Spanish or English: A Matter of Choice? (Part VI)

During five years of graduate school, virtually everything I wrote was in Spanish. But these writings were academic—esoteric essays that could only interest, and remotely at that, hardcore researchers on obscure topics of Spanish-language literature. Still, at the time I believed that to produce articles and, perhaps someday, a book or two on literary criticism, was my destiny—as well as my only recourse—as a writer. What’s more, I fully embraced the notion of a life devoted to teaching and scholarship in the areas of Spanish and Spanish-American literature.

But then, one of those luminous moments in a writer's development took place. I was well into my fifth year of graduate work, and shortly before I was scheduled to take my doctoral exams, when I wrote a piece on Juan Boscán, a Catalan poet of the Spanish Renaissance, for one of my classes. The professor believed that with some revision the essay would be worthy of publication; and I, caught on the academic treadmill and in a hurry to add muscle to my C.V., began to explore the possibility further. Upon conducting the suggested research, however, I concluded that I needed to write the essay all over again, from scratch and with a different focus.

When I sat down before the computer to begin writing the new version, in Spanish, I did so without an outline—which is something highly unusual for me. I stared at the blinking cursor, for what seemed like ages, unable to conjure up a single word. Then, without thinking, I typed the name of Juan Boscán’s wife—Ana Girón de Rebolledo: the noblewoman who played a key role in introducing the works of Garcilaso de la Vega, the first truly great poet of the Spanish language, to the world.

I stared at her name, my first sentence, still unable to continue further. At last, and suddenly, as if in a trance, my fingers started moving rapidly along the keyboard and, virtually without being aware of writing, I finished the essay in a single sitting. The experience felt absolutely magical, a genuine visit from the muses.

More interestingly, however, I wrote the article in English. Ultimately, the piece was so flawless that when it was accepted for publication, the editors of the journal didn’t even ask me to change a comma. And for the first time ever, in spite of years practice in writing and editing several newsletters in English, I felt as if I had been in total command when writing in that language, and the feeling was exhilarating.

But while basking in the glow of that triumph, believing that I was now truly able to express myself with equal strength, in writing, in either language, something unexpected happened that altered the way I felt toward Spanish.

For five long years I had devoted myself, body and soul, to being the best student I could possibly be. I had done everything my professors had ever asked of me, and I had managed to excel, in their estimation, in several of my classes. That’s why, when I failed to pass the doctoral exams, I felt as if my entire world had collapsed—years of trying to build the foundations of my knowledge on solid ground suddenly came tumbling down like a house of cards.

Pain and outrage consumed me because—and I say this with the objectivity that comes from more than twenty-years distance—I had been set up to fail by one individual: the Graduate Advisor at the time, a sadistic person who wanted to send a message to all graduate students, through me, that we were fair game and none of us lived up to his expectations.

(At the time the Department of the Spanish and Portuguese at the University of Arizona was utterly dysfunctional—the problems were so pronounced that we made the cover of The Chronicle of Higher Education as “The Nation’s Most Conflictive Department”—and the injustice done to me was perceived on campus as just another small complaint in a mile-long list of faculty and student grievances.)

I was advised to stay in the department for another year and then retake the examination; but angered over the unfairness of it all, I walked away from the doctoral program and took out my frustration on Spanish, asking myself, irrationally, I now admit, “How could the language I had loved so faithfully since adolescence betray me in such a heartless fashion?”