Monthly Archives: February 2012

But I’m a Girl! … and Other Spanish Language Mishaps

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I really enjoy the discussions that arise from posts like last week’s about my Rookie Mistakes (written in all caps because it’s a BFD).

As you know, I like to think about all the important, totally unimportant things in life.  Although Spanish is important—being the second-most spoken language in the US—the stuff I contemplate is really not. Except to me, thus making it, like, oh my God, super-mega important. Got it?

As you may well know, Spanish has something called grammatical gender, which actually doesn’t have to do with gender; it’s just a name we use. (Confusing? Yeah.) If you don’t know what this is, just think of the terms fiancé and fiancée. One means a man engaged to be married (fiancé), while the other means a woman engaged to be married (fiancée). So if I called a man my fiancée—oopsy, that would be wrong.

For the most part in English, we don’t deal with this, especially since we pronounce fiancé and fiancée exactly the same way (or at least I do). Hence, when we native English speakers learn a language that does employ grammatical gender, we usually have slip-ups. If you don’t, I officially hate you. Don’t call me again; I’ve blocked your number.

Right now, I’m what I’d call an advanced speaker of Spanish. (I’m even better at writing!) But I like to talk fast in English, so I try to speed up my Spanish as well. I hate being the person everyone listens to like, Come on! Cough it up! Right? Don’t you hate that? Naturally, though, this leads to missteps. I often autocorrect myself, because I’m very self-aware in this area, but sometimes I don’t catch it.

The most common way to tell if something in Spanish is masculine/feminine is to say how the word ends. If it ends in –o, it’s likely masculine; if it ends in –a, it’s likely feminine. Ya with me? However, this is not always the case. (See: la mano.) Easy peasy, lemon squeezy?

In my rush to speak, I sometimes call Mario a girl. No, I don’t say, “Eres una chica,” no. I just refer to him with a feminine adjective. I’m sure this sounds rather odd to him, as this whole grammatical gender thing is ingrained in his speech, and has been since he was a wee little tot with glasses. (Cutest kid ever.) So it has to be jarring when I do this. I like to compare it to when my students would refer to males as “she” or females as “he.” Yes, it happened, and it always seemed so weird to me. Don’t they get it? Well, of course they do; they just mix it up—just like yours truly.

Gender is a tricky thing in Spanish. Here are some examples:

  • It’s el agua/águila/arte, but las aguas/águilas/artes.
  • La mano vs. el mapa
  • Words sometimes change meanings, depending on whether they’re preceded by el or la:
    • El cura (the priest); la cura(the cure)
    • El herido (the wounded man); la herida (the wounded woman/the wound)
    • El frente (the front); la frente(the forehead)
    • El capital (the capital [money]); la capital (the capital [of a country])
    • El mañana (the future/tomorrow [but tomorrow is really an adverb]); la mañana(the morning)
    • Sometimes words are both—la/el mar (both are still used) el/la calor (la calor is seen as archaic). Apparently, la mar is more poetic. That’s because females are more poetic, did you know that? (Okay, I lie.)

Okay, I’m going to stop here. I tend to start writing and just keep going and going, because there’s always more I want to say. But I shan’t. Please, tell me about your grammatical-gender-based mishaps in the comments!

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Say Hello to my Mother: Guest Post

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Before I let my mother take the reins, I’d just like to say that I hounded her to do this, and she finally obliged. She wants to be crazy rich and famous, so naturally that means she’ll get her start on Y Mucho Más. You may not realize this, but I’m, like, totally famous. (NOT.)

Here’s Donna. (You may also wish to read this entry, because she’s great.)

Funny how it seems like just yesterday we drove to Chicago to take Kaley to O’Hare airport for her first international flight. She was studying abroad in Toledo, Spain, for the spring semester of her junior year in college. She was so excited. I was jealous but happy for her. I loved the thought of going to Europe and living and studying in another culture. My friends and fellow parents often comment on how it seems that just one generation made the difference in the popular trend of traveling abroad. When I was growing up, it was rare for anyone unmarried or below the age of thirty (old enough to pay for an expensive trip on their own) to study abroad or even travel to another country.

As we said our goodbyes, Kaley never looked back. Her dad and I (especially her dad) had a few tears. I knew I was going to miss my daughter and she too would miss us. She was ready to go and experience the world. I was ready too, because I hoped she would learn to appreciate home.

Kaley made friends quickly, but in some of her early phone calls, she expressed her feelings of loneliness. Once we made definite plans for her father and I to travel to Spain during her “spring break,” she had something to look forward to and quickly acclimated herself to Spanish living. Our Skype discussions were filled with tales of travel and late night escapades. She told us that Spaniards ate dinner late and stayed out late. We found out it was definitely true on our first visit to Spain.

