In sixth grade, I was invited to a friend’s birthday party. Along with the customary RSVP request, the invitation asked for movie input and listed several old and new titles. No one was surprised when the DVD player began reading The Lizzie McGuire Movie. In fact, we were pretty much thrilled. For months afterward we’d quote it in the halls, and sing the songs walking down the street. ‘’Have you ever seen such a beautiful night? I can almost kiss the stars for shining so bright…’’ We wanted to go to Italy and be mistaken for a famous singer! We wanted to have a gorgeous partner to ride around with on motorcycles. I’m pretty sure that more than one of us would’ve jumped at the chance to model an inflatable igloo like Hillary Duff’s character. In fact, we’d have jumped at the chance to just watch something as glamorous as a fashion show. And jump is exactly what I did. Without further adieu, here is the story of my début into the Bolivian fashion scene, accented by haha, The Lizzie McGuire Movie’s Soundtrack.
‘’Wake up in the morning, looking a little rough…’’
When I was invited to a contest to find the most beautiful woman of all Latin American countries, I was more than a little excited. It was hosted by Yanbal, a huge South American makeup company. Lucky for me, one of my fellow exchange student’s host moms has a great position with Yanbal, and was able to get seats for her gringa daughter and three friends at the show. Exciting!!! Except, oh my gosh, what would I wear? Really, this was a hard question. After I finally picked my dress and heels, there was the problem What to do with my hair? I’ve always had straight hair, but no matter the layers or sweeping bangs, it’s impossible to get it to lay straight. Well, with little time, and littler makeup, my friends told me to go with it down. Hair and dress were taken care of, but my face was still a little paint-free. Bolivians are beautiful, and like to paint themselves up if it can in enhance that beauty. One coat of mascara simply wouldn’t do it if I wanted to fit in with this crowd, especially with a bunch of beauty queens. Sharing a mirror with my friend’s mother was a bit nerve-wracking. Her entire job is makeup! What if I was doing it wrong? Apparently I wasn’t, and soon the five of us left.
‘’Wet your lips, and smile to the camera…’’
Upon entering the hotel in which the event was being hosted, we were amazed and a little nervous to walk down the long red carpet. Our fearless, professional leader hustled us along. What’s another model or fifty to her after all? She introduced us to some…people. I’m not exactly sure who, and then she left us on a couch. She sat at the other couch and was eventually joined by other pros. It took a moment of sitting quietly to realize that there were only a few such couches in the room. The rest of the room was dedicated mainly to the cat walk, with a table for the judges, and some stands for the millions of paparazzi. The room slowly filled, and with the low colored lighting and live soft jazz music, Spanish of course, it took on the atmosphere of a cool coffee house. An atmosphere that immediately dissipated as spotlights lit up the run way. We were only minutes from the show!
It was then that the paparazzi decided that four gringa girls sharing a couch anticipating the show were the perfect opportunity to test their cameras. Over and over we were asked to smile, sit closer, and write our names onto pads of paper. One reporter made the mistake of trying to learn our names by having us say them, but as he ran into the unspellable names of the United States, France, and Germany, he quickly gave that idea up and pulled out a pen. It’s curious to be photo-ed at a beauty contest. You know that if you make the paper, your forehead will be shiny and your dress a little wrinkled from sitting. You know you’ll be sharing a page with the beauty queen, and in comparison you feel like an eleven year old with her first zit. It’s still a lot of fun though, and seeing your face in the Sociales (social pages) is a very, very cool experience.
Soon enough the show began, and beautiful women sauntered down the catwalk, turned, pouted, and smiled for the cameras. I loved watching their feet, if only because the five inch heels were so gaudy and, yes, gorgeous. I love shoes, and got several good pictures of these ones, though I can’t imagine wearing them for any longer than your average beauty show. I see foot problems in their future. I didn’t see much more of their future than that though. The whole show, including announcing Cuba as the winner, took little more than half an hour. I enjoyed every minute of it, but it sure was a short occasion.
Afterwards the press crowded Cuba, and we were left to talk amongst ourselves on the couch. The live music started up again, and small trays of food were brought around. I sampled what tasted like a McNugget on a stick. Between the food and drinks, I talked to a college student sitting next to me. It was a very strange conversation: a poor hybrid of Spanish and English. Such is my life now.
