Buffalo Gal

I am the original ugly American when it comes to speaking foreign languages. I have had wonderful teachers in several attempts, but my tongue remains firmly rooted in baseball, hot dogs, apple pie and Chevrolet.
But you can't live in Texas for a dozen years without understanding some Spanish. It comes on you not with the formal lessons mandated by "enlightened" employers trying to justify hiring yet another Anglo, but the aural wallpaper of daily life .
The acquisition of understanding is not subsconscious, but unconscious and apparently well-stored in the crowded jumble of my thoughts.
There is room for one person in my apartment, two if the other is a much-loved, patient and preferrably small family member.
At the moment there are three of us here, the other two strangers trying to restore the hot water that has been promised for the last two weeks.
As I quietly type away, they believe they are hiding behind a language cloak as they go on about the horrible plumbing and the cheap landlord. They've discussed why a person with nice clothes and a good job would live here and have agreed I have been wronged by a man.
I feel no need to set the record straight. I enjoy listening to their uncensored thoughts.
But when Charlie comes to visit next month, he may be greeted by some dark, disapproving eyes.

Copyright 2004 Judi Griggs

Buffalo Gal Judi Griggs I'm a communications professional, writer, cynic, mother, wife and royal pain. The order depends on the day. I returned to my hometown in November 2004 after a couple of decades of heat and hurricanes. I can polish pristine copy, but not here. This is my morning exercise -- 20-minute takes without a net or spellcheck. It's easier than sit ups for me. No guarantee what it will be for you. Clicking on the subscribe link will send you an email notice when each new entry is posted.
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Previous Entry :: Next Entry Read/Post Comments (0) Share on Facebook		2005-01-14 2:51 PM Texas Spanish I am the original ugly American when it comes to speaking foreign languages. I have had wonderful teachers in several attempts, but my tongue remains firmly rooted in baseball, hot dogs, apple pie and Chevrolet. But you can't live in Texas for a dozen years without understanding some Spanish. It comes on you not with the formal lessons mandated by "enlightened" employers trying to justify hiring yet another Anglo, but the aural wallpaper of daily life . The acquisition of understanding is not subsconscious, but unconscious and apparently well-stored in the crowded jumble of my thoughts. There is room for one person in my apartment, two if the other is a much-loved, patient and preferrably small family member. At the moment there are three of us here, the other two strangers trying to restore the hot water that has been promised for the last two weeks. As I quietly type away, they believe they are hiding behind a language cloak as they go on about the horrible plumbing and the cheap landlord. They've discussed why a person with nice clothes and a good job would live here and have agreed I have been wronged by a man. I feel no need to set the record straight. I enjoy listening to their uncensored thoughts. But when Charlie comes to visit next month, he may be greeted by some dark, disapproving eyes. Copyright 2004 Judi Griggs Read/Post Comments (0) Previous Entry :: Next Entry Back to Top