Language Woes Part 1: A Series of Successful Gestures

I've always had a love/hate relationship with words. When I read a beautifully constructed sentence that creates incredible imagery, I can't help but feel giddy while marveling in awe. For example, The Great Gatsby is one one of my favorite books because I love the way F. Scott Fitzgerald uses words:

"No—Gatsby turned out all right at the end; it is what preyed on Gatsby, what foul dust floated in the wake of his dreams that temporarily closed out my interest in the abortive sorrows and short-winded elations of men." - The Great Gatsby, Chapter 1.

As you might guess, one of my favorite things to do in life is to curl up with a good book and get completely lost in another world, letting the language of the story transport me away from myself and into another reality. But it wasn't always like this.

I remember that when I was very young, language was very confusing. Until I was about seven or eight, I grew up in Mexico City and spent my holidays in Canada. Switching back and forth between English and Spanish left me feeling that I didn't have a very strong foundation in either. I remember very clearly the frustration that I felt when I couldn't explain my ideas well or when I was unable to transmit exactly what I was thinking. I assume that most children experience something similar, although in my case, this feeling was amplified a few times over due to the language confusion.

When I was seven or eight, this all changed when I moved to Canada and no longer heard or spoke Spanish, which was much my own doing. Surrounded by only one language in Winnipeg, I finally felt comfortable. I refused to speak Spanish with my Mom because all my friends only spoke English and I wanted to fit in—a decision that I still regret to this day. In any case, I remember starting grade school in Winnipeg, my first time in an all-English classroom, and consciously being aware that I was very inept at reading and writing.

During writing time, I would struggle to get words down on the page of my classroom writing journal and I remember that forming a sentence was mentally exhausting. As the school year progressed, recorded in my classroom writing journal, my writing advanced rapidly. My sentences became more complex and the vocabulary I used became more advanced, which reflected my total immersion in one language. It's almost as though something clicked in my head and the constricting sensation that I had come to associate with language and communication lifted. My classroom writing journal still exists in a box somewhere, stored away for safe keeping. I looked through it a few years ago and I was actually surprised to find that my memories of that time are fairly accurate.

I owe a lot of the progress that I made to my third grade teacher, Mrs. Z. She was an uncommonly kind woman and I remember her very fondly. She went out of her way to make my transition to Canadian schooling as smooth as it could be and helped me to learn and understand language. She dedicated a decent portion of class time to reading and writing, which quickly became my favorite time of the school day. Mrs. Z instructed us to choose a book that we were to read throughout the year during the designated class reading time and that we would then write about in our classroom journals immediately after.

Upon arriving in Canada, my Grandmother had given me a book that I had not yet opened (although I was intrigued by its cover) because I simply didn't think that I would be able read it. The book was a short novel and didn't have many pictures, which frankly intimidated me. Forced to find a book to read during class, I decided to choose the one my Grandmother had given me. The book was Copper Sunrise, by Bryan Buchan. I was immediately and completely taken by the story, the characters and the imagery. At first, I found it very difficult to read, but the rewards were well worth it and so I kept turning the page. Afterward, I wrote about it enthusiastically in my classroom journal, desperately trying to convey my excitement about the story. The sense of satisfaction that I got from finishing my first real book, mixed with the realization that it was possible to communicate exactly what you were thinking through words, made me love language. However, as I learned one language, I lost the other.

I hate that my Spanish language skills are not equal to my English language skills. I find it to be incredibly frustrating, yet the freedom that I feel when I hear, speak, write or read English makes me want to work hard to feel the same freedom in Spanish. My hope is that I will one day be able to appreciate phenomenal sentences in Spanish in the same way that I do when I read fantastic sentences in English like this one:

"If personality is an unbroken series of successful gestures, then there was something gorgeous about him, some heightened sensitivity to the promises of life, as if he were related to one of those intricate machines that register earthquakes ten thousand miles away." - The Great Gatsby, Chapter 1.

What a treat that would be.