The Other Americans

The girl in my Spanish class belongs to the group that I like to refer to as “The Other Americans.” The majority go to U. Penn or Harvard and they share an apartment en Línea y F. The girl in my class is sweet but after a few conversations I realize we both make that distinction of membership. I suggested we grad something to eat after class one day because I thought it would be nice to make some new friends. As usual, as we walk out the door she switches to speaking in English. Now she’s a little more accustomed to addressing me and the people in my program in Spanish, but she still pushes the English whenever possible. 

She’s been talking about this hot waiter at her favorite café since I remember--so we went there. Someone waits at the entrance of the café to open the door for customers; the AC shocks your hot skin as you enter. I look around to find foreigners at every occupied table and I feel as though I’ve left Havana. 

We get to small talking and she asks “So does your program have a rule or something about speaking in Spanish?” 

“Well, no, not really, but it is promoted.” 

“Oh....yah. I think our program is more focused on cultural immersion than Spanish speaking.”

I let her keep her comment. 

I’d like to think I’m a little better or at least less defensive about my Americaness. Yes, I am a yuma, I am a yankee and I’m not going to pretend I’m not--unless of course I’m trying to get a Cuban price for a máquina to La Habana. 

I can still be a privileged American and not think I’m better than the Cuban selling maní en la calle. Maybe the other Americans feel the same, but they sure as hell think they are better than me.