I’ve had jobs with the word “bilingual” in the title, but I am not fluent in my other language, Spanish. My wife and kids think I am. Between high school and college, I had 12 semesters of Spanish classes. What they hear from my lips is convincing enough for them I suppose.
Language fascinates me, I worked hard, I love the Mexican/Latin influence on Texas culture, and here I am. I’d grade my Spanish as a B-.
I didn’t think I’d get the job with the well-respected local charity, but applied anyway. I can’t believe that I didn’t prepare for the inevitable assessment of my Spanish during the interview. One moment I was discussing my resume and CV with a hiring manager, and the next I was answering questions from a Spanish-fluent employee. My B- Spanish was on full display for our 10 minutes together, and I was a little surprised to hear her tell the hiring manager, “he can do this.”
The “bilingual” part of my title was misleading, however, as once I got to work, I didn’t need to speak any English. Soon I was on stages and in classrooms in rural Texas counties, discussing healthcare and answering questions. I stumbled, mixed up words, and generally made the extent of my capabilities clear.
I was soon paired with a remarkable coworker. A refugee from Bosnia, at 16 she got a job in a restaurant, and concluded that English and Spanish were the two languages spoken in Texas. She decided to learn both.
[Before she got here, she spoke Bosnian, German, Arabic, and more than a little Polish and Russian].
Over the course of 4 years we went to where the need was. Her Spanish was impeccable, and it was delightful to see how this Eastern European was received when she used it.
And I was welcomed time and time again by people who could see that I was doing my best. I spoke to my work partner about it, and she said that there was a saying in her home country: When someone is trying to speak to you in your language, you hold them in your hand like a drop of water.
As counselors, we are not supposed to disclose much personal information to patients. In our estranged parent community, I am both a counselor and a father, and the self-disclosure can be uncomfortable. It’s hard to admit that sometimes I’m scared, angry, depressed, or that I doubt myself. I don’t have our answers, I’m sorry to say, but I’m grateful that we continue to hold each other like drops of water as we work to connect.
