linguistic snot knots
i know i've explored this theme in great detail here in my ds journal, but i was not able to find them and i need to vent.
i told off a mexican imperialist at swim lessons tonight. he was with a child approximately the same age as baby sis (3) and the parental small talk started friendly enough. children have that unifying way about them. the fellow was new to swim lessons and looking for reassurance that his daughter was okay for her current fear of her swim instructor. our 3 have been in swim lessons for long enough to be well adapted.
the problem arose when he turned his heavy mexican accent to bragging about his language skills with such smug superiority that i found myself bracing for the "los gringos no se pueden" routine. your accent gets uglier every time i'm forced to listen that routine, bubba. learning that i studied biology in ecuador didn't interest him in the slightest. his linguistic pride hadn't reached queen isabel's court yet. i walked away. i returned and he was off again as soon as i returned. i cut loose on him in spanish about the injustice of his pride. don't make me listen to your inflated ego when i am not even permitted to speak. of course he answered my spanish commentary in english with his foreign accent growing thicker and uglier each time he answered my spanish in english. that is saying allot since his accent started out thicker than the mexico city smog.
when i returned again, his linguistic pride was on how skillfully he was teaching his child to speak spanish. i didn't ask if she was afraid of her teacher because she doesn't understand english. instead, i began to speak in spanish, with him answering in english, about the difficulties children have in growing up listening to this linguistic prejudice. the child's eyes lit merrily to hear me speaking spanish with enthusiastic overtures of joining the conversation. daddy said good-bye in english while he picked up the confused child and ran. si, mi hija (mija in mexico) se pueden.
vent, vent, gnarl gnash. . .
si, se puede. no crees los racistas.
Replies
one doesnae need to speak or read spanish to know what the people of hispanolandia think of one another. the weapon reports, and collateral damages speak more eloquently than words ever will, in any or all of the world languages. since learning how to read and listen to spanish, i have come to believe that it is far better known in the other languages of the world. even here in the u.s. not too many spanish speakers seem willing to consider such possibilities as the dominican hatred for haitians being similar to an ecuadorian hatred of peruvians or having non-hispanic brown people in the world.. asians and africans seem to like one another with equal health and healing hopes. as an equal opportunity hater, this isnae much of a surprise. this is only ONE of the long list of reason why i already hate you if you have the misfortune to be human. a recurring hope i hold more strongly than ever is that the diasporas of the u.s. will lead to unity on the other continents as it did in europe. the countries of europe remain divided into countries the size of postage stamps with all the racist joys that mentality produces, but the european union is mighty fine progress. i hold voluntary unity to be far more sustainable than humanity's lust for imperial conquest. when will we ever learn.
i hold fa's presence this near to the mexican border as evidence that this is happening. when i first began this branch of civil rights work in the 70's, a dominican wouldn't have had the courage nor tolerance to mix so freely with other country hispanics. they have even risked close proximity with the cubans of florida and the puerto ricans of the northeast. progress is in progress. in the current flood, mexicans are guestimated to be the smallest minority within the more-desperate-than-ever migrant colonias on the south side of 1,954 mile border. in terms of getting people to talk to one another, this just might be stunning progress. maybe. observation in progress.
in what i choose to believe is the blindness of impoverished greed, fa has asked hubby to broker a visa marriage with a friend who is a rich, available gringo. ouchus maximus. in the diplomatic circles who educated me on the ways i was being groomed by illegal cartels, she is grooming him as, "a dove." doves in this complex drama are seldom aware of whom or what they are being groomed by. i love and trust fa, but desperate people do desperate things. further, i only know the small, uninvestigated woman at face value. i have no way of knowing who or what else she is connected to. for all i know, she could be spear-heading a human trafficking ring out of our farm compound. unlikely, but entirely possible, alongside a mind-ripping array of other possibilities.
and my 3 orphans watch from the window. . . the children always pay the highest price for human wisdom.
for now, my bizarre place in the current wave of the immigration anxiety seems to be stabilizing. only stabilizing. the massive flood at the southern borders continues escalating, including the newest trend of sending unaccompanied minors to monopolize on the gringo love of children. fa has asked hubby to broker a fraudulent visa wedding for her. her third world junk collections continue to block access to completing the farm restoration project. she still hates chicken shit on her porch and continues promoting the methods used by the meat and egg factories. missus tyson doesn't have chicken shit on HER porch.
