Trying not to get discouraged

How did you spend your verano?  Part of mine (three weeks of it) was spent at Seattle University teaching a class called Introduction to the Biomedical Sciences.  The class was offered through a nonprofit organization called CTY (Center for Talented Youth) which is based at Johns Hopkins University.  It was a very intense class; three hour morning sessions, two hour afternoon labs, and two hour evening study sessions.  My 18 students, coming from all over the country and two from other countries, were either aspiring doctors or children of pharmacists or surgeons who were more or less coerced into this expensive course. So while my Issaquah High School colleagues were traveling, fishing, and sleeping 'till noon, I was leading future medical professionals through dissections of cow eyes and fetal pigs.

During the week I actually stayed in the dorms (Bellarmine Hall to be exact.)  I was on the seventh floor, barraged by the incessant hum of nearby freeway traffic and the sweltering heat of the afternoon sun. Bursts of laughter would sporadically echo down the long corridor. It dredged up decades-old memories of my communal coexistence in the barracks-like dorms of Humboldt State.  

What’s all this got to do with being Pocho and speaking Spanish?

The classes offered through CTY were not all science classes.  There were literature, history, and engineering también.  And the instructors, almost all of which were in their twenties, came from all over just like the students.  I was the ONLY local guy in the dorm.  Four young gentlemen on my floor, mostly engineering instructors and T.A.s, were bilingual caballeros.  Their names, and points of origin, were: John from the Dominican Republic (they say Dominica); Juan from Honduras; Ramón from Puerto Rico; and Lalo (Eduardo) from good ‘ol México.  They were a handsome quartet of amigos that moved effortlessly from English to español and back again.  They could chat with the kitchen help in their native tongue, and instantly switch to yak with their Anglo colleagues.

Now I’ve been studying Spanish, to some degree, for almost FORTY YEARS and am still not bilingüe. Well, I should clarify and say that I first started those many years ago, but haven’t really seriously been studying it all along.  Still, I thought I was getting pretty good, but when those four caballeros started chatting in high gear, I had no idea what they were talking about.  How sad, it made me say “ I’ll never really learn Spanish.” So, my challenge now is to not get discouraged by those four Latino gentlemen who, at half my age, were twice as literate.

By the way, the above cartoon is purely a reflection of my own self-consciousness, not a depiction of something that actually happened.  Juan et al were the nicest of gentlemen and never made fun of anyone.

Palabras profundas

Pocho: this word literally means spoiled fruit, and was used by farmers to describe discolored fruit that was no longer any good.  Somehow it became adopted as a derogatory moniker for people of Mexican descent that, intentionally or not, became “less Mexican.” This was usually manifest in the lack Spanish speaking ability, or the adoption of American ways.

Ese tipo es un pocho; no puede hablar nada de español y siempre actúa como un gringo.

With the increasingly mixed population in the U.S., however, the term pocho is becoming more and more embraced as more of us happily accept the role of someone straddling two heritages.  I can’t help the fact that my Mexican-born father married a lovely güera who didn’t speak a lick of Spanish and, consequently, made our home into an English-only institution. Nevertheless, we still made tamales on Christmas, menudo on Saturdays, and had many many tíos y tías.

Linkos

I’ve never met Texan Ed Cantú, but he’s a fellow pocho who has reflected and written mucho on the phenomenon of pochoism.  Check out his blog:

http://pochoyproud.blogspot.com/

...and if you’re already proud of your mixed heritage and want the world to know it:
http://pochowear.com/