Soon after taking pictures with Her Royal Highness herself, we left. It was only nine thirty or so. Evidence of our being there showed up in El Mundo, a local newspaper, two days later. Yes, our foreheads were shiny and our dresses were wrinkled, but you could tell we were having a great time. That is possible in and out of the movies.
Note: I am not going to site these songs. Please don’t report me for plagiarism. If you’re really that curious, Google them yourselves.
Oh, and stay tuned for the next part of the Fashionista in Bolivia saga: The Hair. It actually reminded me a lot of The Princess Diaries, but I don’t think I’ll quote in that one. XOXO
Tuesday, October 28, 2008
Sunday, October 19, 2008
Eenglish/Inglesh lengueg...I theenk
Oh dear. It's happening. I'm forgetting how to speak English. Sure, I still know a basic sentance (or is it sentence? I think it's sentence. I'm starting over.) Sure, I still know a basic sentence structure with the subject, predicate, etc. and so forth, but I'm losing some other things. Those bigs words I pull out for essays and to show off are sliding away and away till I can no longer see them. The other day I was trying to think of a big word, it's starts with an ''a,'' and I think I was thinking about my legs too. I stopped trying to remember it, and a few hours later it came to me: atrophy.
The spelling is going too. I didn't spell sentence with an ''a'' to make a point. Honest to goodness, that was an accident. Earlier this week I was sketching a Before and After scene. One of my classmates leaned over and without a word about my drawing abilities, told me ''Befor'' had an ''e'' at the end of it. Holy Macaroni! Do you see my problem? I've also mistaken ''genious'' for ''genius'' and ''clase'' for ''class'' in the last little edad (ha ha, age in Spanish.)
Sentences are coming out very strangly also. In my last assignment, here in the blog, about heat, I spent a very long time cursing my brain for forgetting. There is a sentence, I'm not saying which, that held my frustration for quite a long time because it just wouldn't flow! In my angry...oops...I meant anger, I hit the desk and said rather loudly ''¡No puedo hablar en ingles! ¡No puedo hacer mi tarea para mi clase de ingles en Alaska porque no recuerdo ingles!''
My grumbly grey stormcloud lightened a bit, and got a freakin platinum lining: I didn't have to pause once, or think at all about my tirade (is that a word? It sounds like English) in Spanish. Everyday conversations are still a pain, and incomprehensible, but when anger apparently improves my Spanish. Who'da thunk it?
Crap. That sentence made no sense at all. I meant: Everyday conversations are still a pain, and incomprehensible, but apparently anger improves my Spanish.
PS I'm purposely not editing this so you can see how nasty my language is becoming. I realize, Ms. Christianson, that the quality of my essays are probably decreasing because I can't speak English anymore. I sincerly hope this won't take my credit away, because I really want to graduate on time.
And thank goodness I took the SATs and ACTs before I came here. If my language declination (is that a word?) continues in its curent, currant, current, (crap) trend, I can see my scores dropping. Ack. What the freak, I don't really care now. But I betcha a hundred Bs I will care when I'm a senior.
The spelling is going too. I didn't spell sentence with an ''a'' to make a point. Honest to goodness, that was an accident. Earlier this week I was sketching a Before and After scene. One of my classmates leaned over and without a word about my drawing abilities, told me ''Befor'' had an ''e'' at the end of it. Holy Macaroni! Do you see my problem? I've also mistaken ''genious'' for ''genius'' and ''clase'' for ''class'' in the last little edad (ha ha, age in Spanish.)
Sentences are coming out very strangly also. In my last assignment, here in the blog, about heat, I spent a very long time cursing my brain for forgetting. There is a sentence, I'm not saying which, that held my frustration for quite a long time because it just wouldn't flow! In my angry...oops...I meant anger, I hit the desk and said rather loudly ''¡No puedo hablar en ingles! ¡No puedo hacer mi tarea para mi clase de ingles en Alaska porque no recuerdo ingles!''
My grumbly grey stormcloud lightened a bit, and got a freakin platinum lining: I didn't have to pause once, or think at all about my tirade (is that a word? It sounds like English) in Spanish. Everyday conversations are still a pain, and incomprehensible, but when anger apparently improves my Spanish. Who'da thunk it?
