My Spanish is okay. Let me be more specific. My Spanish is functional in exactly four situations: the kitchen, an argument, a restaurant, and a bar after ten beers when I suddenly need to find a bathroom. That is the full range of my bilingual abilities.
I can thank (or blame) Mr. Wilson and Mrs. Sullivan at Spring High School for what I retained, which is not much. I remember conjugating verbs. I remember flash cards. I remember the phrase “Donde esta la biblioteca” which has never once been useful in real life because I have never urgently needed a library.
So when I booked a shoot in San Antonio this month, I thought, great. Home state. Easy drive. No airports. No rental cars. Just me and I-10 and a couple hundred miles of Texas highway.
What I did not think about was the fact that my subject’s family spoke primarily in Spanish. And not tourist Spanish. Not high school Spanish. Real, fast, beautiful, South Texas Spanish that moved at a speed my brain could not keep up with.
The interview itself was in English, which was fine. But the family around us, the conversations happening in the kitchen, the stories being told between takes, all of that was in Spanish. And I caught maybe 40 percent of it. On a good pass. With context clues.
There’s this moment in every shoot where the family relaxes and forgets I’m there. That’s the gold. That’s when the real stories come out, the laughter, the teasing, the old arguments that never really ended. And in San Antonio, all of that gold was flying around me in Spanish, and I was standing there nodding and smiling like a golden retriever who heard his name but missed the rest of the sentence.
I called my wife that night and told her I was enrolling in Spanish classes. She said I’ve been saying that since 2004. She’s right. I have. And I probably won’t do it this time either. But the intention was real for at least forty-five minutes.
The interview was great, and the film is gonna come out beautifully. The subject was wonderful. The family was loud and warm and generous with their food (which was incredible, and I will not be sharing what I ate because you will be jealous and I don’t need that energy). San Antonio is one of my favorite cities in Texas, and this trip reminded me why. It’s a city that feels like a family reunion you weren’t invited to but everyone’s happy you showed up anyway.
But next time, I’m bringing a better vocabulary. Mr. Wilson, Mrs. Sullivan, if you’re reading this: I’m sorry. You did your best. The student was the problem, not the teachers. I promise to do better. Eventually. Probably. Trust me. No soy minterosa.