Home.

“Joven! Joven!” called Mrs. Paiz to the nearby cook, having clearly emerged as the mover and shaker of the evening. She had to raise her voice above the laughter and busy chatter that surrounded the table. “Joven! Una mas baleada de pollo, por favor!” she instructed the worker, the cook nodding and returning to her work behind the counter. The order successfully altered, Mrs. Paiz returned her attention to the story Angel was telling about the situations his cousin always seems to find himself in, his wife Santa adding with great excitement the important details that Angel was leaving out. Carlos chimed in with his tales of life in El Salvador before having relocated to Honduras recently, while his wife Reina, always the picture of grace, sat contentedly next to him, making sure that their daughter Kelli and the Paiz’s youngest daughter were enjoying themselves during all this mayhem, as well. I sat next to Mrs. Paiz at the makeshift head of the three nonsimilar tables we had pushed together in order to all fit, agreeing emphatically as she reminded Tiffany and I that the next time we are in town we must stay at their house, laughing at the stories, offering my own anecdotes when appropriate, and stopping at least once every five minutes, almost out of breath at how full my heart felt in that moment.

 

 

It was one of my last nights in San Juan before leaving for Florida, and a group of us had decided that we would go together to Doña Blanca’s restaurant so that Tiffany and I could get our last baleadas before departing. We arrived in typical fashion, laughing, slightly disorganized, not sure who ended up in which car before leaving and hoping that everyone got there. We pulled our tables together and placed our orders, each person needing to be brought to attention to make their request after having lost themselves in conversation only moments before. We would laugh, eat, and tell stories for the remainder of the evening.

 

 

During this meal, I couldn’t help but reflect on my time here in San Juan with all the people I sat there eating with. I have spent the last six weeks of my life living with these people, becoming involved in their daily lives, getting to know them, their stories, their dreams, their likes and dislikes, and I have fallen in love with each and every one of them. And as I sat there among the people who have been like family to me during this trip, reminiscing with them and planning for the future with them, I thought to myself,

 

“This is home.”

 

This city in which I have fallen off of trees, tutored children in English, learned more Spanish, and become an integral part of a network of families, has become home for me. And I thought, what is home, then, if a city of which I had little previous knowledge before this year can become such an intimate part of my personality and story so quickly? What is home, if people whom I did not know two months ago can be as close to me as family? What is home if my heart already aches for this country even though I have not yet returned to the States? What is home?

 

“Home,” I thought as I listened to Joel regale us with the details of the soccer game we had all attended that weekend, “home is where love is.”

 

If there is something more that is necessary to make four walls, a city, or a relationship, into a place of residence, safety, acceptance, and growth, that something must be love. And in this world, whether it be in the house one grew up in, a group of friends which have become like family, a relationship of complete loyalty, or a group of families in a small town in a small country in Central America, where we find love, we find a home.

 

 

This week I return to my home in the States, and I am elated to see my family, my friends, and my Florida again, but I know that I also have a home in San Juan Pueblo, and whether I return next month, next year, or never, that home will always be there, around that table of friends, laughing, listening, and breathing deeply the air that night, which was filled with the smell of warm baleadas and love.

 

 

Home,

 

Isaac.

Say This, and FOR THE LOVE OF ALL THAT IS GOOD Don’t Say That!

I have been an active student of the Spanish language for seven and a half years now, and it is one of the most fulfilling and exciting parts of my life. Spanish is my minor at college, and speaking it, singing it, reading it, and writing it are some of my favorite pastimes.

 

Plus I really love rolling my R’s.

 

As anyone who has sought to become bilingual can tell you, the life of the student of language is one of habitual learning. There will always be another synonym, colloquialism, or outdated phrase of which one was not previously aware. In particular when in reference to the Spanish language, the meanings of many words change from country to country among Central and South America, which means that while you may think you are simply offering a kind salutation to someone on the street, in their community, you have just insulted their dearly departed mother. One must simply continue to add to one’s already existing knowledge base and learn from one’s mistakes along the way.

 

I have made many mistakes along the way, and have also learned from the lingual mistakes of others, and desire at this time to share some with you, so that you might not make the same mistakes as I have in the future.

 

When desiring to inform a group of people that you have heartburn, make sure and announce loudly that you have “reflujo” (pronounced ray-floo-hoe), meaning heartburn, and not “reflojo” (pronounced ray-flow-hoe), which means diarrhea.
They will believe you in either case.

 

 

I promise.

 

If you would like to tell someone that you are excited to see them tomorrow, please, for the love of all that is good in this world, tell them that you are “emocionado,” meaning excited, to see them, and not “excitado,” meaning sexually turned on, to see them.

 

‘

 

This is what we call a “false cognate,” which is a word in another language that sounds like a word in English, but does not have the same meaning.

 

These will kill you.

 

Early on in my career as a Spanish speaker, I was informed of the power of the “ñ” in the language. For example, while you might wish to tell your friend happy birthday by saying “¡Feliz Cumpleaños!”, removing the ñ and its sound by saying simply “¡Feliz Cumpleanos!” with a plain n sound, will result in having wished your precious friend a “Happy Fulfilled Anus.”

 

 

I hope it was worth it.

 

If, after having made one of the above mistakes, you desire to inform those to whom you have made a fool out of yourself that you are embarrassed, you want to say that you have “pena,” meaning that you are embarrassed, NOT that you are “embarazada,” which means that you are pregnant.

 

 

That, my friends, is how rumors get started.

 

If you wish, as I did, to talk to the young maintenance man that works at the school who everyone calls “Chiqui,” an abbreviation for “Chiquito,” meaning small, then by all means call him by his nickname. However, do not accidentally call him “Chichi,” which is local slang for breasts.

 

 

Chiqui will not be as eager to spend time with you as he previously was when you make this mistake.

 

When wishing to ask a friend if they are planning on sharing their cupcake with you, Ask simply, “Vas a compartir el quequito conmigo?” Do not, I implore you, DO NOT, mix up your words and ask them “Vas a partir el quequito conmigo?”, which, in local slang, would mean “Are you going to lose your virginity with me?”

 

 

I tell you these things because I love you.

 

If you’re planning on picking up another language, I encourage you to do it! You will find it most fulfilling, I promise. I only ask that you commit that which I have told you here to memory so that you might live a long life of happiness and little embarrassment.

 

 

In English,

 

Isaac.