Native

Tongue

The heat from the fryer sizzled the atmosphere as I felt sweat collect at my blond hairline.

“Make this order fast, and get it out there!”, ordered my manager. I was used to this language.

She was a plump dark-haired woman, that probably grew up somewhere like Idaho, and her plain

English remarks were so rudimentary that I knew what she was going to say before she even

spoke. However, as I gazed over my chest-high, artificially heated countertop, there existed a

different realm. One with many differences, but was also strikingly similar at the same time. The

chefs in our restaurant all had a Hispanic background, and their native language was their

primary tongue. Each of the chefs darted razor-sharp phrases of Spanish at one another, a talent

that despite three years of schooling, I had yet to master. One of the chefs, Pedro, broke my

trance in a brief exclamation “¿Con pan, amigo?”. I glanced down at the gooey platter of chicken

alfredo that he was referring to. “Uhhh, Sí?” was about all that I could muster as a response.

“Gracias”.

As a native Arizonan, Spanish has surrounded me since birth. From the eccentric rattling

of tongues in some of our favorite Mexican restaurants, to the intense spitfire conversations that

could be overheard while out shopping, the language had proved to be inescapable. Instead of

rejecting it, however, I decided to embrace it instead. When I first entered high school

freshman

year, I enrolled myself in a course aptly titled “Introduction to Spanish”. I was initially

hesitant about making the decision to learn the language, as it seemed like an impossible task.

Between

daunting lists of vocabulary, more tenses than you could count on two hands, and

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foreign

sentence structures, I was lost. Even the way you had to say things was different. Once I began

the class, I was forced to engage in basic conversation with my equally incompetent classmates,

so much so that the phrase “Hola, me llamo Brad” is forever burned in my memory. Despite my

initial reservations, I was a quick learner. Zipping through basic grammar and mastering

phrases like “Donde está la biblioteca?”, I began to gain some confidence in my speaking

ability.

Through the remainder of high school, I diligently studied the intricacies and culture

that

surrounded the Spanish language. In sophomore year, I began to experiment with the past

tense,

expanding my still nascent Spanish knowledge. Junior year brought further much-

needed

reinforcement, and Senior year I fell in love with the language. I promised myself to learn

the language, a promise that I have still yet to fulfil. However, during the summer between

junior and senior year of high school, my curiosity and desire surrounding Spanish reached

critical mass.

Like any high schooler, I needed money to participate in many of the juvenile escapades

that saturated my cool summer nights with my friends. Along with the pressure from my

parents, I decided that I needed a summer job. I began searching around March of junior year,

searching mainly at a few local summer camps, as I had previously done an internship at a

sailing camp two years before. After turning in more applications than I care to admit, I had

been defeated every time. Not even a reply back from anyone. I became desperate, and I would

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have taken anything. I applied at a popular chicken wing restaurant called Native Grill and

Wings, boasting three-years of Spanish training and an “adequate” speaking level. To my

bewilderment, I actually landed an interview later that week. When the day of the interview

came, I showed up to restaurant cordially for when I was scheduled. As soon as I walked in, I

was promptly greeted by a bubbly hostess, who said “Hi! Are you here for your interview? You

can sit right over there if you like”. I waited patiently for my new manager to come and meet

me, hoping we would get along well. Once we met however, the interview went very well.

Despite my nervousness and general cluelessness of typical interview conduct, I actually landed

the job, which was one of the most triumphant moments of my high school career. Fast forward

to my first day of work, and I was giddy to put it lightly. I finally got a taste of what it was like

to be an adult, and make some real money as well. I worked at the front door of the restaurant,

greeting customers and taking down orders for delivery. Simple enough. However, this was only

my first day, and I had yet to be introduced to the difficult part of the work, which lied in the

kitchen.

