No Speaky Spanish
“No están picando. Not even a nibble.”
“Dad, how many times have I told you not to speak Spanish?” my daughter said in a hushed tone.
“Yes, Yes, I know, but it’s just you and me here.”
“Somebody could be listening, dad. You never know where there are microphones and even cameras these days.”
“Okay, honey. I’ll be more careful,” he said, mostly to appease her. It was true there could be severe consequences for anyone caught speaking a foreign language, but he doubted someone would hear them way out here. They were standing at the end of a long jetty. It was his favorite fishing spot on what used to be known as South Padre Island, but was now officially simply South Island. The Spanish part of its name had been dropped a few years after English had become the official language of the country. He was ninety-three and his memory wasn’t as sharp as it used to be, but he remembered the day Congress passed the law thirty years ago. There had been a few protests, but by then most Latinos were afraid to make too many waves. The ones who had been allowed to remain in the country because of their long history of American citizenship felt lucky to still be there. His parents had migrated from Mexico in the late 2020’s, and Eugenio had been born in south Texas shortly thereafter. His parents spoke no English, so Spanish was the first language little Eugenio learned before he started attending school. He also quickly learned that speaking anything but English in the classroom, even back in those days, was frowned upon. At home, however, his mother insisted he never forget the language of his ancestors, and as he grew he learned to appreciate the richness of his mother tongue.
“Come on dad, it’s time to go.” His daughter’s voice snapped him out of his reverie. They hadn’t caught anything of course. The Gulf of Mexico had been almost completely fished out, but Eugenio had not lost hope that one day he would snag the big one. When they arrived back at their modest two-bedroom apartment he went to his room to lie down. Ironically he now lived in the same area he did when he was growing up, although the government had razed the old homes and replaced them with prefabricated units. He was grateful his daughter had taken him in when his wife died a few years ago, despite his son-in-law’s misgivings. Veronica was his only child, though, and she doted on him. He and his wife had been told early on she couldn’t conceive and they had stopped trying. When his wife became pregnant at forty-four they knew it was a miracle. Now his daughter was all he had left. As he looked at the old black and white photograph of his wife on the nightstand he thought “Ya pronto Gloria. I’ll see you soon.” He was in relatively good health for his age, but he was tired. Not just physically, but tired of what had become of his beloved Brownsville, and the country as a whole.
His parents had taught him that America was the land of opportunity, and if you worked hard, you would be successful. They loved America, and became naturalized citizens as soon as they could. Eugenio took them at their word and studied hard. They lived in a small frame home close to downtown where his father owned a small used clothing store, and where Eugenio worked a few hours after school. They catered mostly to Mexican nationals who crossed the bridge every day to shop and work, but by the time Eugenio was in high school, things started to change. First the government closed the southern border to all but commercial traffic. After that it took only six months for his father to have to close shop. His father struggled to find day work, and any thought of Eugenio going to college was dashed. He had to help support the family any way he could. He mowed lawns, delivered groceries, and washed cars. After high school though his parents encouraged him to seek out new opportunities, so he decided to travel around the country and find work as he went. He met his wife Gloria five years later outside of Coldwater, Michigan. They were both working the fields picking cucumbers and as soon as he saw her, Eugenio knew she was the one. Her parents had migrated from El Salvador, but had died in a car accident when she was sixteen. She’d been on her own ever since. They were married three months later by one of their friends who had been a pastor in his native Colombia. When his parents became ill the following year they moved back to Brownsville where Eugenio was lucky enough to get a custodial job at one of the local schools. His parents passed away a couple of years later within months of each other, and while Eugenio was devastated, his Gloria was there to comfort him.
