On Speaking
Spanish
By Jeff Gamble
A few years ago, before we moved to Spain and were still working
in New York, Marta’s mom came to visit for the first time.
The trip was a big deal because she had never been to the States
before and had always wanted to come. So she came out in the spring,
and stayed for a week or so. The timing of the trip was kind of
tough though because our schedules were pretty hectic at that
point. So during the week, mom found herself on her own a lot
during the day. She spent some of the time wandering around, but
also hung out at our spot, checking out American TV and watching
old movies on TCM. She didn’t speak a word of English, but
she didn’t let that detail stop her.
One day during the visit, my brother called our place, trying
to track me down. I was working though, and Marta’s mom
was the only one in the apartment. Despite the possible language
barrier, when the phone rang she decided to roll the dice and
answer anyway, perhaps thinking it would be her daughter. She
managed a “hello” upon picking up, but then - as my
brother tells it - things fell apart. “We had nowhere to
go,” he said. “It quickly turned into the most awkward
moment of my life.”
He asked if I was there, but she didn’t understand. So she
said something in Spanish, and in turn, Mark had no clue what
she was saying. “Then I just froze,” my brother said.
“I tried a couple more words in English, but there was nothing.
And every last word I ever learned in high school Spanish just
flew out the window. I couldn’t even manage an hola. And
of course she didn’t know what to say either. I swear to
God we just sat on the phone for two straight minutes…in
silence. I mean, what are you supposed to do? I finally just gave
up, and without saying anything I gently placed the phone on the
hook so she wouldn’t think I wasn’t doing what I was
doing - hanging up on her.”
When my brother originally told me the story, expressing the pain
in the temples it caused him, and how he had to go for a walk
to clear his head after it happened, I was rolling on the floor
with laughter.
Three months have now passed with me here in Spain though, and
I don’t find that story quite as humorous anymore.
There is a friendly wager that’s taking place here in the
house right now between all the family members. It’s over
who will master the Spanish language first – me, or my eleven-month-old
niece. It seems to be a fun joke for everybody, as they all share
a good laugh every time it’s brought up. I actually laugh
along to demonstrate that the good-natured ribbing doesn’t
bother me. The fact is though, if Vegas had a line on this one,
I’m sure my niece would be an eighteen point favorite, and
I’d be calling my bookie to bet on her every time I got
the chance.
I wouldn’t say that I’m just not getting it, but every
time I think I’ve figured out how to say something right,
I figure out two more grammatical things that I have no clue how
to handle. This is all part of the learning process I suppose,
but I’m not studious to begin with, so I know I’ve
got a long row to hoe.
Spanish immersion in the house has been the best thing for me
though. I knew before we moved here that being at Marta’s
parents place would be good for the practice. I figured I’d
be lost for a few months, and then slowly but surely I would start
to get it. Well, being at the three-month mark right now, it’s
at that point where I need to start converting the lay-ups instead
of shooting air balls. I have my good days and I have my bad days,
but even during the good days I feel like it’s all luck
– like some kid who discovers the teacher’s answer
sheet to a big exam a day before the test.
When the going gets tough, Marta is often times there to bail
me out. I can see that she gets tired of being the only outlet
when there’s a communication breakdown, but she’s
been a lot better about it than I would if the shoe was on the
other foot. Aside from her though, nobody else in the family speaks
much of my mother tongue. So I’m more or less on an island.
Marta’s mom, perhaps spurred by The Great Phone Catastrophe
of ’04, has since enrolled in English classes. She still
hovers in that “Do you know what time it is?” level
though, so if I speak any English with her at all, it’s
usually to acknowledge that yes indeed, her shirt is in fact red,
or to let her know that I too see that the cat is eating.
The only other person who has any notable English is my brother-in-law,
Jorge. He recently started taking corporate English classes and
now likes to practice with me whenever we get together. I actually
like to use him as a gage for my level of Spanish when he speaks.
As he explores his newfound grammar with me, his eyes searching
the room for the right vocabulary, I find myself thinking, “Can
I say that same thing in Spanish?” If I can, it makes me
pleased. If I can’t, I imagine myself torturing him a little
bit. Not serious torture, but maybe just hitting the bottom of
his feet with a piece of bamboo once or twice.