been doing a timeline on my civil rights activism. i am currently marking the official beginning as 1973 when i joined the army and was a star pupil in the "race relations" program. this program was initiated by presidential order in 1948. i haven't done the research, but i believe race relations were strictly black and white in 1948. by 1973, the program had branched out far enough to include mention of other races, but the u.s. government was nowhere near ready to make amends for the japanese internment program in world war two. hispanic diasporas were still a small and intensely polite minority in the u.s. landscape. i subscribe to the theory that the avant varde of any mass migration is the best and the brightest of the collective they are abandoning. the longer the mass migration endures, the lower quality of the migrants. by the time i was translating for that army of mercenaries --estamos aqui por el dinero y nada mas-- the mass migration from the southern americas was a collective of believers in urban myth. i'd rather argue with bible bangers, thank you. they don't often carry weapons.
and the current wave is not feeling any healthier, on any of the many sides of the equation. are the political trends more hostile or am i just projecting anxiety over the still fragile dynamics of my strictly personal little ship of fools? part of my timeline is when my two sons started showing the confusions of being too close to my radical activism. my guilty mother's heart believes that is part of how my eldest son ended up a middle aged drug addict and my younger ended up in a marriage from hell. how big a part? god, please send me clarity. for sure, his brief tenure as a junior high age "white african relative" was nothing shy of devastating. details still unavailable.
healing hopes for all. no exceptions.
prayers ongoing
stepping small
praying big
what shall i name the puppet show? "the civil rights puppet show" is my current fave. the work started with the infamous black/white conflict of my home country. my work with the hispanic diasporas started with the tears of african americans who were losing their hoods to the growth of those diasporas. half a century later, i am quasi-grateful to how that cultural evolution forced my african american countrymen out of cultural isolation and into the u.s. mainstream. is there irony that the skin color between our extremes has proven to us just how little difference there is between us. i grow more convinced than ever that the skin color is irrelevant.
fast forward to the here and now where the one african american neighborhood in this smallish agricultural community has long been repurposed to "barrio."
the "old hippie" fa calls "cousin" is the star target of this morning's intrusive thoughts. this old hippie is one of the people who changes dramatically when they switch between languages. i have yet to hear her recite old hippie ideals in spanish. in spanish she sounds more like a castillian matriarch than an old hippie. get those future beauty queens marked with earrings on their first day out of the womb. keep your varones macho. don't make me take my shoe off! ! ! her efforts to keep this pampered gringa in line, she is currently using youthenizing techniques. her 70 something morbid obesity is proof that my spritely 69 years can handle the burden of helping her cousin gain legality while simultaneously juggling the needs of 3 young orphans.
and what color is the hair under that youthful dye-job, my geriatric beauty queen? are you young at heart or the matriarch of gringolandia. which culture are you here to educate me on, my grand matron?
the anxiety has begun to invade my dreams. venting in the prayer of calming enough to sleep.
the ben e. king version of "spanish harlem" has been providing the soundtrack the intrusive thoughts on fa's cousin. ben e's version has been giving way to my own version, "the old hippie from spanish harlem."
in previous go-rounds, the person attempting to draw me deeper into the unethical practices of this never ending story have sent me an english speaker to educate my pasty white ass. the old hippie from spanish harlem is a likely candidate for fa to send. at least this time the profie won't be speaking though an accent thick enough to trigger the spanish files in my multilingual brain. the old hippie from spanish harlem speaks with a new york accent. it is stunning how many of the hispanic professors have come all this way, just to educate ignorant white asses. my intrusive thoughts are going kamakazi on **her**old hippie ass. i doesn't care what color that ass is, nor even which of the 33 countries of hispanolandia you are speaking for. i fully expect she will expect my spritely 69 years being able to handle the load of her cousins legality to my minimized load of raising 3 orphans. in my head, the government paid caretaker is in full agreement as she hands her the remote and munchies.
is it ironic that the song, "spanish harlem" was written by two white guys, possibly jewish, and made famous by an african american. is there room in that song to cover old hippies as well?
the name i wish i could give this puppet show is, "history." enter elvis costello. "i wish that i could push a button and talk in the past and not the present tense." just wishing. . . alas, "history repeating itself" might be the more accurate title. when will we ever learn? i don't quite believe the old hippie from spanish harlem is the best profie for the job.
no, i donae know that the old hippie ever lived in spanish harlem, but one of the largest dominican diaspora en mi pais happens to be there. i didn't know that until ben e. king started flooding my broken brain. at least, that is what profie google tells me.
