Language and Lineage

I did experience language; on the other hand, my mama’s first language was Spanish, and she didn’t learn English until she was like six or seven. My abuelo spoke just enough English to work in a cement factory. My abuelita refused to learn, but she really didn’t work, except for the few hours before her kids' school started. The whole family, tias, tios, and preteen mama, would wake up at four o’clock in the morning and work at a chicken factory (talk about migrant labor). Well, anyway, at the age of four, my abuelo passed, and my abuelita moved to Cali with us. My dad was working week on week off at a juvenile facility, and my mom wanted to start working part-time. When my dad was working, Spanish would be the primary language in the house. Because my dad couldn’t understand Spanish, my mom would not speak to us in Spanish in front of him.

I remember when my mom started working and couldn’t pick us up anymore; my abuelita had to start walking us home. And I remember the first day she came to pick us up from school, and though I was too ashamed to tell her, I didn’t want her to talk in Spanish in front of my friends. I would hurry up to meet her so we could leave early and no one would hear her talk. I was crazy. But somehow they found out that I knew Spanish, and when I was in fifth grade, I was placed in a new bilingual class. A pilot program was recently implemented to assist Spanish-speaking students in their transition to English-only classes. I can still remember my first day, where I sat, the new young white teacher, and felt as if I was too good to be in that class. And though my southern rural black vernacular was far from proper, I did know English. I could recognize the cultural “privileges” of this social position and the stigma placed on my classmates and me for being in the ESL class. It was my mestizaje consciousness (distinctive social position in the margins as well as the center) that enabled me to acknowledge the cultural oppression operating against ESL students and Mexican culture.

In 3rd grade, I started to notice that the Spanish-speaking students were not seen and treated the same. I knew this because my friends Marisol and Gabi got in trouble for speaking Spanish in class one day. I think Marisol was trying to explain how to do the assignment to Gabi. Our teacher actually stopped class to berate them in front of all of us. We all went silent. No one spoke a word for a while. We didn’t even know what to think or do. I don’t even remember what we were learning at the time. I couldn’t tell you what Marisol was trying to explain to Gabbi. I just remember that’s when I started to notice that our teacher really didn’t engage the students who spoke Spanish. It was like they were there, but not really. I saw myself in Marisol and Gabi, but not really; I knew Spanish and could hold a conversation, but for some reason, I saw myself within this margin, this mestizaje (Anzaldua), within and between, yet conscious of the veil that (Du Bois).

I knew Spanish because my grandma, Ama, lived with us at the time. And when my mom couldn’t pick us up from school, mi abuelita would walk us home. I remember her picking us up from school, her colorful, floral-print, handmade blouses, calf-length skirts, and the cute little one-inch huarache platforms that she would wear. I also remember feeling a little terrified that someone would find out she didn’t speak English and that I would have to interpret for her. My cover was pulled.

In fourth grade, I was placed in a dual-language class for English-language learners. I was so confused — why? Why would they do this to me? I felt marginalized, misunderstood, betrayed — alienated. I cried and cried. I promised my parents, the teacher, the school, and the heavens above that if they let me take the “regular” class, I would prove I, too, was smart and educated. And, school, especially my English classes, became this constant challenge of negotiating my acceptance while trying to keep my voice.

I think about my children’s relationship with language. Not English, Spanish, their mama’s mama’s tongue, and how connected they are to my culture, and how they identify as Mexica. Our home language is English. And, this year, my daughter is taking Spanish. Her teacher, probrecita, has the most whitewashed Spanish I’ve ever heard. She doesn’t speak like anyone in my family. I can tell that my daughter wants to speak, but she is not really comfortable putting herself out there. The thing about language is that you have to feel comfortable putting yourself out there. You have to feel good about communicating in that language. You have to own it like your own culture. I wonder if she’ll remember what her teacher has taught her, how he feels about presenting herself. That her tongue, her mother’s tongue, embraces her.