Crap. That sentence made no sense at all. I meant: Everyday conversations are still a pain, and incomprehensible, but apparently anger improves my Spanish.
PS I'm purposely not editing this so you can see how nasty my language is becoming. I realize, Ms. Christianson, that the quality of my essays are probably decreasing because I can't speak English anymore. I sincerly hope this won't take my credit away, because I really want to graduate on time.
And thank goodness I took the SATs and ACTs before I came here. If my language declination (is that a word?) continues in its curent, currant, current, (crap) trend, I can see my scores dropping. Ack. What the freak, I don't really care now. But I betcha a hundred Bs I will care when I'm a senior.
*Hot*
What is the definition of ‘’hot?’’ My dictionary says ‘'caliente.’’ In this case, I think a Webster’s College Dictionary would serve me better than my Spanish to English one. Well, I’m the author here, so I’m going to define hot. Hot: (as defined by the Wilcox World Dictionary) 1. adj. the description used for a boy with looks, charisma, and that extra ‘’sparkle.’’ 2. the temperature of Santa Cruz, Bolivia.
I thought I understood heat. Six years in Utah and various triple-digit summers after can do that to a girl. The said girl can become cocky. ‘’I love the heat,’’ she’ll say. ‘’I never burn,’’ she’ll say. ‘’I’ve danced in studios without air conditioning,’’ she’ll say. She thinks that a few eighty degree Fahrenheit days with humidity and a few more one hundred degree days without have prepared her for over one hundred degrees with humidity. This girl was very, very wrong.
There was a little town,
It’s colors green and brown
Full of adults and little kids.
And when it was hot
It was very, very hot.
And when it was hot,
It was humid.
Forgive the forced rhymes and focus instead on the meaning. You Sitkans know what I mean when I say seventy-five with humidity can kill your average born-and-bred South-East Alaskan. You Utahns know what I mean when I say one hundred and dry is perfect only for the swimming pools and snow cones. You Bolivians know what I mean when I say both afore mentioned groups are wimps to even think they know hot.
This is hot: Hot is laying on your bed in the smallest clothing you own, watching TV, and glancing down to see rivulets of sweat slide down your chest. Hot is changing your shirt three times a day in hopes of keeping away the smell of sweat. Hot is sleeping in just your underwear. Hot is showering twice a day, just to not stick to your chair in school. Hot is sweating in places you didn’t know it was possible to sweat: calves, forearms, toes (while wearing sandals.)
Bolivians take hot a little differently. For example, in Alaska, on a ‘’hot’’ day, we’d break out the salad, or sandwiches. We wouldn’t actually cook anything because the temperature was warm enough outside to want to put more heat inside. Here, my family, or at least our helper maid person, Aira (I’m not sure what her actual title is) believes in hot meals, even at noon thirty, when water left outside in a water bottle is a comfortable shower temperature. My parents still take their coffee or tea hot, and I always, ALWAYS, see people in jeans downtown. This is unnatural to me. I believe that man was made to react to certain conditions in nature. When it’s cold, put more clothes on and drink hot soup. When it’s hot, find the nearest swimming pool and order a lemonade. I find it slightly oxymoronic to sit in the shade outside in shorts and sandals, and drink Toddy (my favorite brand of coco mix that yes, I drank outside today in the heat.)
Although I often feel like I’m drowning in boiling water, I usually enjoy the climate here. My brain is enjoying the rest. Getting ready for school is a breeze because I never have look for a sweater, dig for a hat, or wonder which scarf will bring my outfit to the next level of coolness, while keeping me warm. Perhaps the biggest hassle is deciding which outfit will keep me the coolest while still being appropriate for the social situation. For example, I would gladly run around in my booty shorts with spandex underneath, but that looks a little dorky, and unprofessional in the migration office when I’m trying to renew my visa. Eventually I think I’m going to become dreadfully homesick for snow, and cold rain, but for now, Santa Cruz is still wonderful, and very, very hot.
I thought I understood heat. Six years in Utah and various triple-digit summers after can do that to a girl. The said girl can become cocky. ‘’I love the heat,’’ she’ll say. ‘’I never burn,’’ she’ll say. ‘’I’ve danced in studios without air conditioning,’’ she’ll say. She thinks that a few eighty degree Fahrenheit days with humidity and a few more one hundred degree days without have prepared her for over one hundred degrees with humidity. This girl was very, very wrong.