As the years passed the mood in the country grew increasingly hostile toward immigrants. The southern border closure had been just the first step in a series of actions designed to further marginalize them. Brownsville’s population, which was ninety percent Mexican American, was often the target of attacks in the media. Many of the local citizens though, especially the younger generation, supported the nationalist movement, arguing it was time they stopped living in the past. Weren’t they all just simply Americans? Even though Eugenio didn’t agree with them, he kept his head down and worked hard. When their daughter Veronica arrived unexpectedly, he had even more incentive to stay quiet and do whatever it took to provide for his family. Privately though he hated what was happening in his city. Slowly but surely the types of cafes and restaurants his parents had frequented were giving way to newer eateries with more “American” menus. Soon after, anyone seen buying tortillas at local groceries was thought of as being Anti American, and after a while most chains stopped carrying them. By the time the English only law was passed, most Brownsville businesses with Spanish names had closed. No government office could provide aid to its patrons in any language other than English, and over the years the punishment for anyone heard speaking a foreign language increased from a simple fine, to imprisonment.
As Eugenio looked at his wife’s photo on the nightstand and remembered all this, he thought how lucky he had been to find Gloria when he did. She was his rock through all the changes. Her death four years ago had crushed him, and he was looking forward to joining her soon. He felt his daughter still needed him, though, especially with her marriage. Her husband William, whose real name was Guillermo, worked for one of the local government offices in charge of language “assimilation and enforcement.” He and his daughter had argued over allowing Eugenio to move in with them, and his son in law had conceded only with the strict understanding that no that Spanish was to be spoken in the house.
“Dad, dinner’s ready,” he heard his daughter call. Once they were seated his son in law said through a mouthful of rice: “How was the fishing, Eugene?” he asked sarcastically. How he hated being called that, he thought. He wanted to yell at him that his name was Eugenio, but instead he simply said, “One day I’ll catch the big one, don’t you worry.”
“Sure,” his son in law replied with a smirk. “One of these days you’ll come back home with all the fish in the gulf.” William laughed out loud at his own joke, but his wife wasn’t amused.
“Don’t worry dad. I know you’ll catch the big one soon.”
“I don’t know why you keep humoring him, Veronica. You know damn well he’s never gonna catch anything out there. Are you as delusional as him or just plain dumb?”
Before he could stop himself, Eugenio said, “hey sonso, don’t talk to my daughter that way.”
At this William exploded. “Dammit! We’ve talked about using that language in this house. I should report you. If anyone found out Spanish is being spoken here losing my job is the least of my worries. We need to do something about this Veronica. I won’t have it.”
“I’m sorry honey. Dad, please apologize and tell him it’ll never happen again. Please.”
Eugenio wasn’t crazy about apologizing to this pendejo. Especially for simply speaking the truth in the language he loved. He wanted to tell this gabacho wanna-be que se chingue su madre. Instead, for the sake of his daughter he said. “I’m sorry William. It won’t happen again.”
“Well it better not. I’m tired. I’m going to bed, but we’ll talk more about this in the morning Veronica.”
Once her husband had closed the door to their bedroom his daughter said, “Dad. Why do you have to get him upset?”
“Get him upset? Honey, he’s a bully. I hate the way he treats you. You deserve much better.”
“You know how hard it was for me to find a husband dad. I’m not the most beautiful woman in the world, and I feel lucky William married me. He takes care of me. And now you as well.”
“What are you talking about? You’re beautiful sweetheart. Just like your mother. I’ve told you many times not to let anyone make you feel less than you are. Especially that…” he didn’t finish his thought because he wanted to say that pendejo presumido, but he didn’t want to upset his daughter more than she was.
“Okay dad. Let’s just go to bed. I’m really tired. I love you,” she said kissing him on the cheek.
