It’s been one hundred and sixty nine days since I posted about my inner dialogue and the vacation it took without me. Since then a lot has happened.
In brief: Jose Miguel and I separated. Mi familia y yo had an amazing/awkward/perfect/painful last week as a family in Perú. Two-thirds of mi familia flew back to Canada. One-third of mi familia screamed for over an hour on a flight from Winnipeg to Regina. A gorilla, a robot, some long-lost members of Jem and the Holograms and my Dad met us at the airport. Saskatchewan, as always, proved cold and somehow comforting. I made some bad choices, obsessed a little and lost twenty-five pounds from the stress of it all. I’ve never looked better. I started Spanish 101 and found myself in a level of hell only verb conjugation can create. I started reading and writing en español at a level I never thought I’d reach. I felt proud of myself. Jose Miguel was approved as a Permanent Resident of Canada after well over a year of waiting. We were told our paperwork was some of the quickest of anyone in our situation. I still want to burn Immigration Canada to the ground. Jose Miguel moved to Canada. Turns out the full three-thirds of mi familia in one house is amazing. We vaguely looked into filing for divorce but then something came up. Gaia learned to walk after an intense session with her personal Phys Ed teacher while Canada was winning an insane amount of gold medals in the Olympics. I finally went to Salsa night. I didn’t dance. I bought a car. I actually won’t own it for four years. Semantics. I tried snowboarding for the first time and I was amazing, even if I couldn’t move for almost a week after. I applied for a job, got offered a job and turned a job down. I’m glad I changed my mind. I love my job. Jose Miguel stayed home with Gaia full-time for almost a month. He’s an amazing father and still the most handsome man I’ve seen up close. The fact that we’re horrible at being married remains. I started running every morning at 6:00am. It made me feel strong and powerful and brave. We celebrated Gaia’s first birthday with a big party and a cake only my Dad could create. Jose Miguel took one last contract on ships. He left. Gaia got a spot at a home daycare. Gaia got kicked out of a home daycare. Gaia got a spot at an amazing, reputable, government subsidised daycare. I was reminded that everything happens for a reason. Gaia and I went to Vancouver for a visit. She made a lifelong friend in a big black dog, had her first experience with finger paint and was the star at her second first birthday party. She did this while wearing an excessively large tutu. I got to catch up, tell my story and celebrate the thirtieth birthday of one of the most amazing people I know. I felt like I could breathe again. We went home. I started a passionate love affair with coffee. Gaia started a passionate love affair with making friends. We are all very happy. I bought an iPhone. I took a week off Facebook. My Dad started cooking family dinner on Sunday nights. I got to dress like a grownup every day. It’s been said, by my boss, that I could take over the world all while wearing six-inch heels. She’s a smart lady. Gaia was exposed to every germ in existence. One day I caught her licking the floor at daycare. She was sick a lot. She stopped sleeping through the night. I talked to Jose Miguel on the phone almost every day. Who would have thought? I got my hopes up for spring and then it started snowing again. I questioned my decision to live in Regina. I started dating, realised I was bad at it and quit. I cut over ten inches of hair off my head. I was relatively unmoved but I’m pretty sure my stylist cried after I left. I had a picnic with my Mom. Gaia enjoyed her first ice cream cone... and her second... and her third. The sun came out and we got a big plastic pool shaped like a shark. Again, I got my hopes up. It was grey and rainy for a month. I cleaned my bathroom. Gaia proved she is a budding genius through a series of events I relayed to anyone who would listen. She started running everywhere. I finally sorted through all my old boxes, found I’d saved every piece of paper from university and threw it out. Now I have a whole extra room in my house. I’m planning on setting up a studio space for me and my girl. Gaia still doesn’t speak save for “Mama”, “Dad-Dad” (what she calls her Grandad) and “Uh-Oh” but she is the best non-verbal communicator I’ve ever met. She now knows the signs for “please”, “more” and “all done” thanks to the wonderful women at daycare. She has a genuine best friend who makes her laugh like no one else. They have perfected the best friend high-five. She climbs up the stairs, up the couch and up the walls. I’ve taken to telling strangers she is NUTBALLS when they look at her picture in my iPhone. She is. I drank many glasses of red wine and got drunk for the first time in a long time. I went to a lot of BBQs, playdates, dinners and a gala. I had my picture taken by Regina paparazzi one night with my boss. Apparently I’m Regina famous (or rather, employed by someone who is). A good friend came to town. We ate the best burger I’ve ever tasted, hosted a BBQ, drank a lot of Big Rock Lime Beer and bought fifteen dollars worth of jellybeans. I redesigned the blog one night while I watched Whip It. Jose Miguel and I made some decisions. We're still not divorced. This weekend the sun started shining. I got a tan while logging working hours and danced on the grass with Gaia when I was finished. Last night I took her to the park. She slid down the slide on her own for the first time. She perfected the art with at least eighty more solo slides before I could get her back home. As a result I think I developed an arm muscle I didn't know existed. This morning I felt like writing.
