic, banned him from the site.

I hesitated to give the idiot even this level of attention. But I decided to write about it just to point out that – despite the wishes, pleas, and outright demands of many people – we do not live in a postracial, harmonious world where ethnicity no longer matters.

There’s still a little way to go.

My dog is a Boxer. Like most Boxers, she’s high-spirited and extroverted. So to burn off her ridiculous amounts of energy, we hit the dog park at least once a week. Over the four years that we’ve been going to this field of canine conviviality, I’ve noticed a gradual change.

It’s true that my dog still spends most of her time roughhousing with an endless procession of Maggies, Jakes, and Baileys. But lately, she’s played with Carlos the basenji and Poncho the mutt and, in a true cross-cultural feat, she even raced Miguel the German Shepherd.

It used to be that only Chihuahuas would get Latino names. Now I’m meeting Rhodesian Ridgebacks called Selena and hearing people yell, “Pedro, come!” at their Australian Cattle Dogs.

Is this a subtle evolution of new cultural norms? Is it a subconscious acknowledgement that Hispanic names are no less American than “Charlie,” and therefore, they’re good enough for our best friends? Or are people just tired of calling their dogs Max?

Now some may be offended that I’m amused by all these Hispanic canine names. Isn’t it, by its very nature, dehumanizing that Latinos are increasingly being equated with dogs? To those critics, I say, lighten up.

Plenty of white names are used on dogs, with no ill effects for those monikers. I once knew a Belgian Malinois named Keith, for damn sakes.

In addition, is it really an insult to be equated with the greatest species on the planet? Yes, it should be clear that I’m very fond of dogs (see my earlier post on this) and perhaps I’m bias. But in any case, a responsible owner names his pets with the best of intentions, on the basis of love or as an act of homage. They do not go out of their way, usually, to signal contempt or debase others.

My own dog is named after an Irish pop band (no, her name isn’t U2). But perhaps I will consider naming any future companions Jose or Maria… or maybe I’ll pass on that idea because, after all, too many dogs will probably have those names already.

First off, let me admit that I have used the word “redneck.” For whatever reason, this term (an obvious racial prejorative) seems to have enough cultural connotations to remove it from outright slur. The fact that many Southern whites wield it like a badge of honor also helps lessen its impact.

But I’ve never called anyone a cracker. The difference, of course, is completely arbitrary, and I don’t expect plaques from humanitarian organizations to award my great, great sensitivity.

But it seems to me that if I’m going to ask white people to refrain from verbal hooliganism, it’s only fair that I don’t turn around and refer to an Anglo person as white trash because I’m, you know, dark-skinned and stuff.

Notice that I’m not afraid to use these terms, like my head will explode if I say, “gringo.” Let’s not get hypersensitive. But it would indeed be sad if I thought I was being edgy by calling someone a honky. That’s not daring or insightful. It’s just lazy and dismissive.

By the way, before accusations of political correctness are hurled about, let me head them off by pleading for the long-overdo retirement of that term. Those two words haven’t meant anything since the late 1990s, and even then they were empty sloganeering that could be (and were) applied to everything from liberal orthodoxy to angry stand-up routines to the New York Jets offensive line. Nothing is politically correct or incorrect anymore.

In any case, I offer a deal. I will try to avoid terms that could be interpreted as a slam on white people in general (eg, the aforementioned cracker, honky, etc) if Anglos refrain from attempts to prove their hipness or street cred by throwing around the S and W words like confetti.

It’s perhaps unclear what we’re talking about. So let me clarify.

The S word is spic.

The W word is wetback.

Neither of these terms is as vivid, as ugly and jarring, as the dreaded N word, which is powerful enough to provoke discomfort even in its euphemistic form (when it comes to dehumanizing insults, blacks have the advantage, or disadvantage, over Hispanics).

But I’m proposing this because I’ve noticed that some white people seem to think these terms are harmless, or even endearing. I’m sorry to tell you that they are not. In fact, calling a Latino a spic is a damn good way to get your ass kicked all over the place, even as you shout, “But I’m down with brown! I’m down with brown!” in appeasement.

In essence, I’m providing a community service by pointing out that these words are not ok. Trust me, it might help you avoid a tense, culturally awkward moment. And we all have enough of those anyway.

So do we have a deal?

The following is an unaltered photo taken by my friend Nichole. We were, as is often the case with us, out drinking. This banner was hung near the bar area.

The words it so prominently displays, “Happy Fiesta,” literally mean “Happy Party.”

You’re no doubt familiar with this phrase. Many times, I’ve walked into a celebration and been greeted with the shout “Happy party! Happy party!” And then everybody hugs.

Actually, it sounds like something that drunken foreign businessmen yell at their American counterparts during visits to strip clubs.

