Tongues: A Language Acquisition Resistance Journal

1. A Lesson in Endings

Gender nails this language down,

our instructor says, ¡atención!

Endings in ‘a’ signify feminine;

‘o’ masculine. However

there are exceptions—always

the most interesting, ¿no?

Por ejemplo, you would think

the word for “language”—idioma—

is feminine, but it is preceded

by “el.” El idioma. The word

becomes male almost by force, ¿no?

On the other hand, smiles La Profesora,

Spain has other languages,

once hidden. During Franco’s reign

these were forbidden—el catalán,

el gallego, el vascuence.

The people in Cataluna, Gallicia

and el Pais Vasco buried their subversive tongues.

Now that Franco is gone, they fight

for separatist rights. Bombs, terrorismo.

La Profesora pauses, brushes back her hair.

Next, we look at plurals.

At home in the evening

wanting to water sunflowers,

I tell my son turn on the hose,

gracias mi’ijo. For some reason

he asks, how do you say God

in Spanish? I remember mi profesora says

Gracias a Dios. My eight year old

asks, and Goddess is … ?

I want to say Dias, to be logical,

but of course that means days.

My son says, The whole day is a goddess!

No, mi’ijo. Gender nails this tongue to the cross.

2. Questions of Conversion

Father Arroyo de la Cuesta, attempting to preserve in written form the various Indian dialects heard around him at the Mission, wrote, “a verb with no past tense is above my comprehension but I will ask God’s help and will learn, though it take bloody tears.”

How do you conjugate

the verb ser (to be)—

when you have been

declared extinct?

How do you produce

the formal usted

when the priest teaching it

rapes you?

I want to know—

when did my ancestors

begin dreaming in Spanish,

make love in Spanish?

When did our tongues

convert?

I know our first words

were a foreign prayer.

Amar a Dios—

the only instruction

necessary before baptism

with magical water,

sign of the cross

between blows.

Amar a Dios.

Who was the first Indian girl

to be named Maria?

Who was the last Indian child

to be given an Esselen name?

How can I pronounce

those alien names

written in Castilian script

filling the black ledgers?

They are only skeletons

anyway, not the heart

or flesh of a people.

Will I ever know

how they sounded

coming out of an Esselen

mouth—called by a grandparent,

sister, lover, child,

mother, river?

Did someone hide my name

in that parchment, bury it

—forget the way back?

3. Oral Tradition

Silence is a long story,

a complex art left

to descendents

of native speakers.

Ribboned palm fronds

hang absolutely still.

A thousand tongues

that don’t move,

yet exist whole

and fully formed.

Sometimes I dream

in Spanish. My mouth

moves in all the proper

patterns: the rolling r,

delicate placement

of tongue against teeth,

subtle slip of consonants.

But in the morning

I taste

a tide of blood,

slick iron in my

traitorous mouth.

4. Vocabulario

Every time I learn a Spanish word

I want to know the Esselen word

it replaced. I am forty-six

years old before my sister

uncovers the ethnologist’s

vocabulary notes. At last

between my teeth

I clench the Unholy Trinity:

English, Spanish, Esselen.

Water. Agua. Asanax.

Bear. Oso. Koltala.

Earth. La tierra. Madsa-no.

I laugh. How can I shape

a third language to describe

a second language that

destroyed the first language?

This language:

blade to slice my tongue.

Este lengua:

un beso como un cuchillo.

nishwelel, kumal:

sever our bonds, tear the gag

from our mouths.

Remember us.

—Deborah A. Miranda
(published 4/1/13)