How it feels to be Spanish-speaking me Anonymous

“A mi no querer takar la clase de español”, I fervently and somewhat jokingly argued with my mother after she DECLARED that I would take Spanish 1 in 7th grade. It’s sort of like those times when you know the battle has long been over, yet you continue to push and push just to see if by some miracle, you would emerge victorious.

Alas, I did not win that battle with my mother, meaning that I would be forced to take the notoriously difficult Spanish class as a 7th grader. Let me further note that nearly ALL of my friend group was taking PE or Woodshop, which we had collectively proclaimed as the “good” electives.

Nonetheless, I took the Spanish class with the infamous Mrs. Baime, and found the class surprisingly easy for something that the school had historically scorned and denounced. “Madre, yo tomo clase de español y tengo buenos grados”, I use to exclaim to my mother after a good test, to which she would coolly respond in her swift, Spanish accent, “Estoy muy orgullosa de ti, todos estamos muy orgullosos de ti”. My benighted and naive self didn’t bother to ask my mother what orgujosa meant, but I presumed it meant good and to continue getting good grades.

Despite this implicit encouragement from my mother to continue doing...