As he lay in bed that night Eugenio once again remembered his late wife. “Ay Gloria,” he thought. “I want to be with you, but I can’t leave our daughter yet. She doesn’t see how special she is and lets that idiot of a husband just walk all over her. He thinks he’s important because he has a government job. A job where he punishes people for speaking our precious language. Traiconero! I’m glad you weren’t around to meet him.” That night he dreamed he was fishing at his favorite spot. His line was taut and as he reeled it in he could see the fin of an enormous red drum with a huge black spot on its tail. As he was about to bring it up to the jetty though the line broke. He heard his son-in-law’s shrill laughter and saw his smirking face as the fish swam back down into the deep. Suddenly his wife Gloria was standing next to him and said, “don’t worry honey, you’ll catch the big one soon.” Eugenio relaxed and smiled in his sleep. He felt an inner peace he hadn’t since she was alive. When he awoke, he felt comforted by his wife’s words, but wished he knew what the dream meant. In the old days he could have gone to one of the local healers to help him, but most of those traditions had either faded or been outlawed. Eugenio had heard there was still one old curandera in town though, and he resolved to find her.
After breakfast he told his daughter he was going for a walk, and after assuring her repeatedly he’d be fine he set off. He could get around pretty well with the help of his cane and he didn’t have far to go. He didn’t get out much since the old neighborhood had changed, but there were still a couple of spots where the old timers like himself hung out. When he got to the downtown square, he saw a group of older men playing dominoes. As he approached them Eugenio reminded himself not to use any Spanish words. Around here there were definitely lots of cameras. In addition, anyone wanting to make a quick buck or even gain favoritism with the local government would report his transgression in an instant. He didn’t care much about what might happen to him, but the last thing he wanted to do was get his daughter in trouble. He recognized one of the old guys who was playing, and nodded at him as he sat on a nearby bench to observe the game. The guy didn’t nod back.
Eugenio just sat there watching. In the old days the four players would have been loudly talking smack to each other, mostly in Spanish, and laughing at each other’s stories and jokes. All Eugenio heard now was the light sound of the wooden dominoes as they were placed next to each other on the old concrete table. The silent game hurt Eugenio’s heart, and he was glad when it was over and one of the men, the one he had nodded to, came to sit next to him on the bench. “How are you, sir?” asked the man without turning to face Eugenio.
“I’ve been better,’ he replied staring straight ahead. He knew he had to be careful with his words while trying to find information about the curandera. “There is something ailing me.” he continued, “but the prescriptions I normally take haven’t been helping.”
“Well, sometimes some fresh bread helps,” responded the man, gesturing to the bakery across the street. “They often keep the freshest bread in the back.”
Eugenio thanked the man and walked across the street to what used to be the old Texas Café. In the old days they made the best breakfast tacos in town. Now it was a government bakery supply. Eugenio hadn’t been here in years, and obviously the place had been renovated and expanded. It was huge. A Mexican American woman about 60 wearing a pristine apron was behind the counter putting large loafs into plain paper bags. She had the look of someone who was doing a job she’d done for years, but hated. The rest of the process was mechanized. In fact it wasn’t clear to Eugenio why the woman needed to be there, but he guessed the system had to give them something to do. The sterile look of the place somehow diminished the smell of freshly baked bread. “Good morning mam,” Eugenio said. “I understand you have the freshest bread in the back.” Without looking up or stopping what she was doing the woman responded “sure, just go through that door and someone will help you.”
Eugenio went through the swinging metal door into a vast warehouse filled with wooden pallets stacked high with what he guessed were baking supplies. There was no one in sight, but before he turned to leave he felt a tap on his shoulder. When he turned around he came face to face with the oldest looking woman he had ever seen. She gestured for him to follow her through a door Eugenio hadn’t noticed when he first walked into the warehouse. They entered a tiny room lined with shelves on each wall. The shelves held multicolored candles, statues of saints, old mason jars filled with what seemed to be herbs, and other items Eugenio couldn’t identify. The old woman pointed to a chair across from a small table where she was now seated. As he sat Eugenio took a better look at her. Her skin was dark brown and as wrinkled as a desert lizard. Her hair was long and so white it seemed to glow. Her eyes, a light hazel, smiled with kindness and a deep knowledge as ancient as the hills. Eugenio wondered how old she was. “I’m one hundred and twenty-four,” said the old woman reading his mind.
“I hope I wasn’t rude,” Eugenio said. “I’ve just never met anyone who looks like you.”
