At first, I spoke Spanish like it was borrowed – like I was asking permission to use this or that word. I’d say something and then wait – for confirmation, for affirmation, for a sign that the other person understood. I was always ready to be refused.
Nowadays, I find myself expecting to be understood. Not all the time, of course – not when I’m reaching the ends of my linguistic rope – but plenty. At the fruit stand, at the laundromat – anyplace where I know what I’m doing because I’ve done it before. Or when I’m discussing things close to my heart – America and our politics especially.
This expectation comes with a feeling of entitlement – a good kind. An entitlement to participate, to have a full say in what’s going on around me. To not accept the wrong price or bad directions or silly advice simply because I don’t understand enough to refuse them. To be a part of things.
