Rachel Frick Cardelle

I’ll admit that I didn’t take Spanish in high school because it was the smart thing to do, or the right thing to do, or even because it would help me with my college applications. I took it in high school because my parents told me it was the smart, right, best thing to do for my college applications, and I still did things just to please them back then. I remember my high school Spanish teacher so well: Señorita Barrera. She had a husky, Marlo Thomas-type voice (if you are too young to know Marlo Thomas, think Demi Moore, only less sexy and more cute), and was always slightly rumpled with chalk all over her hands and beautiful, wild, curly dark hair. She would roam our classroom, up and down the aisles, working with unflagging enthusiasm to instill in us an appreciation for her language. (When I say “her language,” I mean only that Spanish was her first love, the language of her heart, for her English was perfect, too.)

Ah, Srta. Barrera, little did I know when I took Spanish 101 where you would take me and the mark you would make on my life, and all that I would owe to you. Over the four years of high school, the numbers in your classroom dwindled rapidly, from well over 20 the first year to maybe five of us by senior year. For those of us who stayed – and we were a very mixed group – the class became a favorite, with far more laughing and learning than I remember in my other classes. Srta. Barrera, you continued to demand far more out of us than we were wont to give; we were teenagers and not ready to give anything to our teacher that wasn’t dragged from us. But by fourth year, the bond among us all was strong, and we had many of those inside jokes that signal a group of people who have traveled far and long together; and always there you were, trying to herd us like a bunch of cats down the road to a whole new language. A quarter century later, I remember the fun of sitting in your class, Srta. Barrera. Fun I never looked for when I signed up for my first year of Spanish. I thank you for that. I thank you for that day in class when you suddenly melted into a dreamy romantic in front of us all. Do you remember?

You wrote the word “CEBOLLA” on the board. “I love that word. Cebolla. Say it after me: cebolla.” We all dutifully repeated it, “Cebolla.. Cebolla.” Then you began to wax eloquent in Spanish about the word “cebolla,” the poetry in it, the joy of uttering the word. I don’t know what happened, but suddenly my mouth and my heart connected, and I could feel what you loved about the word, the way the word sounded and how it felt on my own tongue. Never before had I though of a word, or of a language, like that and suddenly my ears heard language in a completely different way. That afternoon in my English class, as we read a Shakespeare sonnet, I finally felt Shakespeare’s use of language, and the sonnet we were studying that day has always remained with me. Ten years later I asked for that same sonnet to be read at my wedding. “For thy sweet love remembered such wealth brings, That then I scorn to change my state with kings.”

A whole world opened up to me that day in your classroom as I discovered my own language, my own first love, my mother tongue of English. I thank you for that Srta. Barrera.

In college, I drifted among several majors until finally I discovered International Affairs, which allowed me to take some of everything in which I was interested. Prominent among the things I could take was Spanish literature. I read Borges and Gabriel Garcia Marquez in their own language; a language I had begun to understand in your classroom. The way they wrote was so dramatically different than any author writing in English, that I learned to appreciate not only Spanish-written literature, but also gained a new joy in reading English-written works. For all that, I thank you, Srta. Barrera. The biggest gift my Spanish gave me in college was the excuse and ability to join the semester abroad in Mexico at a time when I was losing interest in being a student. That semester changed so much about how I understood others and myself. There were many joyous moments that semester: when I first realized I was speaking Spanish to someone and it was flowing out without having to stop each sentence and translate everything in my head; when I awoke from my first dream in Spanish; when I could argue with my economics professor in Spanish.

And when I realized the meaning, and importance, of social cues particular to culture – whether language, or dress, or actions; an interesting study, for sure, but, immersed in the culture, I became aware of the deeper significance of those cues. I became sensitive to how misunderstandings could hurt, embarrass, or even be the cause of larger frictions between peoples of difference societies, part of what divides our greater society of humankind. I thank you for every one of those life-altering revelations, Srta. Barrera.

From there, Srta., my Spanish led me to many other places. I fell in love with and married an American whose first language was Spanish. My Spanish brought me close to my father- and mother-in-law, allowing me to share in their humor, and in their family in a way that English only would never have offered me. They taught me how to play with the language, how to love idioms in different languages – idioms and sayings that are meaningless in one tongue and offer a world of insight in another. I spent two years in Central America, where I learned how to pick coffee beans, make tortillas by hand, hand wash jeans on a rock by a lake, and what it means to live under a military government. I discovered new colors, new smells, new tastes, and new ideas and perspectives on the world and how it works. I didn’t like all the colors, smells, and tastes, and I definitely did not agree with all the new ideas and perspectives. But all of them gave me a richer understanding of where I stand in the world. I had no idea the adventures learning a new language would open for me when I walked into your classroom at the age of 14. Your classroom cost me four years of hard studying, tedious memorization, and endless verb conjugation. I couldn’t imagine that all that hard work could be the foundation of so much joy in my life. Nor did I imagine that in learning another language and immersing myself in another culture I would come to love them both, and they would teach me to love my own language and culture even more.

I recently read a study that found workplaces that embrace diversity to be more productive. That didn’t seem like a huge revelation to me because learning new cultures and a new language offered me resources and the strength to grow and stretch that I would never have been able to do otherwise. So my parents were right. And I still get a thrill when I see or hear the word “cebolla.” Who knew ‘onion’ could be such a thrilling word? I hope you are well, Señorita Barrera. Your teaching contributed to the fabric of my life, weaving in such wondrous colors.
Thank you.

Originally published in “Northampton Community College Magazine: Travel, International Adventure” Summer 2007