Losing my Spanish: the story of how my language has changed in three months

 One of the longest and most dazzling dances in history occurs between two immaterial maidens: language and the human race. They intertwine in an unnamable dance, which has the elegance of tango, the delicacy of waltz, and the energy of salsa. A dance that is sometimes incomprehensible, but always magnificent. That dance, like any masterpiece, is not exempt from criticism. Its endless turns confuse many, and the grandeur of all the movements of the suite that gives it music incites exaggerated passions for particular movements in certain fans. But that’s okay: after all, music is subjective.

Even so, within the subjective there is always room for the objective: even the most rebellious songs have a certain rhythm, melody, and harmony. In this infinite dance that intertwines humanity with its language, the rhythm is unmistakable with that of migration.

And to this rhythm, eternal books have been dedicated with titles with words as fancy as “comparative linguistics,” but it can be appreciated without the need to study it in a formal academic setting. It can, in fact, be experienced firsthand.

It all started in the back seat of a Renault Master, at some point along the 179.6 kilometers that separate Split Airport from the city of Mostar. It had been 48 hours since the last time I slept, in my bedroom bed in Venezuela, and now I was in the middle of a dark highway in the Balkans.

That was the first time in my life that I used English out of necessity. I had never taken formal English classes in my life or anything like it: everything I knew was the fruit of an early connection to the Internet and a fatuous boredom. My listening skills went hand in hand with my pronunciation, which is not saying much: in fact, it is closer to an insult than anything else.

And there I was, trying to understand my friends from the United Kingdom whose accent betrayed their origins. I have to say that I understood approximately 75% of the conversation: however, it was enough to change me for life. Because only then did I clearly hear, for the first time, the rhythm of the dance. Even though a thousand books could tell me that language changes with migration, only the need to speak another language to survive made me understand how loud the rhythm of migration can sound in our heads.

The first things were the words. The characteristic “o sea” of my almost-Caracas accent began to turn into a very unfriendly “like”, and confusions stopped being announced by the omnipresent “¿qué?” to sound like a strange “What?”. But then the persistence of the rhythm went beyond my eardrums, and Spanglish was more than the unconscious and unnecessary translation of perfectly existing words in Spanish. Even when my sentences were not full of English words, it was no longer just a superficial change. The rhythm was already in my brain.

It started subtly, with “hola” becoming a “¿Qué tal?” reminiscent of the Anglophone “What’s up?”. Then it started with the use of somewhat foreign words, like in the previous paragraph: who would use “reminiscent” as their first option when writing an entry?

Definitely not the Elías of August 2023. But that’s the beauty of the eternal dance of language and humans: it never stops, but it always changes. And in that change, it changes us ourselves.

In the same way that the melody of Bohemian Rhapsody changes in each of its five sections, the dance is sometimes faster or slower. But it is always changing, and the changes lead to ever more unexpected beauties.

Just as my Spanish has changed radically in three months, throughout our lives our language grows and transforms. It is nourished by the infinite influences to which we are constantly exposed and is permeable to different cultures, customs, and forms.

There is a very important current of people who consider themselves Spanish traditionalists. The use of Spanglish is a cardinal sin, and even direct Anglicisms are pronounced in the most Castilian way possible (what the hell is a CD?). I do not consider myself one of those. I believe that in every Anglicism there is a potential for growth for our language, and that closing ourselves off to foreign influences is to prohibit ourselves from enjoying new parts of the beautiful dance that is language.

And what an honor it is to be able to witness it live.