¿Cómo se dice? Honestly, no sé.
I think in two languages. I dream in two languages. And some days I can’t finish a sentence in either one.
Let me explain.
In Spanish, things happen to you. Se me cayó. Se me olvidó. Se me rompió. The glass had a plan. The keys decided to leave. I was just there, a witness.
In English? I dropped it. I forgot. I broke it. I’m sorry. I’ll fix it.
Eleven years living here and English taught me that everything is my fault, my responsibility, and somehow also my personal brand.
That’s the difference. Spanish is nosotros. You don’t eat alone. You don’t suffer alone. And you definitely don’t make decisions alone, because tu tía already has an opinion and she shared it in the group chat.
English is I, me, my. My space. My time. My boundaries. Let me check my calendar and get back to you. And the worst part? I’m like that now. Me, the one who says yes to everything. The no fuimo ahora mismo girl. The spontaneous one. Now if it’s not in my calendar, it’s not happening. You can invite me to the best party of the year, and if there’s no Google invite, I’m sorry, eso no existe. no voy.
I kind of hate it. But I also have a reminder set for it.
I speak both. I live both. But my empathy was born in Spanish. In English, “I’m sorry” sounds like I’m apologizing for existing. In Spanish I say lo siento. I feel it. I feel it with you. That’s not a translation. That’s a whole way of being a person.
And still, there are things I can only say in English. When I worked as a strategist at an advertising agency, my grandfather asked me what I do at work. Easy question. I opened my mouth. Nada. In English I had the whole pitch. Insights. Positioning. Brand strategy. In Spanish I had pues, ayudo a las marcas a… entender a la gente… que compra… cosas y escribo con cojones. I never found the words. Nunca. To this day I don’t think he knows what I did. Honestly, some days I didn’t either.
Meanwhile my abuela and my father told me the same thing over and over: no me hables en inglés. Every time English slipped out, they stopped me. At home, English was a visitor. And visitors don’t get to stay.
But English did stay. It moved in with me. Now when I hit my toe on the bed, I give it un buen puñeta. When something goes wrong, coño. Spanish curses come from the soul. From the ancestors. From the kitchen. But I LOVE the word fuck. Fuck is efficient. Fuck is a verb, a noun, an adjective, and a complete sentence.
Puñeta is an emotional journey. Fuck is a delivery. I need both. Obviously.
Here’s the dark part. After eleven years, I have one and a half vocabularies. I forget a word in Spanish, I reach for English. I forget it in English, I reach for Spanish. And sometimes both doors are closed and I’m standing in the hallway saying ¿cómo se dice? to nobody.
Ni de aquí ni de allá, but make it vocabulary.
So no, I don’t have one language. I have two, and both of them leave me hanging sometimes.
Se me olvidan las palabras. Pero JAMÁS se me olvida de dónde vengo.
Graciasss por leerme 🍒
Génesis ❣️