Puedes oir me ahora?

Hola! Que pasa ya’ll?

Okay, so my title is supposed to say Can you hear me now. I apologize to all the Spanish speakers of the world if I used the wrong word or I didn’t conjugate correctly. I was trying not to use that ghetto Spangish that comes out after a few Mojitos where I just add an "o" to everythingo. Plus, it has been a minute since my introduction to Spanish in the seventh grade. Though I really should be a fluent speaker by now considering that I live in the Virginia part of the DC metro area. Everything in my barrio is in Spanish and then English. No seriously, it is. The ATM at 7-11 asks me if I want to complete my transaction in Spanish and underneath that English is offered. Say what now? Now you know just by following the rules of the alphabet something is wrong with that one.

And speaking of my previous miseducation, I remember learning about the adventures of Lewis and Clark, and the Louisiana Purchase with a little Manifest Destiny peppered in for flavor. I also remember my teacher stating that if it weren’t for the English coming over and doing the darn thing we’d all be speaking Spanish right now. Ha! Clearly I am a child of the 80s and my teacher would never have a job as a psychic friend. Times they are a changing mi amigos.

This past weekend I was wandering around my town when I realized I was thirsty. I went into a little restaurant called Chicken Granjero. Please picture with me families (this includes parents, an elderly member-possibly a grandparent, and a boatload of kids at least 3) dining on seasoned chicken, ensalada and Inca Cola. There was joy, balloons and chicken skin in the air. So I’m standing in line and all the transactions ahead of me are being conducted in Spanish. This really is common place where I’m from so I wasn’t stressing because usually when I approach the clerk gets their bilingual skills on and addresses me in English. But on this fair day in April things weren’t going down like that. “Hola” she said. This was cool because there are Spanish speakers of African lineage, so she could have thought I was one of those. But then I said, “Hi, I would like a lemonade” And then there was silence, followed by the scrunching of her face, the tilting of her head and her uttering the word “Que?”

What. Da. Hell?

Now this is not about how I feel about immigration, illegal or otherwise. I’ll have ya’ll know that some of my best friends are native Spanish speakers…okay that’s a lie. But I do enjoy the people and their many different cultures (read: unlike my Granny, I know they aren’t all Mexicans). I love salsa music, dance, and sauce. I feel a childhood isn’t complete without the memory of blindly swinging at a giant donkey piñata full of candy. I do enjoy watching Telemundo (I’m also part of the REC). And I know for a fact that “I Love Lucy” would have sucked if it weren’t for Ricky Ricardo and his rendition of “Babalu”.

Yet, I feel some type of way about happened to me on Saturday, and really what’s been happening a lot lately. Like I’m the one who’s wrong for daring to communicate in English. Are things shifting to the point that I need to look for “Yes, we speak English signs”? Maybe. I mean, for some reason America doesn’t have an official language, I guess for the sake of the melting pot. So can I really be mad? But it’s just interesting that many different people have come to these shores and opted to subscribe to culture Americana (read: mainstream) and adopt English as their tongue…yet with these hermanos y hermanas I’m the one being asked to change.

Hello? Or better yet, Hola?

Well in case ya’ll care, I got my lemonade. Thank goodness I know enough Spanish to function, find the nearest bathroom and say the cat wears brown hats. But can I just mention that when a White couple walked in, heard everyone speaking Spanish, they gave me, the Black girl, a knowing and annoyed look before they turned around and walked out. I guess they hadn’t heard that there’s a new language in town…

See You In Seven

I Hear Ya, Stevie!

Today, as I was navigating through the Metro system to get to the good old job I heard the lovely musings of some youth…

"You a stupid MothaF-cka! You know that?! You’s a stupid, ugly Motha f-cka!"

"So, you ain’t S—t! B-tch!"

Oh it was a great way to start my day ya’ll. I was so proud of them!

First of all I’m already pissed that there aren’t any more three day weekends until Memorial Day (though I will be taking my Easter Monday). But I just wasn’t trying to hear that sh-t first thing in the morning before I would have to deal with the Motha Fcukas in my office.

Now I will be the first to admit, I am a reformed and still recovering Cussaholic. I spoke real bad in college. There, in the hallowed halls of academia, reading the great literary works of the decades, exposing myself to big words galore-my signature phrase was F-ckin’ A! It worked to describe the taste of food, the behavior of friends and foes, and I just used it to express general exasperation. I wasn’t raised to cuss people out, I can count the number of times I’ve heard my parents cuss and still have fingers to spare. But sometimes its just easier to tell someone F-ck You! Than to say that you'd sincerely consider their point of view.

But really this isn’t a criticism towards people who cuss. Even though I is saved, sanctified and dated a minister (brushes off halo) when folks get on my nerves I ain’t praying for them! Well, not at first anyways, it’s more like wishing them on a one way journey to someplace nice and hot. Stub a toe on some furniture? Excited that your song came on the radio? Hey, sometimes those warrant a choice four letter word of exclamation! Sh------t! (c) Clay Davis, The Wire.

But my issue is with cussing in public. Doing it loudly. Doing it in front of white folks-allowing them to view it as typical Black folk’s behavior...so when articulate Black people show up on the scene they are shocked that we know how to speak well. And I fear that we are doing it because we don’t know the vocabulary. We think we’re keeping it real, fitting in, being cute or strongly getting our point across…

Rum Punch will be the first to tell you that I don't love the following song. I mean, I came to expect more from the man who brought us Superstition and Living for the City. Surely when he wrote this he was thinking of the F-word that came to my mind when I first heard this song...



But then I thought that had he kept it "real" would the words that compose these lyrics be as poignant? Wouldn't folks have been caught up in the fact that Stevie was dropping the F-word? And at his age? He should know better too! I don't know. But there are times when we ought to censor some of the things we say so people can finally hear us speak...

See You In Seven