in 2008, on my return flight from ecuador, i was waiting for the redeye flight which would carry me on the final leg of the flight. it was a sizeable wait. for much of the wait, there was a spanish speaking family of adults on the row of chairs which backed up to the row of chairs which backed up to the row upon which i waited. i was too tired to register the mundane topics of their chatter. i had no time-keeping device, so i eventually turned and asked the man whose shoulder was nearest mine, <<?que hora es?>> he answered in english. as i thanked him in english. i thought, "i must be back in texas, donde los gringos no se puedan. i changed chairs so that i wouldn't have to work to avoid the crime of understanding. i s'pose it is nearer to a faux pas than a crime, but let us not split hairs. i value civil decency over laws. i recognize that distinction as far more esoteric than your average citizen of planet earth can recognize. en cualquier idioma.
as the domestic water of my own family closed over my wife/mother head and i continued to experience the discomfort of hearing a language i wasnae allowed to understand, far less speak, emotionally, i pretty much shut down on the entire civil rights scene, en todos sus idiomas. i'd been serving for decades and felt like i was only paving still more roads to hell with my good intentions. i felt as though i had done my best. time to move on and take care of me. the relief of heading north where the hispanic diasporas are small enough that one doesn't have to play the language game every minute of every day was only one motivation for beginning my river research in earnest. it's mere coincidence that the vast majority of north american rivers have their headwaters so deep into gringolandia that not too many hispanic immigrants move there. the vast majority of hispanic diasporas are within the five states which border hispanolandia. i donae believe i heard spanish even once during my exploration of the mississippi and ohio headwaters. not even a geophysical feature carrying a name given by the conquistadors. that cultural snot knot wasnae terrifically important to me, especially not with Iroquois, seneca, sioux, etc., names to learn the roots of. sorry, isabella. there were people who discovered america long before the token italian your courts marginalized after he brought back his unexpected discovery.
when the covidic shutdown intensified the isolation of grief on this still listing little ship of fools and i was feeling more than a bit crippled by the physical shock of going to river pirate to my second parenting career, the crews of the cleaning company we had hired that january was near to the only human contact available to us. it wasnae my job to investigate the legal status of those crews and they were 100% sensitive to the plight we were suffering. i found myself pulling my neglected spanish skills out of the proverbial moth balls. it felt unexpectedly pleasant. none of them said it, but i imagined many of them were telling me, "si, los gringos se puedan." my heart aches to hear those words, but i will settle for acting them out.
before the rise of the maskites, i had already been surfing the english language websites for a nanny. they looked an awful lot like the diverse array of dating/sexual websites i work hard to keep off of my computer's hard drive. the viruses, etc., which permeate those sites are even meaner than covid. the low quality of conversations i was receiving from those sites spiraled even further downward after the shutdown. i began screening the cleaning crews for potential candidates. mostly illegal and the ongoing custody disputes with mother's family made the presence of an illegal nanny ill-advised. i lacked the courage to ask, but i'll bet dollars to wishes their lawyers would have jumped on that fact like an old hippie after a welfare check. fa was the best of those offerings. the legal members of those crews were all visa brides in service to gringo husbands. no thanks, not even if you have the time, my pussy-powered beauty queens. lovely earrings, sweetie.
i was still reluctant to build the personal connection when fa's living situation turned dangerously sour and she asked if she could stay a spell in the future education center of the 3/4 restored farm complex. i had yet to settle the still grievous family situation far enough to have found time or energy to finish the move-out mess, far less the restoration project. we agreed to trade that cleaning for a month's rent on a single room of the house. by the end of that month, she had wormed her way into our hearts, most especially the children's. she very much wanted that nanny job, despite the political dangers of the mother's family. she believed those dangers a bit more intelligent than your average border crasher. i am guilty of side-stepping those technicalities in favor of resolving a personal crisis. by december 2020 when we officially hired her as a farm assistant in hopes of side-stepping the maternal family's lawyers, i still had not relinquished the entire house to her tenant's claim. we were still discussing the bodega-style use of the house. fa's passive resistance of that notion looked like a mark of compatibility between she and hubs. their styles of passive aggression are starkly similar. i ain't telling you no, but i ain't developing your stupid ideas, neither. it didn't feel like the biggest problem on my long fucking list (lfl) of problems in spring of 2021. i let it slide. fa's daily assistance in getting the children off to maskite school was priceless.
fast forward to this first week of 2024 and ? ? ? wtf do we have here. i've shut down the education center coops because keeping free-range chickens in her yard feels less acceptable than keeping them in missus tyson's front yard. is that a spot of chicken shit on your cadillac, missus tyson? sorry ma'am. the realities of your vast fortune have no place on your fine home. the condition of the house continues, predictably enough, to worsen. she has complained some about the continued deterioration of the building, only to meet my reluctance to continue putting new bandages over deeper structural problems and reminders that her residence in our education center is temporary. the unplanned need to build a new house so that we can have her and our education center, too are still meeting with the covidic delays. the covidic inflation is looking more intimidating with every price increase. now my naive silver spoon is being invited to play visa marriage broker.