I make no promises, but... I'm back. Did you miss me?
Showing posts with label Español. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Español. Show all posts
Sunday, June 20, 2010
Sunday, October 11, 2009
Tuesday, September 15, 2009
Decir Adios
Tonight I had fully intended to finish an epic post about just what G and I had been up to for the month of August when posting was nearly non-existent. Yup. That was the plan. Except I've just arrived home from a particularly confusing Spanish class and I'm currently in engendered-language-conjugation hell and suddenly I feel like what I actually need to do is sit in front of my already well-worn copy of ¡Hola, amigos! and hundreds of flashcards until I can miraculously speak enough Spanish to a) quell my increasing level of panic and b) pass a quiz on Thursday. And before you say it, I'm well aware that we're in week TWO of THIRTEENEFFINGWEEKS of classes and inevitably it's only going to get harder from here but if I feel obliged to mention that should you bring this up I might (read: will) respond with a swift kick to your manjunk/ladybits.
In liu of my epic post please enjoy this:
"Y la verdad es que me siento solo pues nunca te podre olvidar/Y la verdad es que me siento libre aunque las noches sean de soledad/Y la verdad es que te llevo adentro pues ocupaste tu lugar/Y por tu bien espero que no vuelvas pues la vas a pasar muy mal."
-- Decir Adios by Amen (from Lima, Perú)*
I had wanted to include this song in my favourites from my Sad Bastard playlist but I couldn't find it online (turns out I had the title wrong in my iTunes which clearly only adds to my level of I'LLNEVERLEARNSPANISH panic). It was one of the first Spanish songs Jose ever played for me and it remains the saddest. I don't think I'll ever forget what it felt like to listen to his voice translate the lyrics for me as the song played on a loop in the background and I sat on the edge of his bed staring at him, smelling him, melting into a virtual puddle of semi-pathetic-woman-obsessed-with-Latin-man goo. Did I mention things we're a little rocky in the beginning. Um... yeah. Enjoy.
* The title, in English, is Saying Goodbye and the lyrics (translated roughly by me with the jist of the meaning given more weight then a word-for-word translation) are "And the truth is I never feel alone because I can't forget you/And the truth is that I feel free but the nights are lonely/And the truth is I carry you inside but someone will take your place/And I hope that it is not you because you are bad for me."
In liu of my epic post please enjoy this:
"Y la verdad es que me siento solo pues nunca te podre olvidar/Y la verdad es que me siento libre aunque las noches sean de soledad/Y la verdad es que te llevo adentro pues ocupaste tu lugar/Y por tu bien espero que no vuelvas pues la vas a pasar muy mal."
-- Decir Adios by Amen (from Lima, Perú)*
I had wanted to include this song in my favourites from my Sad Bastard playlist but I couldn't find it online (turns out I had the title wrong in my iTunes which clearly only adds to my level of I'LLNEVERLEARNSPANISH panic). It was one of the first Spanish songs Jose ever played for me and it remains the saddest. I don't think I'll ever forget what it felt like to listen to his voice translate the lyrics for me as the song played on a loop in the background and I sat on the edge of his bed staring at him, smelling him, melting into a virtual puddle of semi-pathetic-woman-obsessed-with-Latin-man goo. Did I mention things we're a little rocky in the beginning. Um... yeah. Enjoy.
