I have always believed that I am very adaptable and that I could survive anywhere in the world.
In fact, I’ve always fantasized that if you flew me anywhere in the world blindfolded and pushed me out of an airplane, I would somehow live and prosper because of my survival skills. Since I have never gone skydiving, you would have to blindfold me and you would have to push me very firmly to get me to jump out of a perfectly fully functioning, flying airplane. Not jumping out of airplanes is one of my innate survival skills that I highly value. I have never had the urge to go skydiving. When I was in the Marines, a few of my friends wanted me to go skydiving, but I am afraid of heights, so I went to the library instead. And, thus, I live to tell this tale!
Anyway, despite knowing that I’m very adaptable and can get along with just about anyone, just about anywhere, I always get this vague feeling that I’m always in the wrong place and the wrong time. I often feel that I do not belong right here where I am right now, if you know what I mean.
It’s an eerie feeling that’s difficult to describe. No matter where I am, I feel as if I should be somewhere else. As a boy, I truly thought that I was born into the wrong family. Maybe I wasn’t supposed to be born to a Mexican family because I certainly didn’t fit in. When I was in Mexico, I thought I should be in Chicago, until I returned to Chicago where I felt that I really belonged in Mexico.
I wasn’t born in the right era either. I should have been a medieval scribe of some sort. Or, I should have been born in New York City in the early 1900s. If I’m with my friends, I feel as if I should be with my sons and family. If I’m with my sons, I feel as if I should be with my girlfriend, but when I’m with her I wish I could be with her, and my sons, family, and friends.
As I write this, I feel guilty for not working on my tax return or correcting Spanish compositions. When I’m teaching, I think about how nice it would be to stay home. Now, that I’m on spring break, I miss my students. What should I do? Maybe I should jump out of a plane.
Kim was another memorable Spanish student. She had pierced lips and eyebrows, and she always wore these heavy metal concert T-shirts. She was an exceptionally good Spanish student who always got A’s on every exam. I especially liked the fact that she always laughed at my jokes. Even though she gave the appearance to rebel against any authorative figure, she always did as she was told in class. She always excelled on the Spanish compositions. The one composition I do remember involved her telling a story about something that their family did together. Well, from her composition, I learned that her family was really into heavy metal rock, which I kind of assumed by Kim’s concert T-shirts. Kim told about how her parents really like Ozzy Osbourne and so they took the whole family to Oz Fest. The whole family enjoyed their day together. She told the story quite nicely in Spanish and I could tell that the family enjoyed each other’s company. When the Day of Dead came, Kim painted her face like a skull! She looked really cool like that. All the students in the class liked her skull. My only regret is that I didn’t have a camera to take her picture.
Bridgeport is a neighborhood unlike any other in Chicago. Actually, there are two Bridgeports: the mythical, political Bridgeport that every Chicagoan hears about since starting school and the earthy, gritty Bridgeport that contrasts sharply with the mythical, political version.
In grade school, we learned all about Bridgeport, which is the birthplace of five Chicago mayors, including the present Mayor Richard M. Daley (Richard da Second). Bridgeport didn’t invent machine politics; they merely perfected machine politics, reaching its apogee in Mayor Richard J. Daley (Richard da First). Bridgeport is also very near the geographical center of Chicago. Many south siders often went to the White Sox games at Comiskey Park in Bridgeport. When I was a student at Holy Cross School, no school field trip would be complete without first driving past Mayor Daley’s bungalow at 3536 S. Lowe Avenue. Bridgeport was the Mecca of the south side. Every Chicagoan made a pilgrimage to Bridgeport at some point in their life.
When I told my mother that I was planning to buy a house in Bridgeport, she cringed and told me that I would regret it. For some unknown reason, I was drawn to Bridgeport. Besides, this was the location of the only house I could afford using the GI Bill. But before I bought this house, I checked out the neighborhood first. I drove past the house several times, at different hours of the day and night. Every time I drove past my future home, the block was extremely quiet. I never saw any movement in this vicinity at any time. I was sure that I was moving into a good neighborhood. After all, this was Bridgeport. So, I bought the house, much to my mother’s disappointment, and I moved in.
