My Family, My Words
Alek Alvarez
ENGL 1100.46

"Tocino!" Exclaimed my grandfather after his son let out an impressive belch in front of his future daughter-in-law at their first dinner together. My mother knew what the word had meant in Spanish. It was the word for bacon. Although he wasn’t calling my dad bacon, but more or less a pig, for acting in such a way in front of his wife-to-be. These special words and phrases went back and forth at both families’ tables. The combination of a Mexican father and a Polish mother has led me to my present day use of the English language.

Dad grew up in his father’s house, the house of a hard working truck driver that was also handy with pretty much anything when it came to general construction. He understood things to be very simple and that is how he likes things to be explained to him. If you could explain it once using less words you were automatically a friend in his book. Grandpa found his counterpart in my Grandma Sara, a short quick-witted Texan lady who wouldn’t put up with any hassle he gave her. The two often tangled up in words when it came to explaining why the electric bill was high or dinner wasn’t done on time. This is where dad came in and negotiated between the two, breaking an explanation down or explaining a response, all the time filling in English for Spanish where something was misunderstood. It was like this with most conversations. Half would be perfect English, then an outbreak of Spanish, that eventually would keep switching back and forth before my father could be of no further use. After that point, grandma and grandpa would just have to settle on having an argument and go on with the day.

This system of broken Spanish mixed with English made its way to my brother and me. Dad would say "donde?" when he asked me where the newspaper was or "mirela" when he saw a good-looking lady on the street, or "carajo!" when something really pissed him off. I had to be on my toes when I was with him, making sure to listen for the hidden Spanish phrase. He might point out a pretty lady and say "mire a la chica," and I would respond with a simple "yes" or "si." After hearing the question or seeing what he was pointing out, I usually had two choices in the way I could answer back. The first is Spanish and was whatever I learned in high school or picked up from him. It would most likely be grammatically wrong, too. The second was that I could reply how I usually did, in English. He usually expected the English, but an answer in fairly good Spanish would surprise him.

Picking up this ability helped when the family would go visit the grandparents for dinner or special events. These usually called for the gathering of aunts, uncles, and cousins who, for the most part, I didn’t know, but the events were opportunities to hear fantastic stories and watch all of the sibling rivalry play out in front of me. It was a great environment for my cultural language lesson. I got to sit back and hear the bickering of Aunt Sendie and Nana in Spanish, and then look over to see my dad talking to Grandpa Ephram then watch them react by breaking out in laughter exclaiming some curse words and then returning to there own conversation.

Like me, my mother was no stranger to this sort of colloquialism found in ethnic families. As much as I enjoyed my father’s family, I was equally interested in my mother’s. The Polish side that she introduced into the mix was a very good contrast to my Mexican roots. Her family was more centered on the Sunday lunches or dinners. These meals would always take place at her grandmother’s house. The places where her stories were told included the cramped kitchens and living rooms of extended family’s homes. All the rooms littered with trays of food and desserts so that people didn’t necessarily have to get a plate, but just meander through a room and pick and choose. This atmosphere was great for the passing down of my Polish history that included the tales of everyone’s childhood, mostly the mischief and mayhem they caused in their younger years.

I always heard the stories from my mother in English. She would tell me about her childhood and getting in trouble or talking back to her mother. Grandma Stella, her mother, wouldn’t let her get away with that behavior and punished her in some form or another. After all was settled and things were straightened out between the two of them grandma would say, "Don’t be a budinski." The word often meant brat and got thrown around a lot when mom was young. I love the word to this very day because, when I hear it used by my grandmother, it’s usually only because I said something smart and isn’t followed by a spanking like what mom and her brothers used to get.

Mom would also say that being one of the youngest people in the room, not knowing the Polish language, and being too young to actually be involved in any conversations, she would have to listen for her name to figure out if anything was being said about her. The family elders used this too their advantage so that they could talk about all the grandchildren and how they had been getting in trouble without having the children know. The conversations were fast, too, and like my fathers stories could switch language at any given moment. The English words were twisted and molded by their Polish tongues to make it mean something with a personal connotation. The best way I can describe this is that it is like looking at a word in italics or boldface. You read them and understand that they were meant to stand out, this is how words were said, and they were meant to be heard and interpreted in a certain way. I later came to infer that this use of language probably came from the alcohol that made its way around these family functions, but the emphasizing of certain words eventually found its way into sober bodies and became a staple of everyday chitchat.

I have combined the Spanish of my father’s family and the Polish of my mother’s family. These influences shine through when I talk to my friends and family. I often find myself jokingly cursing in Spanish when something goes wrong or when I find the time amusing. I can get away with it at school when I am frustrated or angry and no one is the wiser about what the words mean. And just like my mother, I find myself listening for my name being brought up in conversations at her family reunions, but I know they are just talking about how I am the favorite grandson. Out of all the little variances in language, I especially enjoy twisting words around to fit into a conversation. I use it to get a rise out of my friends whenever we joke around together and it has even rubbed off on a few of them. For example saying the phrase, "what were you doing?" with a slight cock of the neck and drop of the jaw can add a completely different meaning to what is actually being said.

I loved hearing the stories of my parents and their parents. The places, like Germany, England, and the Philippines, that I have lived in and the relatives I have visited have all impacted my life in different ways. It all makes up who I am today and who I will be in the future. It’s corny to say, "Don’t forget where you came from," but if I forgot the things special to me I would be completely lost.

The words, stories, and people that encompass my life keep me going, both physically and mentally. They shine through in the way I think and act. I know today that I appreciate everything given to me by my parents and relatives. The language and life lessons they have taught me are real to me and that makes me feel at home whenever I am surrounded by the words and stories. So, to this very day, I have had to think in Spanish, speak English, and listen for my name in Polish.