Short Non-Fiction Story by Tayah Groat
Spain. I don’t think enough Americans realize it’s more like Italy and France than Mexico or Colombia. It’s appalling how many people think anyone who speaks Spanish can be labeled as Spanish despite not being from Spain. I try to give the benefit of the doubt, my geography has certainly improved living here. The concept of being Latino, Latina or Latinx versus Hispanic is logical for me, but I learned it many years ago in college. Hispanic people are people from Spanish-speaking countries, and Latino people are people from Latino countries. People from Brazil, for example, are Latino but not Hispanic. People from Spain are Hispanic, not Latino. The most common foods in Spain are jamon (cured ham), a tortilla (Spanish omelet), seafood and bread. They love olive oil and tomatoes. Cursing is perfectly acceptable. Siestas are encouraged. Madrid is still one of the best cities I’ve ever been to. It has magical rooftops, great bars, beautiful countryside, and it has a wonderful mix of cultures and it is safe.
In September 2021, 918 days ago, I crossed the Atlantic Ocean from the United States and over the border into Spain. I was as terrified as any 23-year-old would be who had the gumption to attempt such a move. I worked hard to get there. I sent my biggest check over to a company to ensure my success in completing the mission so that they would definitely get me across the finish line. I took all the steps to get a visa, physical exam, paying taxes, application, apostille, and two trips to New York. I often downplay to myself what it really took to get here, like it wasn’t that big of a deal, but I think it was. I’m impressed that so many others around me have done the same. No two Americans that moved to Spain are exactly alike but some of them are quite similar. I’ve met plenty– although I’ve tried to avoid the ‘American bubble,’ it’s too easy to only hang out with people from your same background even when there are fewer of them. The level of familiarity is hard to shake. Being an American in Spain gets you quite a lot of eyes. They say they can hear us from a kilometer away. They can spot us with our backpacks and our huge water bottles. They can smell us with our deodorant, not cologne. We often tower over everyone at our average height.
I find myself wondering while I cross the street (almost always at a crosswalk) when it feels like home in the same way as the place I grew up did. I also wonder when the place where I grew up will start feeling foreign. I catch glimpses. I feel bits of culture shock when I return home ever since I moved away, first to Philadelphia for college and now to Spain (indefinitely…). Things like the kitchen appliances being gigantic (a popular theme,) the water pressure I once thought was great, the stairs feel different, scented soaps hitting my nose like perfume on the European streets.
On Monday, I will be taking another step towards residency in Spain. I’m getting a domestic partnership with my girlfriend, something that doesn’t quite translate to Americans. It’s not marriage but more like engagement that comes with similar benefits of a green card. Spain, famous for her many holidays, gives people a honeymoon for such an occasion. I couldn’t be more excited. I feel like a kid about to get the sundae they earned for good grades and it’s so close you can taste it. It’s almost in your hands, and there’s a little fear they’ll trick you and drop it before you can catch it and enjoy it. It’s something we’ve talked about and taken steps towards for so long that I can’t believe it’s finally here. It’s not just a piece of paper for me. It’s peace of mind. It’s a comfort that this dream I’ve been living for the past two and a half years won’t be a rug that’s pulled out from under me.
Last week, I went to Mallorca, crossing off my first Spanish island visit off the list. Three weeks ago, I went on my second trip to Portugal to visit Lisbon rather than Porto last year, crossing touring Portugal off the list. This summer we’re going to France for a wedding, crossing off and visiting France together and then I’m going on a sister trip to Greece. Even as I say this, I hear how surreal it sounds.
It’s amazing. But there are always sacrifices to living out your dreams. My grandparents are in their mid-seventies and eighties now. It kills me every time my nana asks me when I’m moving back home, or if. It eats at me when it’s suddenly been three weeks and I remember I haven’t called them in a while. I can feel the space that my family and I promised to fight when I left, creeping between us. It’s not as easy as it was to keep in touch. It’s been a long time, and we’ve both missed out on a lot of the day-to-day. I feel bad I wasn’t there for my sister during her year-long separation. I wonder which of my friends weren’t lying when they promised they would visit someday.
From a career standpointI feel like I’ve sacrificed some time. It’s my third year at this same entry-level position, which doesn’t escape my capitalistic mindset. I told myself I was going to go back to school–to grad school before I forgot the skills I built in college. I still have no idea what I’d study nor if I should take a course to pursue passion or practicality. Even if I decided to do it then I’d have to sacrifice travel to pay for that decision. I would also have to decide if I should do a program in Spanish, if I can, or find one in English. I feel like I have been coasting, doing what I have to do to cross the next finish line, and I don’t have it in me to take on such a mountain right now.
I’m starting to better understand the conundrum of the black sheep. I feel more Spanish than the Americans, obviously, because I’ve been here longer than most of the ones that I know. But I will always feel like ‘the American’ among the Spanish. It’s been over a year since someone yelled at me on the street to speak Spanish, not English, but it still happened. I can actually answer people’s questions on the street, even when there’s a bit of initial panic, instead of just mumbling ‘No sé.’ Sometimes, especially nice Spanish people compliment my Spanish, and it feels amazing. I have a bit more confidence. Simultaneously, I know less American culture, slang and current events than ever, and I’m frequently confused upon hearing my colleagues talk.
When will I cross over into feeling more Spanish? After 10 years? Maybe when I get married? Maybe when I have a Spanish passport? When a Spanish person deems me so? Never? I’m not sure. I do feel less American. My friend was telling me how one of our professors said, in the context of language acquisition, that you’re always working towards it, and you’re never there. To be bilingual is a constant pursuit of working on both languages, switching back and forth, and keeping skills in both. It’s not what anyone would really want to hear. It’s unlike any other accomplishment. Even if, let’s say, you pass the C2 native-like linguistic proficiency, then you’ll just be fighting to stay there. If you ever stop practicing, you’re at risk–it is nothing like riding a bike. It’s the opposite.
So I’ll always be American. I’m not pursuing to BE Spanish. I’ll be a Spanish American if I don’t move away and start all over. The cultures will blend within me into my own personal culture and way of life. Some things will stick, and some new things I will acquire, and I’ll always be both. The one you see more of may be according to your own lens. I’m crossing a Spanish American kilometer marker, and it’s exciting. I’ll keep racing on.
Tayah Groat is a 25-year-old bisexual writer from York, Pennsylvania. Groat graduated from Temple University in Philadelphia. Her work can be found in the New York Times titled “My First Love Called Me a Vacation,” also translated into Spanish.
