Everyone has a certain group of people they identify with because everyone has their own personal traits, background, and interests. This means, that everyone is entitled to their own opinions.
In my opinion, the best thing I ever read is “8 Confessions of My Tounge”. This poem tells a piece of me and my life through another’s mouth.
The poem is told in list form. “One. False comfort as you try your best to speak a tongue you don’t quite grasp. There is always a count down as you realize I am not fluent in Spanish. You expected the waterfall, the spit that crossed the ocean; the syllable-suffocating dance and it is a dance,” Noel Quiñones says. “This moving, weaving, searching, turning your back on what you can never keep up with. I contain so much sad, brown mouth that I can’t even pronounce Quiñones without a stranger examining the air it took to learn it.” I relate so closely to this because speaking a language you don’t know to someone who knows it so well is the most vulnerable feeling. You’re constantly waiting for them to laugh, spit, or bluntly point out your false identity. You always feel you’re being judged for not knowing something you were never taught. Especially if you were never exposed to it.
Quiñones goes on to list the second confession. “Two. The little lie we tell ourselves as we memorize Spanish songs without knowing the meaning. But I’m always the last one to yell ‘Wepa, forever late to my own identity.” I myself am guilty of memorizing Spanish songs without knowing the meaning, or even correct words.
People often assume I speak Spanish due to my darker skin and higher cheekbones.
“Three. Experiencing the negativity from fellow Latinxs who do speak Spanish.”
So many times have I experienced the pitiful “No habla?”–parties, quinceaneras, and any other social situations. “They whisper of my fraud on the block and in the classroom,” Quiñones laments. “But all I have are these two false skins stitched into a name.” Even my own boyfriend points out the fact I don’t speak Spanish. Then when I attempt, underlined are my mistakes and American accent. And because I do not speak Spanish, this means my ethnicity is false. They assume I know nothing of the culture. This is how foreigners feel. This is humiliation. As is this relatable statement, “Four. That feeling when you rely on Google Translate to prove yourself.”
“Five. There’s always a despairing feeling when you fake your “mother tongue.” This is true to me and many others who live the life of ‘no habla’. “This means I am not as fluent as my poems: they are imagined in Latinidad.”
“Where I touch the shore and it accepts me,” Quiñones says. “Where my grandmother wasn’t spit on every day for not knowing English.” Over the years, the issue of being discriminated against for not speaking English has not been eliminated. However, being ridiculed for not knowing the language of your family has become more prominent.
“Six. The feeling of desperately trying to teach yourself using words you hear from friends and family even though they never taught you.” Desperately you try to pick up the language yet no one will cut you slack. They make jokes behind your back. If only they knew how hard you were trying. “Mimic whatever words I stole to make myself a more Latin thing,” Quiñones confesses. When he uses the word ‘stole’. He really does mean stole. The feeling of guilt possesses you every time you speak those mentioned words. It feels wrong no matter how much you remind yourself that you’re just trying to make them proud. You feel like no matter your course of action, the pit of quicksand that is shame pulls you in.
“My skin, always mistaken for home. My name, an invitation to strangers who say, ‘Your parents should have taught you.’ But my parents say it’s my fault,” Quiñones spills. In desperation, you try to understand, but you never do. The blame–always on you.
I loved this poem when you read it because it’s so powerful. I love that you share the story of Noel, and that you really explained it all bit by bit. Your feelings in this are very raw, and I love it.