The other day Jorge was practicing English with me while we were
all having lunch together here at the house. He was describing
Real Madrid’s new coach, talking about a new car he wants
to buy, and covering just about every topic that seemed to pop
into his head. Then, while he was in the middle of a thought,
Marta’s mom brought a giant plate of various Spanish and
French cheeses to the table. Everyone made a collective oohh and
aahh sound, Jorge included. He then grabbed a knife and turned
to me. “Jeff, I will cut the cheese,” he said straight-faced.
“I like to cut the cheese.”
I had to leave the room.
I came back five minutes later, more or less composed. Marta’s
mom was concerned because she said it looked like I had been crying.
I said I was fine and just had a bit of a cough. Finding this
to be an acceptable answer, everyone went back to cutting and
eating the cheese.
Jorge’s comment got me to thinking though. How many times
have I done the same thing, where I unwittingly tell the unintentional
joke in Spanish? And worse yet, how many more times will I do
it in the coming years? The possibilities are endless, and with
the way I’m going, I’ll probably explore them all.
I’ve already managed to tell everyone I’m pregnant
when I meant to say I was embarrassed, have used the vulgar word
for ‘penis’ when I meant to say ‘chicken’,
and have indicated that ‘I fart’ when I meant to say
‘I ask’. At this rate I’m confident that I’m
just weeks away from telling some woman that I think she has nice,
round breasts when I’m just trying to figure out how to
dial directory assistance.
Just before Christmas a few weeks ago, Marta told me she wanted
a DVD of “Friends”. Actually, she really wanted “Seinfeld”,
but since asking for “Seinfeld” here is like asking
where the Hummer H2 dealership is, she said she’d settle
for “Friends”. So when she was out with her mom doing
some shopping one afternoon, I decided to go track it down. As
I was about to walk out the door, I paused to tell my father-in-law
where I was headed. And suddenly, as I was attempting to describe
what I was going out to look for, I realized that I didn’t
have the right word(s) for “television series” (I
later discovered that it was “serie”. Sometimes so
simple, yet so difficult). I tried using “programa”
(program), but her dad thought I was trying to describe a program
for the computer. From there it somehow just continued to get
more and more complicated until I got flustered. I ran out of
ways to try and describe a television series, and suddenly I was
just using hand signals, and doing a bad job of it. I pointed
at the TV, did some waving motions that confused even me, and
then I had nothing. Marta’s dad shook his head in confusion,
scratched his head, and just kind of shrugged his shoulders. I
had no clue what to do next. We faced each other in silence for
a moment and suddenly I saw my brother’s face. I could feel
my ears getting hot from embarrassment and anger. “This
can’t happen to me!” I thought. “No, I speak
more Spanish than that! Come on, Jeff, think! Find another word!”
After another thirty seconds of silence though, that word never
showed up. So instead I just said, “Well, okay, see you
later,” and walked out the door.
For the record, I did say “see you later” in perfect
Spanish. But if I’m ever around when my brother when he
tells his phone call story again, I won’t be able to laugh.
I’ll just put my hand on his shoulder, nod slightly with
my eyes closed and say, “I understand. I understand.”
My youngest niece just recently said her first word. She’s
manages “papa” once in a while, and the family claims
she also says “que” (what), but to me that could just
as easily be a hiccup. Regardless, it all means trouble for me.
A few years ago, when my oldest niece was at this same age, the
same joke concerning who would be speaking Spanish first –
me or her - made its way through the house. There was less pressure
on me then because we were still living in across the ocean and
I could get away with being the dumb guy when I showed up once
or twice a year. And I always figured that I’d progress
much quicker than she would anyway. I mean she could only say
“si” and “no” then, while I was all the
way up to “Me gusta la tacita bonita.” But despite
my Spanish classes back home, my progress was slow. My three-year-old
niece meanwhile learned to speak as all children do, and now when
she’s around, I constantly find myself thinking, “Damn,
where’d she learn how to say that?”
- January, 2006