“No te preocupes Eugenio. Don’t worry. Nothing offends an old woman like me,” she said smiling. Eugenio was both concerned that she had spoken in Spanish and curious to know how she knew his name. Before he could respond though the old woman said, “Nothing can get through these walls. And I’ve known your name for a long time Eugenio. I’ve been waiting for you.”
When Eugenio was growing up he had heard stories about curanderas from his parents but had never met one. He knew they had remarkable powers but he was still taken aback at her words. He wondered what her name was.
“Me llaman La Sabia,” she said once again anticipating his question. “The Wise One. I don’t’ know if I’m wise,” she continued. “Maybe I’ve just been around a long time,” she added with a smile. “Agárrame la mano.” Eugenio did as she asked and held her hand. It felt like leather parchment. The old woman closed her eyes and in a gentle voice said “Vas a tener un gran dolor Eugenio. Pero no te preocupes because from that pain you will find peace. You will catch the big one of your dream soon.” She opened her eyes and quietly said “now please go. I’m very tired.”
Eugenio walked back into the warehouse and noticed the door leading to the old woman’s sanctuary closed seamlessly. There was no way to tell where it was on the wall, and Eugenio started to wonder if he had imagined the whole thing. He walked back into the front of the bakery and out the front door without acknowledging the woman behind the counter who never even looked his way.
As Eugenio walked home he wasn’t too concerned by the old woman’s words. He wasn’t afraid of pain. He had endured much of it throughout the years. He was mostly comforted by what she had said about his finding peace. He hoped that meant somehow his daughter’s troubled marriage would soon improve. When he arrived home he found his son-in-law sitting in the kitchen table with his head in his hands. When he heard Eugenio enter he looked up and said, “You stupid old man! I told you what would happen if you kept speaking that damn Spanish! Now look what you’ve done.”
“What do you mean? Where’s Veronica?”
“Where you sent her. Did you think they wouldn’t find out about your little excursion today? Did you think the old man in the town square wouldn’t turn you in for a few extra meal vouchers?”
Eugenio stood there stunned. He couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “Where did they take her? What will they do to her? Why didn’t you go with her?”
“That’s not how it works you dumb old man. After all these years you don’t know that? I’m lucky they didn’t take me with them, but they’ll be back for you soon enough. And when they do they’ll get you to confess all the other times you’ve used that damn language. They’ll get you to admit your daughter’s used it too.”
“But she hasn’t. She never has. They’ll never get me to say that.”
“It doesn’t matter what you say. They won’t believe it, and either way they’ll punish her for allowing you to use it. No matter what you’ll never see her again.”
His son in law kept talking but Eugenio didn’t hear the rest amid the buzzing in his head. The next thing he knew he was standing at his favorite fishing spot at the end of the jetty. He had a vague memory of driving his daughter’s car there although he hadn’t driven in years. As he stood there looking out at the gulf waters he realized he had his fishing rod in his hands and the line was taut. When he looked closely he thought he saw that big red drum in the water, tugging at his line. Like in his dream, the line snapped. He heard his wife’s voice saying “Ya es hora Eugenio. It’s time to catch the big one. Vamos ,ven.” Without hesitation and with a smile on his face he followed the large fish into the water.
Eduardo R. del Rio was born in Havana, Cuba and raised in San Juan, Puerto Rico. He is the author of One Island Many Voices by the U of Arizona Press, and editor of The Prentice Hall Anthology of Latino Literature. His most recent book titled CubaRican, a bilingual memoir of stories and poems, was just released by Mouthfeel Press. His work has appeared in Label Me Latina, Pleaides, Voices de la Luna, The Journal of Caribbean Literature, and various other journals. He is an Emeritus Professor of Literature and Culture from the University of Texas-RGV, an NEH Fellow, and holds a Ph.D, In English Literature, He lives in the southern border town of Brownsville Texas with his wife Janet and cat Lucy.