* The title, in English, is Saying Goodbye and the lyrics (translated roughly by me with the jist of the meaning given more weight then a word-for-word translation) are "And the truth is I never feel alone because I can't forget you/And the truth is that I feel free but the nights are lonely/And the truth is I carry you inside but someone will take your place/And I hope that it is not you because you are bad for me."
Sunday, May 31, 2009
Cómo Se Dice...
I’ve lost count of how many times I’ve been asked “Hablas español?”
It’s always the same. “Un poquito” I hesitantly reply secretly praying that whomever I’m speaking immediately gives up on me so my limited knowledge of Spanish isn’t put to the test. Most of the time I say it so quietly I’m surprised I‘m heard at all. Speaking Spanish I’m adorably shy, a far cry from my often brash and boastful English speaking self. I desperately want to be fluent. To feel the beautiful words roll off my tongue and see a light of acceptance in the eyes of a Spanish speaking native (instead of the polite giggles I tend to receive courtesy of my poor grammar and inability to speak in full sentences). You would think this desire was born of my Peruvian husband and recent love affair with Spain, but the seed was planted long ago.
As a child my family travelled extensively. What started with roadtrips across North America quickly became exploring the rainforest in Costa Rica and swimming in the ocean in Mexico. Together we were clearly tourists, my mother with her platinum hair and my brother peeking out under thick dirty blond curls, a fanny pack securely at his waist. But in the rare moments I found myself alone with my father we always managed to blend in. Although my features are clearly my mother’s I inherited my father’s mysterious cultural ambiguity. In all of our travels, both together and alone, we tend to be at home anywhere in the world. Of course this is ultimately worth the number of times I had to explain to old women speaking to me in rapid Hindi on the bus in Vancouver that I wasn’t actually Indian, or Greek, or Italian... you get the picture. Wandering through market stalls in Mexico people would approach my father and me with a barrage of Spanish lets-make-a-deals. Shortly after perfecting a lilting “Hola!” I quickly learned to say “Lo siento. No habla español” but I was always embarrassed by my inability to further communicate in the way everyone assumed I could. You don’t have to be a psychologist to see that Spanish is a obviously a signifier of my need to feel exotic and a reminder of the way it felt when people assumed I wasn’t just a farmer’s daughter from small town Saskatchewan. Yet in spite of my best efforts I find it impossible to make the language stick.
I dropped French in Grade Ten opting for whatever bird course was being offered in its place. To me French seemed terribly pedestrian. Who wanted to speak our country’s second language anyway? Of course, the fact I couldn’t grasp the concept of conjugating verbs and my French mark was consistently pulling down my average seemed minimal next to my developing high standards of cultural exclusivity. I had vision. I haughtily claimed I could see beyond Quebec and what I saw was sand and sun and salsa (the dance and the dip). I had a straight from the tourist brochures view of me with a permanent tan, a margarita and a mysterious dark-haired cabana boy. Spanish was meant for me. I could feel it with all the passion and naivety of a sixteen-year-old dreamer.
When I started my Bachelors at the University of British Columbia I was faced with the reality of my unfulfilled language requirement. I was sure this was my chance to really learn the language I knew was somewhere inside of me. I enrolled in Spanish 101 and predictably dropped out after just two classes. Undeterred I enrolled in the same class every semester for years. On my third try I made it to the midterm only to find the words swam in front of me, completely foreign. I failed. In fact I’ve never failed at anything as spectacularly as I failed at my academic attempts to learn Spanish. While I aced pronunciation and even managed to lock down an impressive amount of vocabulary, it was the sentence structure that inevitably tripped me up. Of course my failure caused excessive frustration and eventual surrender. It had become me against the Spanish language and the Spanish language was winning.
