Oscar Casares
Se Habla Español
As a third-generation Mexican American raised in Texas, it’s only natural that I speak better English than I do Spanish. Try telling that to a radio audience of one million Latinos.
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But still, would my Spanish be enough to get me through a live radio interview? The producer had scheduled me for Friday afternoon, during drive time, the most listened-to hours on the radio in L.A. El Cucuy broadcast on KSCA-FM, 101.9, out of a Glendale studio overlooking a layer of brown smog coming off Highway 134. This particular afternoon he was wearing a black rayon shirt that showed off his thick biceps along with a well-formed paunch. On his right arm he wore a black elbow pad that accessorized the rest of his black outfit. His dark hair flopped across his forehead in a way that made him seem much younger than his years.
Although my interview was scheduled for four o’clock, I had to wait an extra two hours. The show’s producer eventually brought me into the studio so I wouldn’t have to sit in the greenroom. The wait had to do with the fact that El Cucuy was interviewing Eduardo Verástegui, the Mexican telenovela star. Swarthy and with sparkling green eyes, Verástegui looked all the part of a young heartthrob. He was there to promote his first Hollywood feature, Chasing Papi. In the movie he plays a Latin lover confronted by his three girlfriends, and that’s when the fun starts.
As the interview wore on, Verástegui made it a point to tell El Cucuy how he’d learned English for his role in Chasing Papi. He seemed rather proud of this and said he was hoping this new fluency would lead to more offers from Hollywood. As they talked, I couldn’t help but notice that their Spanish was impeccable, both being native speakers. El Cucuy asked him a few more questions about the movie, then took some calls from his listeners, most of whom were swooning women hoping to ask “Papi” a question.
The wacky sound effects and the calls from giggly women did make me wonder how a more serious interview about literature would fit in. But before I could consider this for too long, El Cucuy introduced me to his audience. His producer had just handed him an index card with my name on it. If it wasn’t already obvious that he hadn’t read or even thumbed through my book, his first question confirmed it.
“Why don’t you tell us about this book you wrote. Explain it to our listeners,” he said, in his perfect Spanish.
Driving to the studio, I had envisioned his asking about my background and then some questions about writing the book, all of which I could answer with my kitchen Spanish. He might even use a few sound effects, just for good measure. What I wasn’t expecting was to deliver an extended sales pitch.
“We’re waiting. Come on. Don’t be embarrassed.”
El Cucuy assumed that I could speak freely and at length in Spanish. After all, I did have a Spanish surname. He continued to stare at me, as did Verástegui and the show’s producer. Perhaps my spiel wouldn’t have been so bad if I’d already written some of it down. Instead I was forced to think of what I would have said in English and, on the fly, translate it to Spanish. After two very torturous minutes, I finally ran out of words.
Here would’ve have been a good place to end the interview, but there was more.
“We have many bilingual listeners that listen to our show,” El Cucuy said. “Why don’t you explain it to them in English now.”
His request made no sense. If they were really bilingual, they wouldn’t need the translation. He had obviously gathered that I was struggling to explain myself. We all knew this now, so why repeat myself in English and highlight the fact that I should stick to one language, especially on the radio?
“Come on. Tell us in your language.”
Who knows what I finally said in English; I was just glad I didn’t know any other languages.
I thought El Cucuy would go to a commercial break, but instead he turned to Verástegui. “Hey, why don’t you speak in English now? Show everyone how much you learned so you could make your movie.”
Verástegui looked at El Cucuy and then glanced back at me, his green eyes not sparkling quite as much as they had been earlier. El Cucuy asked him, again, to speak English, badgering him in the same way he had done with me. Verástegui shook his head to indicate no, but of course, shaking your head on the radio is the same as winking over the phone.
The next minute or so was filled with El Cucuy’s pleading and Verástegui’s refusing to play along. El Cucuy finally had to break for a commercial just to put an end to the dead air.
Verástegui seemed to be back in good spirits as he left with his handler. I drove away in my rental and merged into the crawl-along traffic. I tried to distract myself by finding something to listen to on the radio, but my mind was still in that studio, as it would be for a long time. I had spoken my limited Spanish before a million listeners and then, only a minute later, translated my own words back in my perfect English. Then a Mexican telenovela star, who spoke beautiful Spanish, had suddenly turned mute when it came time to speak English, a language he hadn’t grown up with and was still learning.
As long as I could remember, I’d always felt self-conscious about my level of Spanish. I’ve since realized that there really is no reason I should speak the language any better than I already do. I was born into a Mexican American family. When the doctor slapped my bottom, I didn’t cry in perfect Castilian Spanish. I wasn’t born with an innate ability to speak the language of my ancestors, just as they weren’t born with the ability to speak the Aztec language of Nahuatl. In 1945 my parents decided to start speaking more English, a decision that for the most part I’ve benefited from. So my Spanish, as imperfect as it may be, is my Spanish. I can’t apologize for this, no more than I can apologize for speaking English better than, say, a pair of Irish nuns.
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