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

When I arrived in Los Angeles, I was an alien; and the sensation of not belonging could, at times, be overwhelming. In the nearly eight years I had been living in Nicaragua, my identity had shifted, completely. No longer did I think of myself as an American, nor was English my preferred language. Culturally and linguistic, I had become part of vastly different world; and although the landscape of Los Angeles was still familiar to me—saving me from the daunting task of learning the intricate weaving of the sprawl to situate myself in that urban chaos—the things people said and did were quite foreign to me. I was now a stranger in the land of my birth.

Since I had barely spoken English the entire time I lived in Nicaragua—with the exception of four summer breaks when my parents sent me to Los Angeles so I could “remember”—the language had taken refuge in the nether regions of my brain, in a faraway place that made its retrieval difficult. I could understand what folks said to me, as well as anything I heard on radio or saw on television, but when it came to talking I had considerable trouble producing the language.

The experience of speaking to, say, a postal clerk, and to have that person stare back at me with a puzzled expression, unable to have discerned what I had said, was extremely disconcerting. In my mind, I had expressed myself in perfectly clear terms, but judging by people’s reactions, I eventually became convinced that I that had somehow learned gibberish. Two long years would pass by before I regained enough confidence to speak freely in English.

And when it came to writing, matters were worse.

Only days after my arrival, I enrolled in Los Angeles City College. Among the classes I was advised to take was Freshman English. A week after handing in our first essay, the English instructor called me out of class. As kindly as he could, he said, “I read your composition, and I’m afraid you don’t belong in this class. In fact, your writing skills are so poor I suggest you explore options other than college.”

Moments such as this one can scar even the hardiest among us, and the professor’s comment riddled me with self-doubt for years regarding my ability to write in English. But I refused to follow his advice; I stayed in college, but for as long as I could I avoided classes that required much writing.

Fortunately, I found a sanctuary on campus where I knew I would be safe until I got my bearings: I hung around with students who were also from Latin America. At once they became my brethren, my source of support. I found great comfort in being among them, as they saw the world largely as I did. And it was then that I learned that culture and language are shared havens, where humans can be themselves while also combating the feeling of being totally alone. What’s more, through my friendship with them, I was able to continue writing in Spanish, publishing my work in the newsletter of the Latin American Student Association and, through this, affectionately become known as “El Poeta.”

The cafeteria was our gathering place, and in between classes I went there to seek comfort in the loud Spanish chatter as we shared the central dream and hope of our lives: to someday find our place in the world. But for all I had in common with them, our situations, with regard to language, were reversed, simply because, while they were struggling to learn English, I was doing my best to remember.

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

My first serious attempts at creative writing—feverish and feeble poems of adolescence that, thankfully, were lost ages ago—were in Spanish. Although inauspicious, those verses—inspired by the works of Gustavo Adolfo Bécquer and Pablo Neruda—were my entry, as a writer, into the world of literature. I was so in love with Spanish—as well as thrilled over my command of the language—that for several years I happily filled notebooks with these first attempts at finding my niche.

But on the horizon of this idyllic existence, a dark cloud approached (at least, in my eyes, it was a harbinger of drastic change): graduation from high school. I faced a daunting decision that could alter my life, and irretrievably so: whether to remain in Nicaragua, or return to Los Angeles, my birthplace, to attend college. To study in the States was my parents’ preference; they understood the value and quality of a U.S. education. The problem was that I wanted to stay in Nicaragua; I loved living there and I had assimilated into the language and culture to such an extent that I now identified myself as Nicaraguan, rather than American. After seven years I now belonged to this world, to this culture, as well as to Spanish, and I fully realized that to leave would break my heart, perhaps even beyond my capacity to endure the pain (or so I honestly believed at the time).

My rational side, nevertheless, agreed with my parents. I had experienced being a student in both countries, and I was acutely aware that the educational resources and options in the United States were, in comparison, unlimited. In Nicaragua there was only one university I would consider attending—the Jesuit run Universidad Centroamericana. But the offerings of this institution were minimal next those of any California university. My limited options in Nicaragua, in essence, made the decision for me, although that didn’t make it easy: I had to follow my intellect, rather than my heart.

In life some farewells are excruciating, and the ones I made as I left Nicaragua are among the most painful. And that flight from Managua to Los Angeles—the one I believed was taking me away forever from Spanish—was, without a doubt, the saddest one of my existence.