By
Laura Winsky
Contrary to what some might believe, Tucson is comparatively a border town. We share the same air, the same vegetation, the same clouds and the same sun as our neighbors south of the invisible line the United States drew after we stole the land.
Well, it's not that invisible now. The line is drawn with weight sensors, border patrol agencies and often barbed wire. But we are neighbors nonetheless, and that's why I speak Spanish. Allow me to rephrase. We are neighbors nonetheless, and that's why I try to speak somewhat intelligible Spanish.
I am a gringa and I am a Spanish major. Now luckily for me, I grew up in Tucson, a town I love, and went to a school that saw the obvious importance in Spanish education. We do, after all, hug the border.
From kindergarten until eighth grade, I had 45 minutes of Spanish every single day. By high school, I thought I was hot stuff. Sure we all celebrated the gringo holidays, but also Las Posadas, El Dia de los Muertos, and we prayed to La Virgen de Guadalupe.
I was culture-fied.
In high school most people chose to study French. My smart-alecky comment was always, "French. Yes. It's so important to have a strong hold on the language, since our two countries share a border and all."
But it wasn't until shortly after high school graduation that my words actually meant something real. I was driving around with one of my friends, who also studied French in high school, and we got into a car accident. Two young women had come up from Mexico to go shopping when the two cars collided. Injured and confused, the driver was crying and speaking rapidly in Spanish, not knowing a word of English. The other passenger was slumped over.
My friend nearly went into shock thinking the passenger could be dead, and all the while the driver was trying to relieve his concerns. "No, desmayo. Desmayo!"
The passenger had only fainted out of fear. I immediately told my friend this, relieving her of a great deal of shock over the idea of having killed another person.
The situation really wasn't all that dramatic, but I was so glad that I was able to relieve my friend simply because I had understood one little word - fainted.
At that point, I knew Spanish would be my major at the UA. I wanted to actually be bilingual. I wanted the Spanish-speaking world to be open to me. Three years of studying the language here at the UA have brought me to a point where I can carry on quite the conversation in Spanish by listening closely and nodding a lot.
I've been humbled. Perhaps it's not as bad as it feels. At work in my Mexican restaurant around my friends, they can hardly get me to shut up, but class is another story. The professor calls on me, and there is the inevitable flaming red cheeks, dry mouth and stuttering Spanish - as if I've learned nothing.
And that's when I realize, with a small inkling of understanding, the way a language barrier can control a life. When I'm too tired or frustrated, I can just leave work or leave class and return to the "real" world, my English world: Gringoland.
There are many in our U.S. population who are not afforded this luxury. No matter how tired, or how frustrated, English is the de facto national language, and the struggle continues.
I feel like my classmates are beginning to accept me, the strange white girl who stutters and splutters around their language. And I appreciate them every time they patiently correct me.
It's taken a lot of effort to major in Spanish, but I'm glad I did - it's been an eye opener to leave Gringoland.