inch by inch, the snake's head reveals the insidious nature by which honest, intelligent people of admirable ethics become hardened criminals. the fun never ends in the repetition of history en todos idiomas. where have all the flowers gone?
tonight's intrusive thoughts are disconcertingly mean. they have me calling it hypocrisy when the illegal immigrants of my country are better than the illegals in mi pais and firing a housekeeper while i am at it. i am the one who brought this unpleasant yaddah blah into our home with my stupid gringo espanol, but fa has advanced far enough with english that she can work with hubby without a human translator. hubby wants to. gee. . . what a surprise. i wonder where this adventure is going?
during an earlier round of immigration society, perhaps even two rounds ago, i teased with fa that i was willing to divorce hubs so that he could be her visa groom. with her i was teasing. with hubs, i was dead serious. i donae feel up to recapping those reasonings and discussions just now, but after 2 or 3 years of working with her, hubs decided he enjoyed their business collaborations, but that was as far as he could take his admiration. in you i trust, babycakes. i still believe these children need a younger mother, but i trust in god, as well.
i left the house while she updated hubs on her lawyer's guidance in the pending visa marriage. the thought of lawyer guided marriage fraud has my skin crawling. i can find no clue of when that became legal, but hey. . . one illegality leads to another. her english hasnae advanced far enough to speak the legal dialect of english. i donae care to know anything about this professional, but i am verily dancing on hubby's head about the kind of people visa marriage brokers are in league with. it's a snake far meaner than the bull snakes fa killed here on the farm. please be mindful of the 3 orphans who depend on you for so very much.
as my distaste for visa brides/grooms vents, i find a jilted lover in beneath. insert mamas and papas here. "unrequited love's a bore." god has led the dance and left me to figure out what kind of fuck up have i gotten myself in to, this time?
and the flood on the south border continues in it's escalation, including enough continued escalation in the unaccompanied minors that even the spanish news streams have taken note. can we call that progress?
sigh. . . i amnae quite ready to crawl into bed with the trumpites or any of their kissing cousins, but they are starting to make more sense to me than the bleeding heart liberals i've worked my gringa burra theories with. were the family tree members who have tailored bedsheets in their closets right, after all?
pass the meds. . .
among the wandering ships i have passed often in my wandering ways are folks who love word play as much as i do. we take our ships passing lightly one the agreement that word play is best in controlled doses. the neighborhood pub is a dandy place to hang out, but not so great a place to live. Prost, mein Freund. sichere Reisen und reiche Entdeckungen.
along the southwest political boundaries of gringolandia, the word plays between the two dominant languages are quite colorful. the tones reach from the light pastels to the underlying earth tones. of course etymologists and linguists play those tones far differently than monarchs, peasants and all the other shades between the extremes. like the damned clerics we are, we are compulsive about dotting every t and crossing every i. oopsie. . . i should dot the i's and cross the t's. sorry bro. them rules is leaking out my backside again. thank you for catching the oopsie.
the visa bride drama continues at the ed center. hubs is keeping me aprised of all the latest excuses, but still has no move out date. i am itchy to order the "coming soon" feather flags, but. . . visa spouses have more excuses than the visa officials they are trying to evade. . . think i'll wait for the visa bride to hand over the keys before i order the feather flags.
i kinda wish i had gotten the business cards of one of those ships i have passed in the crowds. . . we need new words for ^it^.
am i driving guaguas or raising guaguas?
as the visa bride drama continues its tedious bilingual circles, i am greatly relieved that the visa bride no longer needs a translator to communicate with her current employer. hubs has taken over her evolutions, all the way to walking the guaguas to the guagua which stops within feet of her kitchen window. in the andes mountains, "guagua" is the quechua word for baby and i never once heard another word for baby, not even when we were discussing the teen pregnancy rate of guaguas raising guaguas. in the visa bride's home country, a guagua is a bus, etymology unknown. the visa bride doesnae seem to appreciate the double entendre as much as i do. i'm a linguist. i'm thoroughly accustomed to simple language users not getting the multiple entendres of linguistics. odds are, they don't know which language their machine translators are programmed in, either.
hubs has taken over the duty of walking the guaguas to the guagua. the visa bride is far more eager to practice her english on hubs than she was to let me practice my spanish on her. she has been interacting at the morning guagua stop far more often than she did when i was the morning conductor. when i attempted to get the info on how the guaguas were responding to the morning interchanges he was business=as-usual vague. hugs and kisses as usual. the changes i have noted in my own interactions are simply more proof that i am the wicked witch of the northwest (from the bride's home country).
