There are more than 560 languages spoken in Latin America. Most are dying native Indigenous languages, including Quechua, Guarani, and Aymara. There’s Haitian Creole, Portuguese, and, of course, the language that dominated after the oppressive history of colonization and imperialism — Spanish. For some Latine people, the latter is a badge of honor; for others, like me, it has been a source of insecurity. In my 30s, I’ve come to understand that this shame has stopped me from embracing a sense of pride in my bilingual identity as a native Spanglish speaker.
In my early years, I was acutely aware of the linguistic divide that separated my family’s native culture from the culture my sisters and I grew up in. As my mother put it, “En la casa es el Ecuador, y en la calle es Brooklyn,” or, “In the house, it’s Ecuador; on the street, it’s Brooklyn.” Unlike most migrants, she mostly meant it regarding discipline. She was more flexible about my two older siblings and I speaking mostly English, especially by the time I was born. As the youngest, much of my “assimilation” was thanks to my siblings; I like to think of them as the true first generation, and I’m more of the 1.5 generation. They were the ones who navigated the majority of their school-age years with a mother who only understood Spanish.
By the time I was born, they were already in preschool, learning English as their second language. My mother earned her GED in Spanish and took a mandatory reading and writing course in English. She was determined to learn as much of the language as she could in order to move from being a volunteer at our childhood daycare center to eventually becoming the full-time head cook. Her greatest effort was to end her days sweating away at a local factory. Now, she recalls how in those days, my sisters, then barely in double digits, mocked her attempts at speaking backward English. My mother’s attitude was always, “Me entendiste o no?” (Did you understand me or not?), a mindset I would eventually adopt.
To be clear, I do not consider myself a “no sabo” kid, which Language Magazine describes as an intentionally incorrect translation of “I don’t know” and a term used to mock second- or third-generation Latines who don’t speak “proper” Spanish. Just as limited English proficiency is used to ridicule migrants in Western culture, there’s an elitist understanding that Spanish proficiency is a prerequisite for being respected within the Latine community.
Still, I like to think my experience makes me a “kinda sabo” kid — someone who grew up with Spanish and English constantly converging. Spanglish wasn’t a conscious effort; it was my first relationship with linguistic code-switching, both inter-sentential (switching languages between sentences; e.g., “I’m going to the store. ¿Quieres venir?”) and intra-sentential (switching languages within a single sentence; e.g., “I’m going to the tienda to buy some groceries.”). Being a “kinda sabo” kid means I know enough to always say, “yo sé,” but I sometimes still experience the insecurities, mental blocks, and shame of my “no sabo” counterparts.
Quoting one of my funniest homegirls, Gina Brillon, “My Spanish is traqui caci falaki,” and if we’re being honest, sometimes so is my English. As a child, my mother made a deal with me. She grew increasingly aware of how much my sisters defaulted to English when speaking to each other, and she knew I inevitably would do the same. Being a forever student with trust issues, she saw learning English as a necessity. She refused to spend a lifetime relying on her children or strangers to translate documents. She decided we’d help each other out; she’d speak to me in Spanish and I’d respond in English so we could practice. She never required me to speak in Spanish, but when I felt comfortable, vulnerable, or angry, our conversations naturally flowed in Spanglish. When I did speak my “backward Spanish,” it was usually with my extended family, like my abuela or tías, who decided that English wasn’t in the cards for them.
For most of my formative years, my mother was the queen of “¿Cómo se dice esto?” (“How do you say this?”) — so much so that for most of my life, my brain has been translating English to Spanish or Spanish to English as a means of being understood or helping someone else. It’s probably why my backward Spanish isn’t as fluent as other first-generation folks’. However, my embrace of Spanglish in moments when my broken Spanish made me too shy to try wasn’t always met with acceptance.
In social settings — usually involving people from Latin America or first-generation individuals with impeccable Spanish — my Spanglish was often viewed as a sign of failure. I remember my embarrassment and fury the countless times I was told, “Es la culpa de tu mamá.” To me, my experience wasn’t one of fault. It was a leg up in survival. But to others, it was something to chide.
The truth is that mispronouncing a word or mixing up grammar rules happens in both languages, whether it’s struggling to find the Spanish word for “groceries” or realizing, at 14 years old, that the L in salmon is silent. I’ve always lived in a liminal space, a “kinda sabo” Spanglish space. A place that doesn’t quite fit the mold of a native speaker in either Spanish or English. When someone speaks to me in Spanish, my brain scrambles in panic, knowing that it’s only a matter of sentences before they’ll notice that my grasp of the language is just me translating words from English in a literal way. But my comprehension of what they’ve said is up to par.
At different points in my life, I’ve wanted to speak fluent Spanish. I’ve always struggled with how much other Latines won’t accept my imperfect Spanish without a rude retort, even though I’d never judge someone for struggling with English as a second language.
Lately, I’ve realized that none of it matters, and I’ve enthusiastically started embracing the fact that my true first language is Spanglish. It’s my beautiful workaround. For me, Spanglish is like a secret code, a linguistic dance that allows me to express myself fully without feeling constrained by the rules of either language. It’s a language with rules of its own, and it’s a special little club that many attempt to imitate, even those who judge its legitimacy. It’s a language that advertisers, television, and feature writers desperately try to use, but they always seem to drop the ball unless the writers are actually part of the club. Trust me, native Spanglish speakers can tell.
Lately, my mother’s version of Spanglish has been Spanish-dominant with a few sprinkled-in English words, and mine is English-dominant with sparkles of Spanish for flair. Because that’s what Spanglish is, after all — a beautiful blend of two complicated forms of communication. It’s the best kind of code-switching. What’s helped me rid myself of shame is knowing that my Spanglish is the perfection of my imperfect relationship with two languages. It’s brave to try, regardless of how anyone else perceives it. Pero like, if anyone were to try to make a quippy comment about it today, I’d be quick with my “Me entendiste or nah?”
Katherine G. Mendoza is a seasoned Ecuadorian American writer and producer, boasting more than a decade of expertise in social-first storytelling. Her work has graced the pages and screens of renowned publications and media outlets including PS, The New York Times, Entertainment Weekly, Variety, Univision, Telemundo, HuffPost, and Uproxx.
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Publish date : 2024-09-16 02:00:00
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