In The Community
Spanglish, an inventive mashup of English and Spanish, is a linguistic masterpiece that has been echoing through the corridors of America for years, particularly resonating within bustling communities of Latine populations.
What's the Origin of Spanglish?
Picture this. It’s the mid-1800s, and the United States is expanding its grasp over territories inhabited by vibrant Spanish-speaking communities, such as California, Texas, and New Mexico. As the Mexican-American War ensues, the need for practical communication emerges between communities, and like water and oil separating in a vinaigrette, the languages refuse to blend. Yet, in the ensuing decades, English and Spanish fused in an unexpected way. However, it wasn’t until the late 1940s that the term “Spanglish” was coined by Puerto Rican linguist and poet Salvador Tió.
This rich linguistic tapestry created fascinating language phenomena, such as calques, loan words, and code-switching. Calques involve translating entire words or phrases from one language to another, resulting in expressions like "llamar pa' tras" (to call back). Another linguistic influence is the borrowing of words, known as loan words, which occurs when a language adopts terms from another culture to describe previously unfamiliar items or concepts. For instance, the Spanish word "mítin" is borrowed from the English word "meeting." Additionally, code-switching is a common occurrence, where speakers seamlessly shift between different languages or language varieties depending on the context, environment, and audience, like saying, “she’s my comadre!” versus "she's my close friend."
For many, Spanglish is more than a language—it's a lifeline. It forms a cultural bridge for Latine individuals, tethering them to their Latin American heritage while helping them navigate the waters of an English-centric society. It's like having a foot in two worlds, giving speakers the flexibility to express ideas or feelings that would get lost in the translation of a single language.
Sure, Spanglish has its fair share of critics, those who argue that it's diluting English and Spanish and hampering proper learning of these languages. However, research paints a different picture— bilingual and bicultural individuals display cognitive benefits, like heightened creativity and problem-solving skills.
@pennytovar why hollywood spanglish is so BAD and how to make it realistic #latinotiktok #spanglish ♬ original sound - Penny Tovar
Now, let's zoom out a bit and look at the bigger picture. Spanglish isn't just surviving—it's thriving. It's embedded in our media, our pop culture, and our everyday lives. You'll find it in music, movies, literature, even in advertisements. Pulitzer Prize-winning Dominican American author Junot Diaz's "The Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao" stands as a testament to the power of Spanglish, artfully depicting the immigrant experience in the US. Latine artists like Kali Uchis and Cuco sing the language's praises, folding it into their lyrics with a profound sense of bilingual pride. Because some things just need to be expressed in Spanish.
Spanglish is more than a mere combination of English and Spanish. It's a testament to the resilient and adaptable spirit of the Latine community in the US, a multilingual mosaic of a multicultural society. It's a complex expression of cultural identity that transcends borders. As America continues to grow as a cultural melting pot, Spanglish is poised to rise— not just as a linguistic curiosity, but as an essential thread in the tapestry of cultural expression.
Food is much more than the substance that feeds us. It is a living narrative that threads cultures, migrations, exchanges, memories, and emotions. Every bite we take is packed with stories; every smell we perceive evokes memories. I am convinced that when food comes into our lives and into our mouths, it permeates who we are, it stays living in our memory and, without us realizing it, it joins the whole that defines us.
If I had to describe who I am through food, I would present myself as a freshly blended papaya juice, a fruit that I did not feel particularly fond of in my childhood, a tropical fruit, always in season, always at a good price, always available in the refrigerator at home, a recollection of sunny and calm mornings, without grown-up worries. Or maybe I would present myself as the wheat flour arepas that my grandma Rosita used to make in that city, surrounded by mountains that now feel so far away.
These are not simple meals, nor is their choice random. They are fragments of my childhood, often taken for granted, pieces of the puzzle that build me. I spent years with my grandma, learning not only to cook but also to live. When I left her home, in search of a better life thousands of kilometers to the south, those meals that no longer nourished my body, did nourish my memory and my heart.
