Whenever someone asks which languages I speak fluently, I hesitate to respond. What is meant by fluency? What kind of communication(s) does it involve? Solely oral communication or literacy as well?From the looks of me (or my surname), many people assume I speak Mandarin Chinese; this is my physical linguistic mark, as it were. Filipino (Tagalog), however, is my native tongue, and although I'm lacking vocabulary here and there, I'm still able to speak it flawlessly, sans accent. Indeed, when I see other Filipinos, especially here in Spain, I'm almost eager to show how I've retained the language after "all this time" in the U.S., and not having grown up within "the community." I'm eager precisely because of this lack, because language is the only thing that has bound/is binding me me to a country I can hardly remember, I'm almost imagining.
I'm even more eager to show how deftly I switch between Filipino and English, my other tongue, the other tongue, the language in which I've lived most of my life.
So, I explain this (in a nutshell) to the mother of a potential student. A colleague forwarded her my contact information and within a day or so, she'd emailed me, asking me about by educational and linguistic background. Yes, I explain that Filipino is my mother tongue but that I grew up in the U.S., insinuating that I speak English as though it is the only language I have ever known. I know it like the palm of my hand. As an aside, I also shared that I spoke French and Spanish.
The mother sends an apology. Because Tagalog--and not English--is my first mother tongue, she isn't be able to hire me.*
Pero, ¡¿qué dices?!
I was incredulous. Too much information, I guess.
In a somewhat calm reply to her rejection, I suggested that perhaps the experience of learning and juggling multiple languages might help her child, too.
No response yet.
*I've also heard tell of preference of British--instead of American--tutors.
I spent the last weekend in Córdoba and when I came back, I had a room. I also had a last unpleasant (financial) surprise from my ex-roommates, but nothing could really hold me back from the thought of high-tailing it out of there. So, the apartment is at the opposite end of the city from work, and so, I have to walk through the roommate's apartment to get to the bathroom. The location is closer to places where I actually hang out, everything is new-ish, IKEA-ish, the walls are a cheery yellow, and the roommate herself seems clean-ish and responsible. Both she and the landlady agreed to let me move in a week earlier, so more points to them.
I've never pegged myself as a romantic--or as unbearably bourgeois, for that matter. At least, not until I found myself wandering around Plaza Santa Barbara and C/Lagasca, for example. There, looking at beautiful wrought-iron doors and up at soft glows from behind willowing textiles, I felt a tinge of envy for the imagined cosiness. There, my ideal place, my home away from home, a respite from the hustle and bustle in the city, still within the city.
