Language Exchange

I walked downtown to buy something from a locally owned shop. The young lady who was preparing my order—mind you, handling her material with some dope gold and fuschia work on her nails, such nimbleness, flair, and utter sprezzatura (look it up in a real dictionary)—was playing merengue, which is one of the things I love about our town, which is that I can walk down the shop district, get business done, and just be speaking Spanish until I get home. So she and I exchange names and started rapping in Spanish and she tells me that she was born in Brazil, Rio to be exact, came here when she was fifteen. She actually learned Spanish before she learned to speak English. A lot of her friends she went to high school with here are Dominican and Colombian. That’s who welcomed her to this country. And she asked where I was from and I told her I was born here but my parents were from the Philippines and I learned Spanish almost entirely from my friends here in Jersey and later from traveling. We talked about places like Portugal, Cabo Verde, our own Jersey town, soccer, samba, Good Friday. And I couldn't help but think of all the miles our respective families traveled, all the help received and given back, all the disagreements and all the affection, all the wit, all the strangers, all the secrets, all the animosities, all the invention, all the doors closed upon her parents and mine, all the alternative routes they had to make, that she has surely made for herself… and this charismatic lady with the impeccable nails and harpist’s fingers to stand there across an unkempt counter and speak to me in two languages that were never either of our birthrights. How she welcomed me, thanked me, and bid me goodbye. For a moment it was clear to me, a stranger can tell you everything in a matter of minutes without ever knowing it all.