As I looked at the banner, I wondered why someone in a position of authority at the bar would say, “Let’s have a Spanish word or two printed in bright, block letters a foot high and strung over the bar. And I won’t even bother to check if the phrasing makes sense.” I further wonder if the printer who created this banner said, “What the hell?” as he fulfilled this Spanish equivalent of “All your base are belong to us.”

By the way, there was no Latino theme to the bar (and we’re well past Cinco de Mayo). In addition, drinkers were handed fake Hawaiian leis, further adding to the incongruity. So I have no idea why the bar’s management thought this would enhance the atmosphere.

To be clear, I wasn’t offended by the banner, just perplexed. After all, we’re not talking about creating signs in an obscure African language or translating from Middle Ages Gaelic.

This is basic Spanish, which as been stated (more than once) to be taking over the country. You would think that if Latinos are indeed running roughshod over the land, the first item on our agenda would be forcing rudimentary Spanish on the populace.

But I do thank the bar’s owners for providing my friend Nichole and me with an existential quandary as we downed our beers. We asked each other if one can have an unhappy fiesta, and if so, what that would look like. Alas, we didn’t drink enough to come up with a definitive answer.

When I was 24, about a decade ago, I finally changed my name.

For those of you who have done this, you know that it is not a decision to made lightly. Issues of identity, psychological comfort, aesthetics, politics, and a hundred other variables are wrapped up in how we refer to ourselves. Plus, it’s a logistical nightmare and financial burden to make the change.

It’s little wonder, then, that even people with positively wretched monikers will cling to them and endure a lifetime of snickers and befuddled looks. I knew a guy named Peter Creamer who never considered changing his name, even though one could not have come up with a better gay-porn alias.

So why did I do it?

It wasn’t because of any issue with my first or middle names. Indeed, those remain unaltered from my birth certificate.

No, it was my last name, which for the first two dozen years of my life was a monosyllabic horror so bland that I am convinced it actually made me duller.

But my innate dislike of the name wasn’t enough. As I mentioned in a previous post, my mother raised me, and I never felt connected to my father’s name (but let’s not get too Freudian or whiny here). I adopted her maiden name as my legal signifier as a sign of respect to her. 

That remains the primary reason. But there is, of course, a supporting factor. My birth name is Anglo, a brief English-Irish term that simply does not line up with my obviously, shall we say, ethnic appearance.

In truth, I didn’t like the name because it was too white. It didn’t fit me. Perhaps I was being overly political or confrontational or sensitive or aggressive. But I have to admit that I always wanted something that indicated my heritage, or that at least didn’t stand out from everyone else in my family (I’ll post more about the crazy cousins in the future). And I was tired of people finding out my name and saying, “That doesn’t seem right.”

They were correct. It wasn’t right.

So when I moved to New York City, I found a quick and easy way to change my name (everything in NYC involves a middleman who will handle things for a fee).

At my job, when I announced that my name had gone from something Anglo to a moniker with more of a Latino flair, a co-worker asked, “Doesn’t it usually work the other way around?” In other words, it’s more common for a Guillermo to become a William or a Morales to become a Madison and so on. He was right, of course.

But I had already possessed an Anglo name. It was time for something new.

As we enter our third month here at the Hispanic Fanatic, it’s clear that we need to get one thing out of the way:

No, I will not teach you how to curse in Spanish.

As we all know, the first thing anyone ever asks to learn in a foreign language is how to insult a total stranger’s parentage in as disgusting a manner as possible. Blasphemy is also hugely popular.

Why is this? Are we looking for some common bond across culture, and the need to offend is prevalent around the world? Or is this just human nature to gravitate toward the basest level of communication? Or is it just more fun to shout, “hijo de puta!” than it is to murmur “como se llama”?

In any case, Spanish is not any more vulgar than English, and the context of the insults are pretty much the same.

If you really want to let someone have it, you have to go with Arabic. Most languages stop at “Fuck you” or perhaps “Fuck your mother.” But an Arab friend once taught me an insult that basically translated to “May you be anally raped by a thousand lunatics and your severed corpse flung into the gutter to be devoured by a hundred rabid hyenas.” Sadly, I have since forgotten how to pronounce this extremely handy phrase. However, with sentiments like that floating around the Middle East, I have a better understanding of why they are so damn tense there.

But again, what taboo are we seeking to transcend when we learn how to say “shit” in a foreign language? Why is it the first thing we ask, instead of “Where’s a restaurant?” or “Can you break a twenty?” or something we might actually use?

Of course, even bringing up this subject is bound to offend some people. To those individuals, I can only offer my earnest apologies and humble expressions of remorse.

And let me just add, in the true spirit of sincerity, that you should go chinga tu madre.