On my second or third day in the restaurant I was introduced to my new permanent

position as the “Expediter” which essentially meant that I would put the finishing touches on

all of the food, get the sides, assemble the order, and send it out to the table. This job was

admittedly much more difficult than that greeting job I had on my first day, and I felt

overwhelmed. Not only did I have to keep track of every little thing going in and out of

the kitchen, I had to assemble each order with their customizable sides that seemed to have

an infinite amount of permutations. Thankfully I had an experienced co-worker named

David helping my gain my bearings in the kitchen. David would instruct me to “Go get

some sides!” or “Check that salad!”, starting with baby steps. However, some of his

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teachings were quite literally lost in translation. David was a native Spanish speaker, and

spoke with a distinct Mexican- American accent that was extremely common in our part of

the country. He spoke with great fluency, but when he would communicate to the Hispanic

chefs, it would be almost entirely in Spanish. The rapid-fire syllables that they shot across

the kitchen made me duck and run for cover, but David was able to comprehend the

phrases with ease. Despite my years of Spanish training, it seemed as if none of it had paid

off, and I was left in the dust.

As work-weeks went by, I became increasingly confident in my role at my job. However,

the Spanish used between the chefs and David left me feeling left out, and it seriously limited

my ability to do my job. When formulating an order, communication between the expo and

chefs was crucial. Therefore, the language gap made it near impossible to do my job correctly. I

was nervous to use some of my knowledge of Spanish, largely because I feared the chefs would

take offense to my fearless butchering of their native tongue. For the first time in my life, I felt

as if I wasn’t good enough based solely on my lack of ability to communicate with language.

What was the point of all my learning if I could not truly utilize it in a practical manner? Was I a

lost cause? Would I ever truly be able to learn to be fluent in Spanish? These questions nagged

me repeatedly as I experienced more and more blocks in communication with each of the chefs,

and I felt as if they wished David would just do my job for me, because it would be easier for

everyone.

However, as weeks went past, and the summer entered its second half, and I formed

relationships with each one of the chefs, our communication issues seemed to very gradually

fade. When Pedro would ask me “La ensalada?” I would know to reply “Cesar, por favor”, and

would continue with my work without a hitch. I would trade stories in Spanglish with some

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of the chefs, and they would in turn give me valuable lessons from when they were my age. I

even earned myself a nickname, based on the color of my skin. Often times when I was in the

kitchen, it would often get so hot that my face would turn as red a cherry within minutes of

being in the heat. Due to this unique condition, the chefs appropriately gave me the nickname

“Rojo”, meaning “Red” in English. Finally, I felt like they were warming up to me, despite

my lack of Spanish ability. As the days went on, I slowly began to nurture personal

relationships with the alien team of chefs. One of the chefs, Brian, taught me some especially

important lessons to me during the summer. Despite being only a few years older than me, he

had a history of hardship that aged his maturity exponentially. Brian was a Mexican who had

immigrated to America just a few years earlier, and based on his sheer work ethic, he had

fully integrated himself into our society. When I thought my work was hard, I always thought

Brian because I knew he worked two other jobs besides Native, and it made realize how easy

I really had it. This humbled me, and despite our differences in age and upbringing, he

always treated me with respect and dignity, and I showed him the same courtesy. Through

this relationship, I finally was able to see past the borders of language, and get a glimpse into

the humanity of the chefs individually.

Eventually, the summer came to a close. I put in my two-week notice, and had to say

goodbye to the chefs, as well as many of my other beloved co-workers. During my time

at Native, I had learned a bit more Spanish, and gained much more confidence when it

came to communicating. Despite the value of these experiences, this was not nearly the

most important aspect of what I learned that summer. I found that beyond the restrictions

of languages and the dictionary definition of “literacy”. Within all humans, there exists a

certain human element, and

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social literacy that exists within us all. Initially, I was afraid of the chefs based solely on

their difference in language and dialect. Despite this, I found that we share a literacy, one

that soars over the traditional bounds of language. Sparked from purely being human, and

seeing the similarities between us despite our different backgrounds showed me that at our

core, humans are one in the same, and can be understood on the most basic level by all.

Literacy is often used to describe one’s ability to read or write, and is trapped within one

branch of language. However, literacy goes far beyond that. Literacy is what makes us relate

to others, and get along with one another. At its core, literacy is what makes us human.

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