Author: David Diego Rodríguez, Ph.D.

I teach Spanish and I am a standup comedian.

Me da pena


Last night, I went to eat at Nicky’s with my ten-year-old twin sons. As is typical in Chicago, Nicky’s is a hot dog / hamburger restaurant that is Greek owned, but you only see anyone of Greek descent during regular business hours.

Yesterday was Sunday, so all the cooks were Mexican. They took my order in English and spoke to me in broken English. Anyway, when my son finished drinking his pop, he asked me if they would refill it. I wasn’t sure, so I asked him to go to the counter and ask. I like to teach my sons to be independent and responsible. So, he asked for a refill and got it. While refilling the cup, the cook asked my son, “¿Hablas español?” My son just stared at him. You see, my son does not speak Spanish and I am truly embarrassed by this! I was waiting for the cook to give me a reproaching look, but he didn’t. My son just walked back and said, “I don’t know what he said.”

I’ve tried to teach my sons Spanish, but it’s an uphill battle. Their mother, my ex-wife, is a Mexican like me; raised in a Spanish-speaking Mexican home but born in the USA. While we were still married, I always spoke to my oldest son in Spanish at home and he attended a day care center run by nuns from Mexico. So, he actually spoke Spanish when he was younger. However, my ex-wife would never want to speak Spanish. As he got older, he only wanted to speak English like his mother who had more influence over him than me. Whenever I spoke Spanish, my son would tell me, “Talk the regular way!” So, when the twins were born seven years later, I was the only person speaking Spanish at home. I was foreigner in my own home.

Fortunately, they attend a school that teaches Spanish. My oldest son once came home bragging that he got a C in Spanish! I was so embarrassed! I wondered if the teacher was too demanding, so I asked, “Did anyone get an A?” “Oh, yeah, Tommy Sullivan.” ¡Ay, ay, ay!

DDR

Deported


My Mexican Passport

In 1965 when I was a boy, my mother took us all the way from Chicago to Mexico City by train. We took one train to St. Louis where we spent the night sleeping on wooden benches until our next train departed for Laredo, Texas, in the morning. In Laredo, we boarded another train to Mexico City.

What I remember most about this visit to Mexico was my uncle’s fascination with American culture, particularly how important brushing one’s teeth was. He wanted to know what kind of toothpaste I used, what kind of toothbrush, how many times a day I brushed my teeth. He asked many other questions about our life in the U.S., but nothing mattered more to him than American dental hygiene!

Anyway, when we were packing to return to Chicago, my mother announced that my uncle was coming back with us. All he packed was a small handbag that was noticeably light. When the train arrived in Laredo, my uncle showed his documents to the authorities and slipped them some money. Everything was fine until we arrived in St. Louis. Some important-looking people boarded the train and questioned my uncle who presented them with his documents. The authorities then asked my uncle to go with them. I never saw my uncle in the U.S. again. I remember carrying his little handbag home and wondering what my uncle had packed since it was so light.

When we got home, my mother took the handbag for safekeeping. I was never to touch it or look in it. We would give it to my uncle when he would finally arrive in Chicago. Every now and then when I would snoop around in my mother’s bedroom closet, I would see my uncle’s handbag, but I would never open it. One day, I couldn’t resist the temptation anymore. So, I looked in the bag. All my uncle had packed for his trip to America was a toothbrush and toothpaste!

DDR

Spanish in Burger King


Burger King in Mexico City

Last night, I was in Burger King with my sons. A Mexican family was standing behind me in line. I joked around with the cashier who took my order. We spoke in fluent colloquial English, and I have a Chicago south side accent.

The father of the Mexican family then ordered his food in broken English. Later, while I was waiting for my order, the father spoke to me in Spanish about his son who had just learned to walk the week before. I was surprised! I’m always surprised when total strangers speak to me in Spanish! I told a non-Mexican friend about this, and she said, “But you don’t even look Mexican!” But to another Mexican I do!

As a boy, my father would take us to Burger King a lot. We would order our food and I dreaded waiting to hear my father’s order. After completing the order, my father would always ask, “Do you have hot peppers?” When the cashier would say no, my father would say, “That’s okay. I brought my own!” He would then pull out a jar of jalapeño peppers from his pocket.

My father had hundreds of ways of embarrassing me in public.

DDR

Appearances are deceiving


Chicago, Illinois

I am always amazed when a stranger approaches me and immediately speaks to me in Spanish! When I was in Arizona, I was pumping gas, and someone asked me for help with the gas pump in Spanish. My sons were surprised that this person knew that I spoke Spanish.

This happened again in the mall in Phoenix. A woman approached me to sell me a nail product by greeting me and introducing herself in Spanish. We spoke Spanish during the entire demonstration. My friend was surprised not only that she addressed me in Spanish, but also that I spoke Spanish so well. (I do teach college Spanish!) My non-Hispanic friends are shocked to learn that I know Spanish. I suppose that’s the only way I’ll shock anyone.

DDR

Language barrier


Back of the Yards, Chicago, Illinois.

When I was growing up, my parents always spoke Spanish at home. Once I began attending school, I was supposed to speak English at home. This way my parents would be forced to learn to speak English. This was a promising idea in theory, but the reality resulted in bilingual conversations in which I would speak English and my parents would speak Spanish. To this day, I still speak to my father in English; whenever I speak to him in Spanish, he doesn’t understand me.

When I was a boy, my mother sent me to the store to buy pork chops. She specifically told me to buy pork chops, but she told me in Spanish. As I’m walking to the store, I realize that I don’t remember how to say pork chops in English. I kept trying to remember as I walked to the store.

Luckily, there were two customers ahead of me. That gave me more time to think about what I had to buy. Unfortunately, I couldn’t remember the English name for pork chops. The best I could produce was “pig chops.” But I was too embarrassed to ask for “pig chops” because I knew that wasn’t the right term. So, I walked home empty-handed, and my mother asked me why I didn’t buy the pork chops. When I told her what happened, she said that I should have asked for “pig chops.” She didn’t know how to say pork chops in English, either.

That night, we ate chicken.

DDR