When I met Jose we made a deal that he’d help me with my Spanish if I always corrected him when he made mistakes in English. Unfortunately, Jose will always be a better language student than me. He eagerly devoured new words and grasped the random assortment of English language quirks with ease. Eventually he got so frustrated with my lacklustre attempts at learning that he started writing everything he said on post-its which he stuck above my bed. Of course, when I looked at his post-its all I could see was his beautiful face. It feels so horribly predictable to admit the brain space I’d reserved for new words became preoccupied with plans to make him fall in love with me.
Last Christmas, while visiting him in Peru I felt actual shame at not being able to speak the language. Not only did it feel disrespectful to be unable to communicate with my new family-in-law but I was driving Jose crazy with my constant insistence that he translate everything being said around us. I hated being left out of the loop and managed to conveniently forget it was my own fault. Obviously we have big plans to raise Gaia wholly bilingual. When Jose speaks to her he does so only in Spanish. Given that he’s not here I’ve been trying to do my part too. We read Spanish storybooks, my favourite being Margaret and Margarita/Margarita y Margaret where two little girls who speak Spanish and English respectively meet in the park and learn to play together in spite of their differences. “I like you. Will you be my friend?” Margaret says. “Tú me gustas. Te gustaría ser mi amiga?” Margarita mimics in my slow and accented Spanish. When talking to Gaia I use as many words en español as I can. “Say good morning Granddad, beunas dias abuelito” I say as we visit my father over breakfast. “Say Hello Daddy! How are you? Hola papi! Cómo estás?” I say as we greet Jose on Skype. Even something as simple as a baby sneeze is followed with a quick “Bless you baby girl, Salud niña.” At this rate Gaia may go through life thinking her every thought needs to be communicated in both English and Spanish.
Part of me feels like I should abandon my current attempts lest she end up with an accent as poor as mine but I have faith that Jose will be with us by Christmas which seems early enough to fix any bad habits I’ve placed in her baby subconscious. Although I know my Spanish is getting better all the time the progress is much too slow. I live in panic of the day I walk in on Gaia and her father making silly Spanish jokes and find myself left out of the world they’ll share. The more I come to terms with the fact I will likely never be fluent the more I find comfort in the notion that at least one part of my life has come full circle. While I was stuck in Saskatchewan wishing my father and I were exotic as everyone assumed, Gaia and Jose really will be. I know her Spanish will come as easily as her English and she’ll have the benefits of summers in Peru with her cousins where she doesn’t just look like she belongs... she does.
It’s always the same. “Un poquito” I hesitantly reply secretly praying that whomever I’m speaking immediately gives up on me so my limited knowledge of Spanish isn’t put to the test. Most of the time I say it so quietly I’m surprised I‘m heard at all. Speaking Spanish I’m adorably shy, a far cry from my often brash and boastful English speaking self. I desperately want to be fluent. To feel the beautiful words roll off my tongue and see a light of acceptance in the eyes of a Spanish speaking native (instead of the polite giggles I tend to receive courtesy of my poor grammar and inability to speak in full sentences). You would think this desire was born of my Peruvian husband and recent love affair with Spain, but the seed was planted long ago.
As a child my family travelled extensively. What started with roadtrips across North America quickly became exploring the rainforest in Costa Rica and swimming in the ocean in Mexico. Together we were clearly tourists, my mother with her platinum hair and my brother peeking out under thick dirty blond curls, a fanny pack securely at his waist. But in the rare moments I found myself alone with my father we always managed to blend in. Although my features are clearly my mother’s I inherited my father’s mysterious cultural ambiguity. In all of our travels, both together and alone, we tend to be at home anywhere in the world. Of course this is ultimately worth the number of times I had to explain to old women speaking to me in rapid Hindi on the bus in Vancouver that I wasn’t actually Indian, or Greek, or Italian... you get the picture. Wandering through market stalls in Mexico people would approach my father and me with a barrage of Spanish lets-make-a-deals. Shortly after perfecting a lilting “Hola!” I quickly learned to say “Lo siento. No habla español” but I was always embarrassed by my inability to further communicate in the way everyone assumed I could. You don’t have to be a psychologist to see that Spanish is a obviously a signifier of my need to feel exotic and a reminder of the way it felt when people assumed I wasn’t just a farmer’s daughter from small town Saskatchewan. Yet in spite of my best efforts I find it impossible to make the language stick.
