Wopxican

I grew up with a Hispanic last name. My dad is Mexican and my mom is Italian-German. My dad endearingly coined the term “wopxicans” to refer to me and my sisters. He speaks Spanish fluently and my mom said she knew enough to get into trouble and just enough to get out of trouble. They didn’t teach us Spanish growing up, but we learned some of the cuss words in context. My parents usually only spoke Spanish when they didn’t want us to know what they were talking about – mostly around Christmas time. 

I am one of the whitest Mexicans I know – literally and figuratively. Although my hair and eyes are dark, my skin is several shades whiter than my dad’s (and even my mom’s) and I don’t like spicy food. I also grew up not knowing a lick of Spanish. Okay, maybe some basics, but I was definitely lost 99% of the time someone around me spoke Spanish. For some strange reason, my little brain convinced me that having the last name of “Contreras” meant that I should have spoken Spanish. When I got into high school, I was afraid to take a Spanish class because I was too embarrassed to admit that I didn’t know any more Spanish than the non-Mexican kids with blonde hair and blue-eyes.

Luckily, when I started college, I finally did enroll in Spanish. Not because I had gotten any braver, but because I figured I wouldn’t know anyone in the class. I assumed the chances of anyone I went to high school with taking that same class was pretty low. I was right. I ended up taking three semesters of Spanish (I have no idea what happened to the fourth semester) and I’m still not fluent. In fact, I’m certain I’ve lost more Spanish in the past twenty years (yep, it’s been that long since college) than I remember.

I have always wanted to be fluent in Spanish. In fact, I vividly remember watching Disney’s “The Shaggy Dog” (the 1959 version) and being absolutely amazed that one character could speak seven languages. I didn’t even know that was possible! (Yes, I realize “The Shaggy Dog” is fictional, but there are real people who can speak that many languages.) For a brief time, I had aspirations to become a translator – that is, until I realized how difficult it was to learn a new language. I even have a whole shelf designated to foreign languages.

It’s sad to think that most people stop learning once they get out of school. I know that’s usually a time for major life changes like marriage, careers, and kids, but at some point don’t things settle down? Why not pick up some new skill or revive an old interest simply because you want to? Why don’t we have more forty-year-olds or sixty-year-olds learning new things? I have come to realize that when I start to feel stagnant, what I need is some type of creative outlet or mental stimulation. 

I am pleased to report that I have reactivated my old Duolingo account from several years ago (which had very little use to begin with) and am on a 95-day streak. Some days I practice my Spanish more than others, but five minutes is better than zero minutes. The other day I even felt like I had a better understanding of one of the concepts, not to mention a slightly bigger vocabulary. I am, by no means, fluent but I understand more than I did a year ago, and that’s something.

I was able to teach my daughter some Spanish when she was little and I’m happy that she knows more at age 12 than I did when I was her age.  I still can’t help but wish I had been brave enough to take some Spanish classes in high school. Maybe I’d be fluent by now. As a matter of fact, I wish I’d been brave enough to take a lot of different classes in high school – like maybe auto shop or woodshop – but I was always too afraid to be the girl who didn’t know anything and come across as stupid. But that’s a silly concept in itself, because after all, how can we be expected to know the things we were never taught?