I can barely speak a second language...and so should you!

    For twelve years, I have studied the Spanish language.
   Twelve. Years.
   You'd think at this point I'd be ready to dive into the streets of Seville. Well....I wish. Granted, I can ask for agua con límon, or ask "¿Qué hora es?", and perhaps even more, but that's not quite mastery. As I stand on the precipice of the rest of my life, looking forward to plunging into la idioma de español, it's only proper to start asking myself what my motives for this whole endeavor are.

   This is a valid investigation for any native English speaker from the United States who thinks I'm loca. Generally as a culture, we stick to one language and one language only. Every other country seems to meet us in the middle by learning English, so why should we exert ourselves? Why bother being (or attempting to be) bilingual? All of the answers below, and the others not particularly brought up will most likely be explored at a later date. For now, let's break it down to a simpler question:
  

   "Why am I doing this?"


   Even with the years of required language classes, the drive to understand español didn't pop up until my class was treated to a semi popular indie foreign film, Los diarios moticicletas (The Motorcycle Diaries). As is per usual for in school movies, most of the class seemed to tune out. This time, instead of eyes glazing over like usual, something was different. I was suddenly acutely aware of the rhythm of speech, a musical quality that I couldn't quite find in my first language. At first, I couldn't catch even a word, the comprehension slipping like sand through my fingers. Slowly, I latched onto dates, adjectives, eventually a snippet or two of a common phrase. Hearing the dusty road story of a young Ernesto Guevara and Alberto Granado told in this melodic tongue opened up a new world.

   With each month, I felt like I was picking up more and more. Though I'll be the first to admit that the language still didn't seem to latch on naturally, the shape of each new word in my mouth was a thrill that must be experienced only by those dying to let in, yet still just outside the fence. I sifted through music, movies, tradition, and foods foreign to what I knew. Most of my life, our educational system has been telling me that other cultures exist, with idiosyncrasies and customs unto their own. But what worksheets and textbooks could not tell me, these little pockets of culture could, to a degree. It was then, as I delved deeper into learning, that a new sensation came upon me: shame.

   From the little I have studied and seen of Hispanic and Latin American culture, I am enthralled by this new world so near to my own. Yet prejudice and ignorance still exists in the U.S. There's popular songs denouncing the use of other languages besides English. The relationship that exists between these two ways of life, for now, seems lacking and full of miscommunication. I became frustrated.

   I realize that learning Spanish and whipping out a soap box every time someone makes a distasteful joke isn't going to change much, or somehow make me a better person than others, or make me the most cultured human. This scholarly attempt isn't about that. It's about the passion of experiencing a new way of life, one that I find to be welcoming to my own life and personality. It's about understanding another perspective, about trying to figure out how the world I share with others might be felt in another way. It's about wonder and awe, about wanting to step back, and about perceiving, observing, and appreciating the world more thoroughly. Sure, it's about speaking. But it's really all about listening.