I was raised in a Hispanic household but I refuse to learn Spanish

Not that I’m not proud of where I come from, but I’m not just my background, I’m me

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I come from a family of Honduran and Guatemalan background, but my parents never forced my siblings and I to learn Spanish. Don’t worry, I can understand it all perfectly clear, but don’t ever expect a reply. We speak mostly English at home with the exception of my grandma, who I still communicate today with broken Spanish and accidental French.

My mother told me it was to help my dad learn English because it used to be incredibly broken. Today he’ll still slip up by saying funny things like “car police” or by messing up his verb tenses. Don’t worry father, I still love you.

Even though it did form a language barrier, I was never interested in learning Spanish. I believe me rebelling in my family’s native tongue was a result of me being scarred in elementary school. I grew up in Union City, New Jersey, up until I was nine. If you don’t know what it’s like there, just imagine all the Hispanic people in the world living in one area.

My teachers were pretty much the only white people I knew. Back when I was in the first grade, my teacher introduced us to our new Spanish teacher. She only spoke to us in Spanish and expected us to reply in Spanish.  She asked me a question and I had no idea what she was asking. To her horror, she said, “You’re Hispanic and don’t speak Spanish?” I was pissed off. She acted like there was something wrong with me.

When I was ten, I spent a couple of weeks in Guatemala, where I stayed with family and I explored around with my mom, sister, and grandma. It was both great and horrific. Nothing feels more beautiful than seeing the culture in certain cities, but seeing the poverty is definitely something that made me appreciate the life I have. I’m partially glad I didn’t speak Spanish because I was a bit terrified by some of the locals.

But, guess who was made fun of constantly by family because I couldn’t communicate with them? I also got super sick there too, guess that’s karma.

 

Every year, different teacher, same situation. I got more and more frustrated. When I moved to Kearny, New Jersey, I ended up with more Spanish teachers all the way up until eighth grade. Finally, sitting in my counselor’s office making my schedule for high school, she asked, “What language do you want to take next year?” I said French just because I knew from the start it was a beautiful language and that France is a gorgeous country.

She also asked, “Why don’t you want to take Spanish? It would be an easy A?” I shrugged and left her office feeling like I managed to escape the worst prison in the world.

I fell in love with the French language. Nothing excited me more than going to that class because it was easy for me to grasp, and I loved my teacher. I managed to keep around a 99 average and decided I was going to major in it once I got to college.

My parents aren’t as upset as I thought, because my sister is also learning Japanese in high school and stayed with a family in Okinawa. They’ve accepted that I’d rather go against them and just be who I want to be. Not that I’m not proud of where I come from, but I’m not just my background, I’m me. I’m the Hispanic girl who can’t speak an ounce of Spanish and that’s ok. 

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Rutgers University