Yesterday Theresa posted a very interesting piece about growing up bilingual. Even though she grew up speaking Spanish, she still encounters communication problems in Mexico.
I have been practicing my Spanish lessons on my Mexican friends at church. The usual look is one of bewilderment. (I am merely happy to be past the look of horror stage.) Last week, Juan and Irma went off on a tangent about some word I had used. They disagreed about what the correct word should be. As far as I know, they never came to an agreement.
Anyone who has acted as an editor can appreciate that problem. Spanish, just like English, is a very complex language. Vocabulary, accent, caste, and dialect can vary greatly.
That was brought home to me a couple of years ago. I was on a cruise to what the Ministry of Tourism calls the Mexican Riviera. Two entertainers, who I have known since 1999, were the house act on the ship. Juan is from Argentina. His wife, Eileen, is from Brooklyn.
We decided to have dinner at a sidewalk restaurant in Ensenada. The Mexican waiter approached our table and started talking with Juan, who ordered in Spanish. The waiter almost immediately looked distressed -- the type of distress that comes from adding just one too many peppers to a dish. Juan and the waiter exchanged a few words -- apparently explaining something. Now Juan looked distressed.
They both looked at Eileen. Juan spoke. Then the Mexican waiter. It turned out that the waiter could not understand Juan's Argentine Spanish. Eileen ended up ordering.
The number of taxi drivers and street vendors who have been distressed by my Spanish could easily form a line from here to the horizon. But, whenever I see that quizzical response, I remember that even native Spanish speakers can elicit the look, and I press on through.
I know that I will never know Spanish the way I know English, but I am going to continue to mind the gap.
I have been practicing my Spanish lessons on my Mexican friends at church. The usual look is one of bewilderment. (I am merely happy to be past the look of horror stage.) Last week, Juan and Irma went off on a tangent about some word I had used. They disagreed about what the correct word should be. As far as I know, they never came to an agreement.
Anyone who has acted as an editor can appreciate that problem. Spanish, just like English, is a very complex language. Vocabulary, accent, caste, and dialect can vary greatly.
That was brought home to me a couple of years ago. I was on a cruise to what the Ministry of Tourism calls the Mexican Riviera. Two entertainers, who I have known since 1999, were the house act on the ship. Juan is from Argentina. His wife, Eileen, is from Brooklyn.
We decided to have dinner at a sidewalk restaurant in Ensenada. The Mexican waiter approached our table and started talking with Juan, who ordered in Spanish. The waiter almost immediately looked distressed -- the type of distress that comes from adding just one too many peppers to a dish. Juan and the waiter exchanged a few words -- apparently explaining something. Now Juan looked distressed.
They both looked at Eileen. Juan spoke. Then the Mexican waiter. It turned out that the waiter could not understand Juan's Argentine Spanish. Eileen ended up ordering.
The number of taxi drivers and street vendors who have been distressed by my Spanish could easily form a line from here to the horizon. But, whenever I see that quizzical response, I remember that even native Spanish speakers can elicit the look, and I press on through.
I know that I will never know Spanish the way I know English, but I am going to continue to mind the gap.
