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When I decided to become a mother, I was adamant that he would only speak Spanish at home. After all, I am Mexican American (mostly Mexican), and my husband is Mexican. My son was born in New York City almost ten years ago, and I remember thinking, “How hard can it be to raise a fully bilingual child?” Ha! How cute.
My son, Martin, was not bilingual for the first four to five years of his life. He lived in a Spanish-speaking bubble. Today, I go back to those early videos and think, “Man, he was our little mexicanito.” He was partially raised by us—his parents—and the best daycare I could ever have landed in Manhattan, run by Dominican goddesses.
And I say this with nostalgia and appreciation. They only spoke Spanish to the kids, and mind you, there were kids here of all ethnicities. From when Martin was four months old to when he was four years old, he was going from one Spanish environment to another.
Then, it was time to go to public school. His teacher only spoke English for that first year, but it didn’t matter because, after school, our Puerto Rican nanny picked him up and sent him to the same daycare that had watched him grow.
We read to him in English all the time, thinking that he would need some Anglo-language weapons when the time came to introduce him to the real US world.
And then we moved to Wisconsin. To the whitest, most nondiverse community in the world.
WARNING: Before you keep reading and plan to roll your eyes at my inadequacy as a Mexican mother, raising a son in the land of the (mostly English-speaking) free, please know this column was conceived to be handled with a serious dose of humor.
Don’t get me wrong, we love it here, but Spanish was not going to be very useful to him, nor would it get him new friends. The transformation happened slowly to the point that when I realized my son was speaking more English than Spanish, it was too late.
Imagine being in an English-speaking environment for most of your day. You come home, and here we are, speaking Spanish. Martin started to speak more and more English, so we answered in English. BIG MISTAKE. Cut to: Now our household is a hodgepodge of Spanglish, and there is no escaping it.
To make matters worse, Martin corrects our English?!
“No, Dad, it’s not catsup, it’s ketchup.” Sigh. And don’t get me started on Celsius versus Fahrenheit—it’s a battle we just can’t win.
These days, we as parents get reprimanded all the time when he has a playdate, and we say something in Spanish in front of his friend’s family.
“In English, mami!”
OK, kiddo, will do. And even though I miss those Spanish-only days, I think it’s cute to say something like, “Go to your cuarto and get your calzonguis (made-up word) and pajamas, because you’re going to take a shower, ¡apúrate!”
Yes, I’ve become the Spanglish-speaker I never thought I’d become, but I’m sure many bilingual parents can relate.