There was a little town,
It’s colors green and brown
Full of adults and little kids.
And when it was hot
It was very, very hot.
And when it was hot,
It was humid.
Forgive the forced rhymes and focus instead on the meaning. You Sitkans know what I mean when I say seventy-five with humidity can kill your average born-and-bred South-East Alaskan. You Utahns know what I mean when I say one hundred and dry is perfect only for the swimming pools and snow cones. You Bolivians know what I mean when I say both afore mentioned groups are wimps to even think they know hot.
This is hot: Hot is laying on your bed in the smallest clothing you own, watching TV, and glancing down to see rivulets of sweat slide down your chest. Hot is changing your shirt three times a day in hopes of keeping away the smell of sweat. Hot is sleeping in just your underwear. Hot is showering twice a day, just to not stick to your chair in school. Hot is sweating in places you didn’t know it was possible to sweat: calves, forearms, toes (while wearing sandals.)
Bolivians take hot a little differently. For example, in Alaska, on a ‘’hot’’ day, we’d break out the salad, or sandwiches. We wouldn’t actually cook anything because the temperature was warm enough outside to want to put more heat inside. Here, my family, or at least our helper maid person, Aira (I’m not sure what her actual title is) believes in hot meals, even at noon thirty, when water left outside in a water bottle is a comfortable shower temperature. My parents still take their coffee or tea hot, and I always, ALWAYS, see people in jeans downtown. This is unnatural to me. I believe that man was made to react to certain conditions in nature. When it’s cold, put more clothes on and drink hot soup. When it’s hot, find the nearest swimming pool and order a lemonade. I find it slightly oxymoronic to sit in the shade outside in shorts and sandals, and drink Toddy (my favorite brand of coco mix that yes, I drank outside today in the heat.)
Although I often feel like I’m drowning in boiling water, I usually enjoy the climate here. My brain is enjoying the rest. Getting ready for school is a breeze because I never have look for a sweater, dig for a hat, or wonder which scarf will bring my outfit to the next level of coolness, while keeping me warm. Perhaps the biggest hassle is deciding which outfit will keep me the coolest while still being appropriate for the social situation. For example, I would gladly run around in my booty shorts with spandex underneath, but that looks a little dorky, and unprofessional in the migration office when I’m trying to renew my visa. Eventually I think I’m going to become dreadfully homesick for snow, and cold rain, but for now, Santa Cruz is still wonderful, and very, very hot.
Wednesday, October 15, 2008
Question
Hello my pretties.
I have a dilemma. I have no idea what to write for this week's assignment. Thus, I am taking requests. Please reply with something you want me to write a nice long essay type thing about, k?
Gracias,
Eri
I have a dilemma. I have no idea what to write for this week's assignment. Thus, I am taking requests. Please reply with something you want me to write a nice long essay type thing about, k?
Gracias,
Eri
Thursday, October 9, 2008
*Breathing Books*
There is something to be said about fresh air after a long period of stale, smoky, over-breathed, and over-filtered oxygen. You hear it all the time, ‘’That was a breath of fresh air.’’ ‘’Her honesty was certainly a breath of fresh air.’’ ‘’Seeing him was like coming up for air after years under water.’’ Good, crisp air is a cure for nausea, dizziness, headache, nose ache (being a habitual recipient of nosebleeds, I’d know,) and countless mental maladies. The feeling of breathing clear air is so wonderful that it is now as much a metaphor as an actual action. With this introduction, I can easily take one of two trails in today’s entry: the literal, and the metaphorical. I’m choosing the second because finally, after a month of breathing backseat Volkswagen without AC air, I stepped outside; I read a novel.
If you weren’t aware of my situation, namely Bolivia, this wouldn’t surprise you. I am, or was, a certifiable bookworm. Books were my food. In truth, I probably read more than ate. Since coming here however, I’ve read only three and a half books in English. I brought three books with me: Gentlemen Prefer Blondes (a comical account of the original ‘’dumb blonde,’’) Beauty (a comfort book; my favorite retelling of ‘’Beauty and the Beast,’’) and The Garden of Eden (the half that I couldn’t finish.) I tried to pace myself with these; even so, they were finished within the first two weeks. This is how I turned to another form of entertainment: television.