This was when I saw the earthy, gritty side of Bridgeport for the very first time. You don’t really know a neighborhood until you move in, and you live there 24/7/365. It was only then that I saw the seedy side of Bridgeport. My house was situated next to an alley that ran alongside the length of my house, an alley that everyone in the neighborhood used as a shortcut. I always heard whoever walked through the alley talking, at all hours of the day. Then one day, I noticed that Bridgeport had a gang problem, and my house was right on the border between two gang turfs. My neighbor always tried to start a fight with me by pointing to my camouflage shirt, a remnant from my Marine Corps enlistment, and tell me, “Hey, man! The war’s over!” I would ignore him and walk past him quickly. It was about that time that I learned that there were two sides to Bridgeport. And I lived on the wrong side of Bridgeport! I lived on the side where the public housing projects were located, the only white projects in the whole city of Chicago!
While I lived in the Marquette Park neighborhood, I had developed certain habits and I thought I could continue them when I saw all the stores, shops, and restaurants that were available in Bridgeport. I really thought that I would enjoy all these places that were within walking distance of my house. I went to Lina’s Italian restaurant that was less than one block from my house because they served authentic Italian food. Or so I thought. When I entered the restaurant, I was greeted by Lina herself. I asked for the beef ravioli because I love authentic beef ravioli. Lina said, “It takes too long to make.” I said, “That’s fine. I’m not in a hurry tonight. I brought a book that I can read while I wait.” “Well, I’m not going to make ravioli just for you. Why don’t you order something else?” So, I did. But I went back a few times hoping to eat ravioli, but she always refused to make it.
I once needed a button sewn on my winter wool coat, so I went to a tailor on Halsted Street. The tailor said, “You want this button sewn on? Why don’t you buy yourself some needle and thread and sew it on yourself?” He didn’t understand that I didn’t want to sew it on myself and that I was willing to pay him to sew the button on for me. He continuously refused, so I left.
I went down the block to the barbershop that appeared to be in a continuous state of disrepair, since at least the 1960s, judging by the newspaper clippings on the wall. There were no customers in the store, so the barber was sitting in a chair. When I entered, he stood up and said, “How may I help you?” I told him that I wanted a haircut. Well, he wasn’t giving haircuts that day. So, I left.
Then, I went to the 11th Ward Office because I needed garbage cans for my house. They refused to give me garbage cans because I didn’t appear as a registered voter within their ward even though I had just moved there. I left without garbage cans. This was certainly a fine welcome to Bridgeport. I eventually adjusted to life in Bridgeport. You just had to learn not to have too high expectations.
Diego Rivera’s Typewriter, Guanajuato, Guanajuato, México
In order to write in Spanish on the computer, you need to set up a Spanish keyboard. If you don’t, you won’t be able to put accents over vowels or type the letter “ñ.”
Spanish students seem to resist typing in Spanish. They would rather go back and insert the accent marks and ñ’s by hand. But that takes extra time and it doesn’t look as good. I always insist that my students type up their papers properly. So, occasionally I have to send them an email from a computer that is not my own. Therefore, I cannot put accent marks and use the ñ.
However, as a Spanish professor, I want to be a role model for my students. In situations such as these, when I write in Spanish, I avoid Spanish words with accent marks and ñ. Most of the time, I’m successful. And, no one has ever noticed because I try to do this as inconspicously as possible.
That’s the title of the Spanish textbook that I now use. I like it better than other textbooks I’ve used for the fourth semester of college Spanish. The students seem to enjoy the book better, too.
However, I often look at the cover and I’m intrigued. Why did the editors put the sculptures from Easter Island on the cover of a Spanish textbook? As far as we know, no one knows what civilization lived on the island and they probably didn’t speak Spanish.
If the editors wanted something ancient and at least slightly related to the Spanish-speaking world, they should have put a pyramid on the cover. The other thing that bothers me about the book is how they feature different Spanish-speaking countries, but not all of them. Notably missing is Spain!
How can they omit Spain? Spain is the mother country, the mother culture! But other than those two defects, the book is the best one I’ve used so far for fourth-semester college students.
Chicago USA 