I dropped French in Grade Ten opting for whatever bird course was being offered in its place. To me French seemed terribly pedestrian. Who wanted to speak our country’s second language anyway? Of course, the fact I couldn’t grasp the concept of conjugating verbs and my French mark was consistently pulling down my average seemed minimal next to my developing high standards of cultural exclusivity. I had vision. I haughtily claimed I could see beyond Quebec and what I saw was sand and sun and salsa (the dance and the dip). I had a straight from the tourist brochures view of me with a permanent tan, a margarita and a mysterious dark-haired cabana boy. Spanish was meant for me. I could feel it with all the passion and naivety of a sixteen-year-old dreamer.
When I started my Bachelors at the University of British Columbia I was faced with the reality of my unfulfilled language requirement. I was sure this was my chance to really learn the language I knew was somewhere inside of me. I enrolled in Spanish 101 and predictably dropped out after just two classes. Undeterred I enrolled in the same class every semester for years. On my third try I made it to the midterm only to find the words swam in front of me, completely foreign. I failed. In fact I’ve never failed at anything as spectacularly as I failed at my academic attempts to learn Spanish. While I aced pronunciation and even managed to lock down an impressive amount of vocabulary, it was the sentence structure that inevitably tripped me up. Of course my failure caused excessive frustration and eventual surrender. It had become me against the Spanish language and the Spanish language was winning.
When I met Jose we made a deal that he’d help me with my Spanish if I always corrected him when he made mistakes in English. Unfortunately, Jose will always be a better language student than me. He eagerly devoured new words and grasped the random assortment of English language quirks with ease. Eventually he got so frustrated with my lacklustre attempts at learning that he started writing everything he said on post-its which he stuck above my bed. Of course, when I looked at his post-its all I could see was his beautiful face. It feels so horribly predictable to admit the brain space I’d reserved for new words became preoccupied with plans to make him fall in love with me.
Last Christmas, while visiting him in Peru I felt actual shame at not being able to speak the language. Not only did it feel disrespectful to be unable to communicate with my new family-in-law but I was driving Jose crazy with my constant insistence that he translate everything being said around us. I hated being left out of the loop and managed to conveniently forget it was my own fault. Obviously we have big plans to raise Gaia wholly bilingual. When Jose speaks to her he does so only in Spanish. Given that he’s not here I’ve been trying to do my part too. We read Spanish storybooks, my favourite being Margaret and Margarita/Margarita y Margaret where two little girls who speak Spanish and English respectively meet in the park and learn to play together in spite of their differences. “I like you. Will you be my friend?” Margaret says. “Tú me gustas. Te gustaría ser mi amiga?” Margarita mimics in my slow and accented Spanish. When talking to Gaia I use as many words en español as I can. “Say good morning Granddad, beunas dias abuelito” I say as we visit my father over breakfast. “Say Hello Daddy! How are you? Hola papi! Cómo estás?” I say as we greet Jose on Skype. Even something as simple as a baby sneeze is followed with a quick “Bless you baby girl, Salud niña.” At this rate Gaia may go through life thinking her every thought needs to be communicated in both English and Spanish.
Part of me feels like I should abandon my current attempts lest she end up with an accent as poor as mine but I have faith that Jose will be with us by Christmas which seems early enough to fix any bad habits I’ve placed in her baby subconscious. Although I know my Spanish is getting better all the time the progress is much too slow. I live in panic of the day I walk in on Gaia and her father making silly Spanish jokes and find myself left out of the world they’ll share. The more I come to terms with the fact I will likely never be fluent the more I find comfort in the notion that at least one part of my life has come full circle. While I was stuck in Saskatchewan wishing my father and I were exotic as everyone assumed, Gaia and Jose really will be. I know her Spanish will come as easily as her English and she’ll have the benefits of summers in Peru with her cousins where she doesn’t just look like she belongs... she does.
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