It began innocently enough… Oh, I wonder how many channels there are. Oh, it’s Legally Blonde in Spanish! …then morphed into something else… Oh, dinner time already? But I just got back from school! Oh, I just watched three shows and can’t remember the plot to any of them! My rapid addiction was understandable I suppose. I was a TV innocent, once content to watch a movie on the weekend or a re-run of M*A*S*H* on a Thursday night. Moving into a house with six televisions and cable really broadsided me and glued me to the tube. I realized how wrong this was after watching five shows in one night, switching channels during commercial breaks so I could watch Monk and Friends in the same time slot. Disgusting, right? It was time for a change!
In my Spanish class populated by fellow exchange students, I mentioned my need of books. Hallelujah and Thank the Heavens, one girl agreed with me! Even better, she had brought a couple of books in English and we arranged a trade. I leant her Beauty in exchange for My Sister’s Keeper and Kaffir Boy. I started with My Sister’s Keeper that afternoon, right after my Spanish class. It was beautiful. I found another Jodi Picoult fan in South America! In my excitement, I couldn’t pace myself; I finished My Sister’s Keeper the next day. The book, like most of Picoult’s, was fantastic, but even better was the feeling of reading again. I still watched one of my favorite shows, but I read during the commercial breaks. An hour or two later I turned on the TV again, but found my favorite detective show, Crossing Jordan, wasn’t nearly as gripping, colorful, or emotionally attached to me as was Anna’s court case for not being her sister’s keeper. When this thought floated through my head a minute into the show, I turned it off and read for an hour or two more.
Curiously enough, it’s been two days since I read the novel, and I still haven’t begun Kaffir Boy. I browsed through a handful of short stories provided by my English teacher, but my need for a novel seems to have been satisfied for the time being. I never thought that would happen to me in one hundred thousand years, but look at that. People change I guess. Not to say that I’m not still a written-word addict, because I am, but I no longer feel naked without a page between my fingers. I think it is because I live so much in my notebooks and journals that I’m too busy drawing or writing my own life, to read about others’. But have no fear; the bookish Erika you all know and hopefully love will probably return to that position after her good healthy dose of South America. The air is different here, it’s true, but I can still breathe. I’ve acclimated.
Mentioned Works and Shows in Order of Appearance
Gentlemen Prefer Blondes.
By Anita Loos.
Beauty
By Robin McKinley
The Garden of Eden
By Ernest Hemingway
Legally Blonde (film)
I’m not sure who the director is, but Reese Witherspoon leads.
M*A*S*H* (TV)
Old TV show that you should really watch a season or two of.
Monk (TV)
On the Hallmark Channel.
Friends (TV)
On the WB.
My Sister’s Keeper
By Jodi Picoult
Kaffir Boy
By Mark Mathabane
Crossing Jordan (TV)
On the Hallmark Channel.
If you weren’t aware of my situation, namely Bolivia, this wouldn’t surprise you. I am, or was, a certifiable bookworm. Books were my food. In truth, I probably read more than ate. Since coming here however, I’ve read only three and a half books in English. I brought three books with me: Gentlemen Prefer Blondes (a comical account of the original ‘’dumb blonde,’’) Beauty (a comfort book; my favorite retelling of ‘’Beauty and the Beast,’’) and The Garden of Eden (the half that I couldn’t finish.) I tried to pace myself with these; even so, they were finished within the first two weeks. This is how I turned to another form of entertainment: television.
It began innocently enough… Oh, I wonder how many channels there are. Oh, it’s Legally Blonde in Spanish! …then morphed into something else… Oh, dinner time already? But I just got back from school! Oh, I just watched three shows and can’t remember the plot to any of them! My rapid addiction was understandable I suppose. I was a TV innocent, once content to watch a movie on the weekend or a re-run of M*A*S*H* on a Thursday night. Moving into a house with six televisions and cable really broadsided me and glued me to the tube. I realized how wrong this was after watching five shows in one night, switching channels during commercial breaks so I could watch Monk and Friends in the same time slot. Disgusting, right? It was time for a change!