A few years after leaving Venezuela, I found myself one morning with a glass of freshly blended papaya juice. I did not expect the impact; the rush of emotion was overwhelming, and I found myself carried away by its force. I went back in an instant to my grandma’s home. At that moment, I was sure: certain foods are time machines, and their taste and scent take you away.
But what would happen if we delved deeper into the symbols and stories behind each dish? We could discover the profound family history of a friend who was born in another corner of the world, or that the flavor of a mole carries with it centuries of Mexican history. Even a humble chicken soup can be a reminder of the care and love your mom gave you that time the flu got the better of you.
If our lives were narrated through food, what dishes would we choose to represent us? What stories would those flavors and scents tell?
Migrating is not just leaving, it is also arriving. With that arrival comes the experience of everything anew. For me, food is a fundamental pillar in the experience of being alive. Perhaps this perception is influenced by my moon in Taurus – in astrology, this signifies a deep appreciation for the pleasures and comforts of life, like good food. Or, it could simply be because I heard countless times while growing up that 'it's cheaper to clothe me than to feed me.
The truth is that when you emigrate, the doors are opened to new foods and stories that sneak in and begin to become part of you. They come to stay, they settle in, and the idea of the home you once had is nourished and grows with new flavors, new fruits, and new narratives.
It is almost miraculous to be sitting in front of a dish that was once merged into the shaping of my identity. Whether it's a dish prepared by a loved one, by myself, or by a new person in the land I am beginning to call home, eating that dish goes far beyond mere survival; it is an act that threads the past with the present, a constant dialogue between who I was and who I am at this exact moment.
I remember one of my earliest memories of attending school as a second-grader in the United States like it was yesterday: I was barely starting to understand the English language and was very shy about speaking it. At this point, I was still in Spanish-language classes but on this particular day our homeroom teacher was out and in her place we were taught by an English dominant teacher. I remember a huge sign that sat near her desk that read, “I want the restroom".
If you wanted to go to the restroom you had to read the sign in English. As a shy, Spanish-speaking student, I put my hand up but could not bring myself to read the sign even though she was persistent in mouthing the words while pointing at the sign.
In that moment I felt ashamed of not knowing English, of not being able to verbalize a basic necessity, and felt as though I rather hold it in to avoid my teacher’s glaring eyes as she demanded I repeat after her.
This memory still makes me shudder and makes me realize how often our experience as Spanish speakers was not one of pride but rather one we felt the need to disguise to survive.
There’s a video trend on TikTok that asks, “What’s classy if you’re rich but trashy if you’re poor?”
Speaking multiple languages is one of these things. The idea that if your child can speak multiple languages means you have afforded them the opportunity of a better life. Yet immigrants are asked that they assimilate, be stripped of their culture, their traditions, and their native languages.
We’ve seen high-profile Latine individuals who go on to achieve great things only to be asked, why don’t you speak Spanish? It’s as if their Latinidad is only valid if they speak Spanish. They fail to realize that the same system that asks why they don’t speak the language also stripped them of the opportunity to embrace their native tongue.
In states like Texas, New Mexico, and the rest of the Southwest, young students grew up being punished or even being beat for speaking Spanish in classrooms. To assimilate and provide what they thought was a better life for their children, parents would avoid speaking the language altogether. This resulted in many Latinos who do not speak the language even though they are only second or third generation.
So when we wonder why our fellow Latinos don’t speak Spanish, we must choose not to shame them. For many, assimilation was forced upon them, giving them no other option. It’s time to put our misconceptions about the Latino community behind us and realize that language does not define whether you are worthy of being considered Latino or not.
There are enough issues that we face as a community, and punishing Latinos for not speaking their native tongue does nothing but exclude members of it. It’s time to recognize the systemic inequalities that continue to plague our community, the same inequalities that perpetuated the erasure of Spanish from our upbringing.
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