Ojalá que un día pueda escribir y hablar en español sin pensarlo. I wish that one day I could write and speak in Spanish without having to think about it. Growing up, being raised with my grandma taught me a lot of lessons that are frequently in my everyday life. One of those lessons was Spanish. We would watch movies, go to church, and visit Mexican markets. All places where I was fully immersed in the language it was familiar, constant. It was in the way the pastor preached with such passion that each word felt like it pierced my chest, in that downstairs room after church where the smell of beans and rice filled the air, where Mexican candy sat in plastic containers. It was in the way my grandma ordered pan dulce or picked out my favorite popsicle without needing to ask. Spanish was everywhere, not something I had to learn, just something I lived.
When my grandma passed away, it marked the end of my childhood; colors dimmed, things seemed out of place, and it felt like a part of me was gone. I felt the grief both intensely and not at all; I didn’t know how I was supposed to feel or act. Growing up without her, my Spanish was soon lost, as though I never had it in the first place. At the time, I didn’t see it, but this was the exact moment when the strongest connection between me and Spanish came to an end. I continued my middle school years in a predominantly Hispanic area, still hearing Spanish and understanding it, too scared to speak because I wasn’t “Mexican” enough to others. This made me hide who I was. I was too scared to even call myself Mexican, as others would tell me I wasn’t because I “couldn’t” speak Spanish. I wish I could go back and tell myself that no one gets to define who I am and where I come from, but me. I know exactly where I come from. I come from a family of immigrants, hard workers because they built something out of nothing, and most importantly, a family that risked their dreams for mine.
Once I moved to a predominantly white area for high school, all hopes of Spanish were lost for me. I had felt like I had stepped into a world where my culture did not exist, where Spanish was not heard, spoken, or even acknowledged. It was isolating. The reggaeton that once danced through my grandma’s kitchen every Sunday now felt like a language I’d forgotten. I wish then, I had made space for my language and identity. Instead, I let silence take up that space, silence shaped by fear.
Since coming to college, I knew my goal was to come out with more fluency in Spanish and dedicate myself to learning my culture’s history, language, and struggles. I decided to declare a minor in Spanish. However, speaking remains a challenge of mine because I still have fears of messing up. For the longest time, I lived with the mindset that I shouldn’t speak until I know exactly what to say. If I’m being honest, I still do. Every time I speak, I wonder – will they hear the hesitation? Will they think I’m pretending? Second-guessing every verb, every accent mark, as if my fluency is being graded by the world. I am tired of letting fear decide how I get to reclaim my identity. Every imperfect sentence is still mine. Every mistake I make is a stride towards improvement. The subjunctive mood reflects my journey while learning Spanish. It expresses hope, doubt, and longing. Ojala que expresses both a wish and a wound. I wish to be fluent in Spanish, and I hope to heal the part of me that feels she isn’t Mexican enough. Espero que un día pueda hablar español sin miedo, como si fuera parte de mí. I hope that one day I can speak Spanish, without fear, as though it were a part of me.