The Mija Chronicles

Mexican food and culture, on both sides of the border

Spanish translations

The question of huevos

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On my way home from the cleaners today, I saw a taxi driver cut off a pedestrian. The walker was an older gentleman, and he yelled “Huevón!” as the car drove past.

I’m sure it was some sort of insult, but I don’t know exactly what. In fact, the whole scenario reminded me just how many ways the word “huevo” is used in Mexico and how I’m still clueless on about most of them.

The only instance I’m familiar with is vulgar. Huevos is considered another word for testicles. I’m almost sure there were some huevo jokes in my cooking class when we made rompope, because we used more than 30 eggs.

I’ve also heard people use the phrase “Qué hueva!” and just plain old “hueva.”

Any out there kind enough to translate?

The long, drawn-out, telephone goodbye

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Whenever I’m on the phone with a Mexican person and we’re about to hang up, they linger, as if they really don’t want to say goodbye.

Me: “Bueno, te dejo.” Well, I’ll let you go.

Them: “Sale pues.”

Me: “Este… sí.”

Them: “Nos vemos.” See you soon.

Me: Silence.

Them: “Un beso.” A kiss.

My problem is that I don’t have enough of these goodbye-filler words in my arsenal. (I don’t know what “sale pues” entirely means, for example.) In the U.S., we generally say “Ok, I’ll talk to you later, bye” and hang up. Most Mexicans I’ve talked on the phone with don’t do this, and I end up hanging up too quickly, which seems rude.

I use cuídate and nos vemos. Part of me wants to throw in ándale, too, as a type of “Okay then, sounds good.” But I’m still unsure whether “un beso” works for male and female friends, and how to say goodbye when I’m talking to someone in a professional context. Cuídate seems too personal then, no? Maybe just a simple gracias, hasta luego.

Any Spanish-speakers out there have any guidance?

Am I a real Spanish-speaker now?

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When I first got to Mexico 10 months ago, I felt jumpy and anxious almost every time I tried to speak Spanish. A fearful voice would pipe up in my head: What if no one understands me? What if I sound like an idiot? I look Mexican, but my accent blows. They’re going to think I’m a pocha. Maybe… I really am a pocha.

The more I talked, the more that feeling lessened. I dealt with the gas company when our meter broke. I ordered dozens of taxis, and requested an ATM card over the phone, and went to the dentist and the doctor. I bought chicken and beef from various mercados, and instructed them on whether I wanted it in filets, ground, deboned. I began to ask the people in the grocery stores for help when I couldn’t find an item, like the elusive cilantro.

A few days ago I was chatting with my Venezuelan-born friend Daniela. She mentioned how, despite living in the U.S. for years, she still doesn’t feel fluent in English, but she no longer cares about messing up. I realized: That’s me, too. I throw out words with abandon, sometimes without really knowing whether I’m correct or not. Maybe I’ll phrase the iffy word as a question — “Éstas pantalones parecen demasiado… apretadas…?” — or maybe not. The point is, I’m confident. I know I’ll eventually get understood. And if someone looks at me strange, I smile and start over. I know, in my heart, that not one bit of me is a pocha. I hate that word.

It’s funny, because this week at the FIL in Guadalajara, I’ve been hanging out with a bunch of American writers who don’t speak much Spanish at all. Yesterday we went to dinner and I was the translator. The translator! Not just for the food, but for cultural issues, such as how much to tip a taxi, why the check was taking so long, etc.

“So how did you learn Spanish?” a few people asked me. The question struck me as odd, because I thought it was obvious that I was still learning. But then I realized that I knew way more than them, and actually, maybe I knew quite a lot.

It’s weird, because part of me doesn’t even want to accept that this is happening. I’m in disbelief. Are my Spanish skills really good? Is it really true? The deeper issue here, for those of you who don’t know me very well, is my complicated history with Spanish. I never cared much about it until I got to college, and then suddenly I felt guilty and angry and sad that I never tried to learn.

The rational side of me is over the moon that my Spanish has improved so much. But emotionally I still can’t admit it to myself. Maybe I’m just being a perfectionist. Or maybe I’m still clinging to this fear that I’m never going to speak Spanish well, because I’m not Mexican.

Truly, I still have a lot to learn. I can’t think quickly on my feet in Spanish, or express every sentiment I’d like to. But I am happy with how much I’ve accomplished so far. I have carved out a normal, fulfilling life for myself here, based almost entirely on my language abilities.

I can at least admit that to myself.