In my Spanish class populated by fellow exchange students, I mentioned my need of books. Hallelujah and Thank the Heavens, one girl agreed with me! Even better, she had brought a couple of books in English and we arranged a trade. I leant her Beauty in exchange for My Sister’s Keeper and Kaffir Boy. I started with My Sister’s Keeper that afternoon, right after my Spanish class. It was beautiful. I found another Jodi Picoult fan in South America! In my excitement, I couldn’t pace myself; I finished My Sister’s Keeper the next day. The book, like most of Picoult’s, was fantastic, but even better was the feeling of reading again. I still watched one of my favorite shows, but I read during the commercial breaks. An hour or two later I turned on the TV again, but found my favorite detective show, Crossing Jordan, wasn’t nearly as gripping, colorful, or emotionally attached to me as was Anna’s court case for not being her sister’s keeper. When this thought floated through my head a minute into the show, I turned it off and read for an hour or two more.
Curiously enough, it’s been two days since I read the novel, and I still haven’t begun Kaffir Boy. I browsed through a handful of short stories provided by my English teacher, but my need for a novel seems to have been satisfied for the time being. I never thought that would happen to me in one hundred thousand years, but look at that. People change I guess. Not to say that I’m not still a written-word addict, because I am, but I no longer feel naked without a page between my fingers. I think it is because I live so much in my notebooks and journals that I’m too busy drawing or writing my own life, to read about others’. But have no fear; the bookish Erika you all know and hopefully love will probably return to that position after her good healthy dose of South America. The air is different here, it’s true, but I can still breathe. I’ve acclimated.
Mentioned Works and Shows in Order of Appearance
Gentlemen Prefer Blondes.
By Anita Loos.
Beauty
By Robin McKinley
The Garden of Eden
By Ernest Hemingway
Legally Blonde (film)
I’m not sure who the director is, but Reese Witherspoon leads.
M*A*S*H* (TV)
Old TV show that you should really watch a season or two of.
Monk (TV)
On the Hallmark Channel.
Friends (TV)
On the WB.
My Sister’s Keeper
By Jodi Picoult
Kaffir Boy
By Mark Mathabane
Crossing Jordan (TV)
On the Hallmark Channel.
Thursday, October 2, 2008
sorry hun, I'm just moody
I realize that the post below is a bit more harsh than the others. I apologize, and beg that you don't take generalizations to heart. For example, I said all adults don't try to understand me. I have found a Brazilian friend with two of the cutest little boys I've ever seen. She talked with me for almost two hours straight, and it was wonderful.
So yes, sorry. I'm trying not to complain, but these last two days have been...trying. No specific reason. I'm just emo. :)
XOXO
So yes, sorry. I'm trying not to complain, but these last two days have been...trying. No specific reason. I'm just emo. :)
XOXO
*Your Yusuke*
Long ago, and in the far off land of Utah, I had a special friend. He was big, strong, and played with me all the time. He let me put barrettes in his hair, to the point where there were more barrettes than hair. He took my sister and me to the movies. His name was Yusuke. He was going to college in Utah, but spent the occasional weekend with my family. We met him years before, in Japan. He was the greatest. I loved playing games, and attacking him, and annoying him to no end, I’m sure. There was one activity however, that I loved especially. You see, I was convinced that I could teach him English, never mind that he already spoke it. I decided, probably as an impetuous seven year old, that we’d have story time, so he could practice. I knew that I was doing him a huge favor, making him read to me book after picture book. He was the willing (or at least he appeared to be willing) pupil. Now here I am in a foreign country, going to high school. I would love to be someone’s Yusuke.
Of all the people I’ve met that don’t speak English, it’s the children who are willing to put the effort into understanding, and helping me understand. The majority of adults pass me over to a translator, or worse, find me a seat and a drink, then ignore me. Only the children have patience with my slow, sorry excuse for a language. Patience has never been a virtue associated with kids, but somehow these youngsters are curious enough that they can put up with my constantly shrugging shoulders and raised eyebrows. I think I’m their new toy. A week or two ago, one of my young friends brought out a Furbie. This thing was about as old as her, and though it didn’t work, she still liked it. The enticing aspect of Furbies is that they learn. If you tell it to them enough, they’ll learn to say your name, or any swear word you’d like. I am these kids’ Furbie. I eat on command, play on command, sing on command, and learn on command. I just wish they’d command me to read.