We flew to Spain during Holy Week (the week before Easter). We had the best tour guide, one named Kaley. I bragged that she was so good at Spanish and I insisted she was fluent. She adamantly argued with me that she was not, but two years when later we went back to Spain … she agreed with me that she was indeed fluent in Spanish.

In the late spring of her senior year of college, Kaley accepted an internship with a mission-based group in Salamanca, Spain. She was ready to return to Spain and live for the entire year. In early September we again drove her to Chicago with a one-way flight to Spain. She had insisted she wasn’t coming home for Christmas, as it was too expensive. By the time December rolled around, she had changed her mind and booked a ticket to be with her family during the holidays. We didn’t object too much.

In late September during one of our Skype visits, Kaley informed me that she “accidentally” flirted with a guy. She stated, “I don’t know what to do about it.” She wasn’t supposed to be dating anyone during the internship, per the rules of her workplace. I thought she sounded genuinely concerned that she broke the rules. However, she later was rather pleased that she had broken the rule. In a few short weeks she called to say she was dating this awesome, cute Spanish guy. She was swooning over the phone. As I am a mom, I quickly warned her that dating someone from another country could become very complicated. I think she reverted back to being a teenager at that moment. She exclaimed, ”Oh Mom, that is silly, it is just the same as dating someone in the US.” My response was to quietly say a prayer, as I had always done as I watched her grow up. I asked God to bless whatever was in His will and please don’t break my little girl’s heart. God must have had Mario in His plan because two years later he’s stuck around.

Still here, two years later.

Kaley has spent about two years off and on in Spain. There have been ups and downs. She has been homesick, she has spent more time in the Madrid airport than anyone should have to, and she’s learned to live without the things she loves here in the States. She has been taken into and loved by a wonderful Spanish man and his family. She has learned to cook delicious Spanish food. She has traveled to many places in Europe and learned to appreciate the wonderful history and culture of Spain and the rest of Europe.

This culture includes cheese. Lots of cheese.

As I contemplate the future, I know that Kaley is in good hands. She loves her Spanish family and cannot say enough good things about them. I feel good when I know Kaley has “parents” in Spain. Jesús and Pepita worry about her when I’m not there to do it [Kaley: and cook for me too!]. When she is not in Spain, she misses them like she would miss her family if she were away from them. I want to thank Kaley for bringing Mario into our family. It wouldn’t be the same without him. We feel like we have gained a son as well as a new country.

(Sorry so blurry.)

L-R: Mario, Jesús (Mario’s dad), Randy (my dad), Pepita (Mario’s mom), Carol (my grandma), Donna (my mom), Richard (my grandpa), me

Rookie Mistakes: Reflexive Spanish Verbs and Me

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Because I’m a nerd like that, I spend a lot of time reflecting upon linguistics topics, especially those having to do with Spanish and English—their similarities, their differences, and why these things are so. I also revel in explaining such differences to people, as if they actually care. (My mom says she does, but I think she secretly goes into her characteristic I’m-listening-but-not-reallymom mode. And that’s fine. Because I have you all. [I know; try not to jump for joy. Or—alternately—do jump for joy. Just be sure the ceiling’s high enough and stuff, you know. I don’t want any blog-related injuries.])

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When I first started on what I like to sarcastically call my Spanish Language Journey (yes, I say the italics out loud), I was more concerned about memorizing all the maddening irregular verbs than the whys of it all. Nowadays, having progressed past where I was at fifteen (you may congratulate me now), I spend more time on carrying out all these things I have learned—in conversation with my permanent intercambio, Mario.

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Painfully (un)adorable. I know; please humor me.

In traditional intercambios, you’re supposed to spend a certain period of time speaking each language. In our intercambios, this does not happen. It’s more of a jumbled-up conversation, full of code-switching. So naturally, I mess up a lot. Mario does too, just not a lot. Sometimes I get why I messed up, like when I say “para que practique” when I should say “para practicar.” (I’m referring to myself here, if you care and know Spanish.) Duh, I get it. I just got all the exasperating subjunctive tense mixed up in my head. NO NEED TO CORRECT ME! NO NEED!

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But sometimes I mess up—at least according to Mario (what does he know?)—and I get it, but … no really, I don’t get it, so I try to memorize these rules and shut up about it already because there’s no reason not to do so.

Except, being me, there is a reason to do so. My brain won’t stop going over the same topics again and again until I give it respite by either 1) falling asleep, or 2) drinking red wine on my couch.

