In high school, I hated my Spanish class and resisted learning the language every step of the way.
“Why should I?” I wondered. Afterall, the guy at my favorite drive-thru taco stand already spoke English. So, during class I passed notes, stared out the window, and generally didn’t participate unless called on. Senor Steel tried his best to pry my attention with references to The Grateful Dead–my only subject of real interest at the time.
“Jerry Garcia es muy bien no?” or “Donde esta el proximo concerto de Grateful Dead?”
But these days, as I find myself taking paragliding trips to Mexico, learning Spanish has suddenly become fascinating. Not only is it pragmatically useful for getting around, but it also serves to legitimize overly-long flying trips to Mexico. “To learn Spanish,” I explain studiously.
I always knew there was merit in learning another language. It’s a way to become more multi-cultural, less Anglo-centric, and probably prevent Alzheimer’s. What I didn’t know is that adopting a new language would reformat my thinking.
During my two months in Mexico, I occupied a totally different brain, a more creative brain. My whole adjective-noun-verb worldview shifted and I broke from the bounds of English cliché. There I found a wide open space of expression.
With a limited vocabulary, I was forced into new and sometimes absurd ways of saying things. “Is the machine sleeping?” I asked a bartender when I discovered that the jukebox wasn’t working. Instead of “the sun is setting,” I’d say “the sun says goodbye.” When my Spanish-speaking friend Javier stood on the pier looking out at the ocean, he looked so content, peaceful, and noble that I became a babbling Neruda: “You are like art!” “You are like a light!” I took another stab at it: “Eres un pelicano!”
Of course, I made mistakes constantly. Giving directions to my hotel, I said “Go tres cuadernos alli!” or “Three notebooks that way!” Instead of asking for a “cuchillo”–a knife–I asked for a “cucaracha”. Purchasing aspirin for my headache, I explained to the pharmacist: “Hay una a dolor en mi calabaza” (There is a pain in my pumpkin). And I constantly confused the llenar-llevar-llamar-llegar verbs.
Now in the U.S. I’ve slipped back into familiar English, and have become my regular self again–hemmed in by platitudes and worn-out idioms. I miss the sensual feel of “ias” and “ios” and “ientes” filling my mouth. But mostly I miss my Spanish-self—that quirky, childlike, and unpredictable person I was for a while.
Indeed, to learn a new language is to make your mind new again. That is my point. This story is going to sleep now, the words are leaving, and my pumpkin is empty.
