“Que chavacano!” my Spanish teacher used to say angrily to us whenever he heard an ungrammatical statement from us. If it was his way of embarrassing us for our mistakes, he failed big time. It didn’t have the same effect as when people remarked, “Ang barok ng English mo” about one’s English.
Since I didn’t feel insecure or stupid in my Spanish class unlike how some Math teachers made me feel years back, I went on to study the language for few more years. I reached a certain level of proficiency that enabled me to use the language in conversations and in reading. However, work came, and I started doing almost everything in English. Adios, Espanol!
The Spanish language became like an ex-lover after that. Once in a while, I was reminded of it. When I heard Spanish words in songs, I would smile for I could recognize the language while others couldn’t. When I heard people spoke it, I turned my head to the speakers but couldn’t take part in their conversation. When I wanted to go back and learn it, I told myself it had no use anymore. Spanish to me started to become distant yet familiar still.
I am not sure how long this separation will last. I might have some form of rekindling in the future. I say this because the LRT trains I took reminded me of how beautiful the language is. There were excerpts of Spanish poetry posted all over the train. The translations do justice, yet nothing beats the original. It is always humanizing to read poetry in whatever language, and I am grateful that in my commute something reminded me of that quality when one reads poetry.
|Berso sa Metro|