I’ve been told to read aloud in Spanish over and over. Trying that alone in my bedroom at eleven at night is a little disconcerting. I want someone to read to. I want a crazy little girl or boy to teach me Spanish, and how to read, and maybe even play soccer. For the record, this is a big deal, because I’m terrible at sports. I’m in a bit of a rut at the moment. My language has improved tremendously. It’s not so much that I can speak more, just that I understand at least twice as much as I used to. My problem is that I can’t speak more. Well, that’s a lie. But I can’t speak as much as I think I would be able to if I were to practice more. I am floja (lazy) though, and after an exhausting day at school, it’s all I can do to write a blog or journal entry, grab a bite to eat, then crash on my bed in front of the TV. Even worse, it’s English TV.
So the question of the night: can I be your Yusuke? Can I read stories to you? Will you correct my pronunciation and phrasing? Please be patient with my slow speed. Let me read aloud, because my Spanish is terrible, and I need all the help I can get. Sometimes I can’t even try. Take today, for instance. In the store, my mother asked me something. I don’t know what, and I told her so. She said ‘’Why don’t you understand?’’ I answered, ‘’Because I don’t speak Spanish.’’ Not the best of answers, but I was tired, had just had a terrible day, and was looking forward to a night of this: staying home, because my lack of understanding cost me an evening out. With this in mind, give me a chance! Talk to me. Slowly and precisely. Let me read. Maybe even let me participate in class. I honestly wouldn’t mind a little tinsey bit of homework. When it comes down to it, I’m here to learn. It’s a pain in the butt for you to speak slowly and simply enough for me to understand, but believe me, it’s even worse for me. Let me be your Yusuke. If you’re young, this will be easy. If you’re over the age of eleven, I pity you.
Of all the people I’ve met that don’t speak English, it’s the children who are willing to put the effort into understanding, and helping me understand. The majority of adults pass me over to a translator, or worse, find me a seat and a drink, then ignore me. Only the children have patience with my slow, sorry excuse for a language. Patience has never been a virtue associated with kids, but somehow these youngsters are curious enough that they can put up with my constantly shrugging shoulders and raised eyebrows. I think I’m their new toy. A week or two ago, one of my young friends brought out a Furbie. This thing was about as old as her, and though it didn’t work, she still liked it. The enticing aspect of Furbies is that they learn. If you tell it to them enough, they’ll learn to say your name, or any swear word you’d like. I am these kids’ Furbie. I eat on command, play on command, sing on command, and learn on command. I just wish they’d command me to read.
I’ve been told to read aloud in Spanish over and over. Trying that alone in my bedroom at eleven at night is a little disconcerting. I want someone to read to. I want a crazy little girl or boy to teach me Spanish, and how to read, and maybe even play soccer. For the record, this is a big deal, because I’m terrible at sports. I’m in a bit of a rut at the moment. My language has improved tremendously. It’s not so much that I can speak more, just that I understand at least twice as much as I used to. My problem is that I can’t speak more. Well, that’s a lie. But I can’t speak as much as I think I would be able to if I were to practice more. I am floja (lazy) though, and after an exhausting day at school, it’s all I can do to write a blog or journal entry, grab a bite to eat, then crash on my bed in front of the TV. Even worse, it’s English TV.
So the question of the night: can I be your Yusuke? Can I read stories to you? Will you correct my pronunciation and phrasing? Please be patient with my slow speed. Let me read aloud, because my Spanish is terrible, and I need all the help I can get. Sometimes I can’t even try. Take today, for instance. In the store, my mother asked me something. I don’t know what, and I told her so. She said ‘’Why don’t you understand?’’ I answered, ‘’Because I don’t speak Spanish.’’ Not the best of answers, but I was tired, had just had a terrible day, and was looking forward to a night of this: staying home, because my lack of understanding cost me an evening out. With this in mind, give me a chance! Talk to me. Slowly and precisely. Let me read. Maybe even let me participate in class. I honestly wouldn’t mind a little tinsey bit of homework. When it comes down to it, I’m here to learn. It’s a pain in the butt for you to speak slowly and simply enough for me to understand, but believe me, it’s even worse for me. Let me be your Yusuke. If you’re young, this will be easy. If you’re over the age of eleven, I pity you.
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