English as a Foreign Language

I was leaving the Metro when I heard it. There was a group of three friends in front of me who were going opposite directions to their houses. One started to go right, and said to the others "I'm going this way." This caught my attention, but at first I couldn't figure out why. All I knew was that it was out of place. It wasn't until the others responded "Okay, we'll see you tomorrow," that it hit me. They were speaking English. Not the broken English that the vendors on the street spoke in, trying to get you to buy their things. Not the accented English you heard businessmen speaking, trying to communicate with their international business partners. This was English that I would have heard in the Metro at home, on campus, or from my friends. This was my English.

Of course, my friends and I spoke English between ourselves while we were here. It was just easier and more natural. It wasn't like I hadn't heard the language since I left the US. Yet here, coming from strangers, in the middle of the Francisco Bilbao metro station, in la Región Metropolitana de Chile, it sounded all wrong.

It's a strange feelings to have something so familiar feel so foreign. It's like something you have known forever, something that has always been a part of your life without consciously knowing it, has been tweaked. Not changed on a massive scale, just...set one millimeter off. It's a similar feeling to coming home for the first time your freshman year of college, and realizing that it's not the home you have known for the past 18 years; because your friends aren't there, or your room has been cleaned, or worse-- converted into a guest room. It's the feeling of putting on your favorite sweater, and although it still fits for the most part, the left sleeve is now just slightly too short. It's not that big of a deal, because you know that after a few wears and a little stretching, it'll be back to normal, but in that moment, it's not the same as you remembered.

I associate inanimate objects in my mind,--with colors, feelings-- it's how I think. For example, 4 is a green number. 5 is red, as is 2, while 6 screams purple. Volkswagon Beetles exude excitement, while Passats are a smoother, more tranquil feel. In this way, I imagine Spanish as water flowing over pebbles, in a stream, or at the bottom of a waterfall. It flows, it gurgles, it is peaceful. I never really thought about English in this way, until I had something against which to juxtapose it. Now, English is the sound of two rocks being rubbed together. It's loud, it's rough, it has no rhythm. It often gets stuck on harsh sounds and jagged word endings.

In the United States, English is seen as the norm. While many people speak other languages as well, it is assumed that citizens and residents of the US speak at least some English. When I speak English here, I see myself through the eyes of the Chileans. I see myself as a foreigner, an extranjera, and it's not just the reactions of Chileans when they hear English-- seriously, some of these people could get whiplash with how quick they are to turn and see where the English is coming from. It's the environment, the ambiance, the way of life here, that just makes it more natural to speak Spanish. And often, our conversations are more bilingual than monolingual, as it's so easy to slip into Spanish sin darse cuenta, y cuando terminas el idea, o cuando no tienes nada más de decir, you switch back into English. It's that easy.

Es tan fácil.