| Spanish in Panama: Dissected |
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| Written by Matt Landau | |
| Saturday, October 13 2007 | |
As Americans we are taught from a very early age to try to appreciate other languages. I remember my brother, for example, when he was back in preschool proudly coming home with a stack Japanese characters written out on note cards: and here I thought kids were supposed to be focused on candy.  When I began to travel, I became introduced to a new group of people who were effortlessly able to sling around phrases in multiple languages-something I devilishly admired. These people were called Europeans and they were lucky because the world of international languages was at their fingertips. These people were also lucky because they could drink beer at age eleven. When I wanted to learn Spanish, I had to go to this lame tutor who held long hours in his dark and dingy garage. When a French student wanted to learn Spanish for example, he just drives over to Spain. If he wants to learn Portuguese, he continues on a bit further. Oftentimes, he's even got an Spanish kid living next door! These guys were more trendy, more fashionable than kids from the States. They had names like Vanya and Pepe and walked around in garments that were far ahead of the fashion trend, almost to the extent they looked foolish. But it was their language supremacy that intimidated me the most. And it was because they could speak five different languages perfectly, that Vanya's orange wrestling boots and Pepe's girlish looking scarf appeared perfectly hip to me. So it was due to my relative remoteness in the US-with Canada and their bizarre accent to the North, and Mexico with their messed up Spanglish to the South-that most of my learning was confined, along with that of my peers, to the walls of a classroom. These classrooms were flanked by cartoon posters depicting decidedly Spanish-looking kids watching bullfights, or cultured French women in berets eating street-side baguettes. I went through a number of teachers in those years, all of whom looked like they were taken directly out of the pages of the textbooks we were reading. They all rode bicycles to school and carried carafes of coffee because, well, that's what Spanish people do. It was in these classrooms that I picked up a decent grasp of the real basics; nothing you couldn't learn from an episode of CHIPS. But it was these basics that gave me the false sense of comfort that I had actually learned a foreign tongue. I'd walk into the local deli, for example, where a team of Hispanic guys would be making sandwiches, and say something like "Hola, amigos. Que Paso?" Upon their response I'd inevitably freeze up, trying to decide whether they just asked me how I was, or whether I'd like jalapeños on my hoagie. When I moved to Spain, my language ego was damaged significantly further. Numerous times, I'd be so mystified by the words that'd come out of a strangers mouth, that I'd sometimes just shriek and walk away. I'd been rehearsing these phrases for years in school-things like que hora es? and yo quiero comprar gazpacho-and I had learned them quite well. But when it came time for the "real" Spanish, as in, incorporating them in conversation and applying them to the laws of everyday life, I was no better off than the retarded kid that sat at the back of my class. Howard he was called. When I first arrived in Panama where they speak Spanish faster than the speed of sound, I further realized my classroom training was more or less a waste of time. Yes we had learned a gamut of verbs and nouns, but it was this intangible flexibility, this hard-to-describe mastery of the language that was never quite achieved: the ability to not only know the proper word for a situation, but to use it in a cogent sentence. This was what distinguished people like me from my new Panamanian friends. Sure I could carry a decent conversation, but there'd unavoidably be a time when I'd unintentionally offend someone or their mother and the meeting or party would disband just as fast as it got together in the first place. Spanish is kind of like skydiving. Understanding it in the classroom is one thing. Testing it alone in the field is another. One of my first learning obstacles was in Multi Plaza mall when I saw one of the tallest women I've ever come across in my life. I approached the woman with years and years of the Spanish classes, tutors, and field experience under my belt, but what came out of my mouth probably sounded more like Euskera. "Wow" I said pointing to her head. "You have...you have very much...you are very high." "Thank you." she said. "You're welcome." I made the hand signal for a rising body of water. "How did...you get...so much... altitude?" When I got to the point that my vocabulary was good enough, I started to practice the method of circuitous Spanish which encourages the roundabout use of words you do know in order to talk about ones you don't. In the hardware shop, I'd try to describe what I needed as "something that goes with a nail. Something hard with a handle and a metal head that goes with a nail. It hits a nail." I'd then make the motion of a hammer and BAM, he knew exactly what I was looking for. "Ah, martillo!" he shouted. "Well yea, duh martillo. What else would I be describing?" Classroom Spanish is good for some things: grocery shopping for instance, or approaching strangers on the street with random questions. But when it comes to interacting in a non-robot-like manner, I believe the only way to become fluent is to immerse yourself in the language: eat it, sleep it, breathe it. Make all the mistakes necessary and embarrass yourself so much, that you'll never misuse the word for pregnant or wart again. The books on tapes and strict school teachers still remain an integral part of my Spanish foundation in Panama and when I'm at a loss for words, I'll refer back to them without hesitation. Donde esta el bano? the man used to say in that monotonous voice. Let's try it again. Donde esta el bano? |
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