So, without further ado (oh, and there was lots of ado here), here’s a list of things that regularly give me pause—reflexive verb version. Students earning an online degree in Spanish may find this helpful for their own studies. Before I begin, I want to say I fully understand that some reflexive versions add emphasis (comerse vs. comer, pensárselo vs. pensarlo)

  • Se muere vs. muere. What, is se muere like the person died harder? Like, he died, but he did it up good?!
  • Lo sé vs. me lo sé. Um, don’t get me wrong, I do use lo sé most of the time, but there are some instances in which it’s okay—even appropriate—to use the latter. I always do it wrong, and it causes me no end of frustration. I’ll let it slip out, hoping desperately that I’ve finally (just this once!) used it correctly, but nope. Mario is always so (delightfully!) prompt at correcting me, and after he does so, I just want to collapse on the floor and throw a charming little temper tantrum. I just know that would make it all better, and I would suddenly, magically know how to do it right.
  • Me río vs. río. I don’t think there’s a wrong way to use this, but, ya know, I’m probably mistaken. Correct me please, Spanish speakers (and know-it-all English speakers too)!

Right now, that’s all I can think of. Help. Or don’t. I’m used to being lost in this area.

The Life I Chose

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(A post with no pictures and even fewer niceties.)

You know that cliché quote about missing someone, about how it’s not about how long it’s been, but how when you’re doing something and you wish the other person was there?

Well, I call bullshit. For me, anyway. For me, it’s both. Let me explain.

As you very well know, if you’ve spent more than two seconds on this blog of mine, I’ve got this boyfriend. His name is Mario, and no—he’s not an Italian plumber with a penchant for bopping goombas on the head; he’s Spanish and super smart and sweet and everything I could have wanted in a guy. /End gushing.

I met him when I was over in Salamanca for a year. Unlike so many times before, I didn’t meet him because I was trying. In fact, the first thing I asked him was why he was there, on the doorstep of the place I worked. (Perhaps in a rude tone? Ask him if you want to know.) My mother had explicitly told me not to date any Spanish guys. (More on that later.) And let’s be honest, most of the time I was not attracted to the Spanish men I encountered. I had experience with mullets, people—mullets and piropos and skeezy club-touching. So no, I did not go there with any intentions of meeting someone, let alone Mr. Right.

I asked him out. Well, kind of, sort of by accident. It sounds like a big excuse, but we were all meeting up for drinks at midnight, so I suggested meeting earlier, guessing (correctly!) that Mario wasn’t fond of staying out that late. We met, I spilled wine, life was good—people, I’d obviously won him over.

And two days later, I had already started thinking about dating him, the kind of thinking you hope no one else ever finds out about. Good thing he felt the same way and blurted out the words I’d remember forever, “La verdad es que me gustas.” Giddy, I could think of nothing else but him for weeks.

So I suppose I did sign up for this. I signed up to date this guy, this foreigner, this man in whom I could find no fault. (Faults come later, FYI.) I had no idea what I was in for.

In the past two and a half years, the following things have occurred:

  • I quit the internship I was in because they had “forbidden” from dating anyone. I’m so bad.
  • I was detained in the Madrid airport and sent back home because I had inadvertently overstayed my welcome in the EU.
  • I applied for my visa, and (apparently) had it sent back two times to the Chicago embassy before they finally got it through. I was paranoid they’d say no due to my experience in Madrid.
  • I spent a year teaching English in Zamora, but hated the job. It was rough, but we were together.
  • I’ve spent so much time apart from him that I don’t even want to think about it.
  • I’ve contemplated 1,001 ways to get me there or him here. Fruitless so far, but there’s always the fun red-tape-filled marriage process to look forward to.

In these past years, I’ve had the experience of missing Mario in the moment, wishing he were there to do or experience something with me: a new apartment, birthdays, anniversaries, funerals, holidays. All of it was hard, harder than I’d like to admit. But the time really has begun to wear on me.

How long?

I’m tired of waiting. I’m tired of being told to wait, that things will be figured out one day. I know this—I do!—but being apart seems harder with each passing day. Someday, I hope I’ll look back at this time period and know that it only served to make us stronger, but right now?

Right now it really sucks.

Things in America Making Me Fat

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A list:

  • My car.
  • Ketchup, the kind with high-fructose corn syrup.
  • Cable television.
  • Having to drive to work.
  • Ease of parking.
  • Central heating: it make me very warm inside and very cold outside; thus, I do not leave the house
  • Pretzels
  • Having to “cook” for myself a.k.a. making myself a bowl of cereal. And then refilling it twenty times.
  • Sitting all day long instead of standing and yelling at high school kids. I think the whole yelling thing burns at least ten calories per hour
  • I don’t pasear, especially in the winter.
  • Expensive produce–apples are $2.00 per pound, whereas in Spain they were like 50 céntimos per kilo.
  • Coffee creamer.

I just felt like saying that I hate it when people say all Americans are fat due to fast food. I never (okay, hardly ever) eat fast food, and America is still making me fat. How does s/he do it? It’s a conspiracy, I tell you.

Really.