I’ve always seemed to have a knack for languages. I don’t know if it comes from genetics, my environment growing up, or the strange lump I have on the right side of my forehead, but from an early age I was able to read better than most of the other kids my age. I say this not as a boast or a brag, but rather because it is one of the few things that I can claim to be good at without resorting to lies. In kindergarten I read a story book aloud to my class despite the doubts my teacher had in my abilities. Words, in all their forms and conjugations, have always been to me like baseball cards or potato chips resembling famous figures in history: things to be husbanded away and held close like precious stones.
Throughout grade school, the subject of English became my favorite because, while I could never hit a kickball, I could conjugate the hell out of a verb. In high school, my love affair with the English language continued, and like a polygamist seeking an extra wife or a cheating boyfriend looking for sex on the sidelines, I signed up for an introductory course to Spanish in addition to my required English courses.
The only way I can describe learning a new language would be to say that it is like trying to walk backwards while at the same time switching from your predominant hand to your subordinate one. It felt awkward trying to unlearn all the rules of English grammar and syntax. While at first Spanish was a bit of a challenge, as the months went by I began to ease into the mindset of working within a new set of rules with new materials with which to build sentences, phrases, even entire paragraphs. What I could compose at sixteen sounded, at best, like what a seven-year-old could make with lettered wooden blocks, but still.
My grandmother, some time after I graduated, once told me that she thought of Spanish as a romantic-sounding language. And while it is technically considered a romance language, I personally find it difficult to hear anything romantic in it. I feel the same way about French, which I just makes me feel judged and unsophisticated. Of all the languages that would have the best chance of making me swoon, I would have to say that, hands down, Italian would be the most likely. Italy is exotic and has a robust history of art and culture that forms a backdrop suitable for any number of movie montages about love. Spanish, on the other hand, makes me think of war and revolution and famous last stands at places like the Alamo. Besides, after hearing a waiter at a Mexican restaurant rattle off the names of entrees like burritos supremos and enchiladas con pollo, it’s hard to imagine that same language over candlelight dinners or whispering seductions into someone’s ear.