where's my broom? ? ? zoom zoom. . .
the visa bride and her massive collection of hoard piles has been gone long enough that we almost have an education center in the old farmhouse. the guaguas still call it hers, but we feel free to work in "her" space once more. the contractor spearheading the renovation shares my amazement that the house had yet to collapse on any occupants. well. . . the pieces which had already collapsed were the motivation for my sense of urgency in building this house for the task of raising our three orphans. the work has progressed far enough that we are comfortable with the integrity of the structure and ready to proceed with the comfort steps such as windows, insulation, dry wall, etc. nearly a month into the project, all seem pleased with the progress.
hubs wants to continue developing the work relations with the visa bride. i want to return to the level of respect i held for her when i called her, "the farm assistant." should i be embarrassed by my foolishness in calling her that? i am far more confident in calling her the visa bride than i ever was in calling her a farm assistant. fact is, she is far more city girl than farmer. the aspect which hubs most admires of her work is the development of cosmetics. spare me the latina stereotype jokes, please.
the intrusive thoughts of her remain quite troublesome, both in spanish and english. a subset of my language studies is reading news articles and specific historical events in both my first empirical language and the language i am studying. it is frequently difficult to believe i am reading about the same events. germany and the u.s. see and interpret events from very different perspectives. the same can be said for english language newspapers from chicago and new york. geography counts. events look different in remote locations. ditto for social distances, such as that between recent immigrants and native born immigrants.
the summary which seems to be perking from my current, strictly personal chaos is that CPS (child protective services) and INS (immigration and naturalization services) are a match made in hell. both governmental networks are rapid-cycling and unpredictable balls of confusion, each carrying its own, radically different anxiety cycles and triggers. it feels unwise to even attempt handling both at once. CPS does not even exist in the visa bride's home country. attempting to harmonize with her has been frustrating and counter-productive. getting INS off my worry plate feels far more sensible than abandoning my three orphans to the deeply troubled foster care system.
be still my spinning mind and heart. . .
on the linguistic note
a new element has been introduced to this round of the spanish/english snot knot. baby sis has been accepted into the world language program here in the local school district. only kindergarten students can enter this particular branch of the program and only spanish and english are taught but it feels like a promising step in a solid direction. prayers ongoing. god, please guide us.
a consistently recurring theme throughout my language studies has been people, including professional instructors, with nearly incomprehensible phonetics, telling me how ugly my accent is. given my delayed speech development and hearing weirds, i didn't even need to leave my birth tribe to hear this brand of encouragement. given that i could read and write before i could speak reliably, the written word carries my most trusted accent. do i give a flying fuck whether it is a tom-ay-toe or a tom-ah-toe? let's write a song about it and call the whole thing off. my first formal language teacher -a french woman- gauged the success of her classes by how many students she drove to tears over their ugly accents. i have encountered the same phenom in every language i have ever attempted to speak. the main reason i so love the written word is that nobody gets mean when i need to reach for a dictionary. phonetics irrelevant.
in the settling of my neurons over the current social distancing between my little ship of fools and the illegal immigration issues, my intrusive thoughts include a certainty that the visa bride and her cohorts are finding cathartic release in mocking my gringo accent. i am finding it difficult to maintain tolerance of their beginner's accent in the local language. i find myself wanting to emulate that french teacher in mockery of their "ugly" accents. there i am checking myself closely. not so much for the advanced speakers with heavy accents proclaiming linguistic superiority while attacking my foreign accent in **their** language.
"and i say, "my, my. . ." like a spider to a fly
"jump straight ahead in my web." ~Keith Richards / Mick Jagger
web building in progress? we see what grows.
still sorting and psychopating like a beaten crazy bitch wolf.
goodness gracious, i love machine translators. they have come a long way since my early involvement at the turn of the millennium and i am still enjoying the ride, bumps and all. some of the machine translator bumps are harsher than others, but none are as harsh as a human translator can be. with both translator options, the less developed the translator, the harsher the bumps. with humans, the more qualified the translator are far less inclined to argue. arguing with a fool only proves there are two fools.
the visa bride net is heavily populated with those heavy accents telling me how horrible my accent is. perhaps i should say, "visa spouse." there arenae as many opportunities for men, but there are approximately equal numbers of men eager to obtain marriage visas. i also feel an intense need to point out that nowhere near all of the players on this network speak with spanish accents. it is a global sport with a history as vast as prostitution, ever-changing while never-changing. don't let the costumes fool ya.
a psychotic quirk which has bubbled out of that stinking cauldron is a stubborn refusal to stop forcing my ugly accent on them. this has bubbled out without premeditation. it just happens. so far it has resulted in both of us being forced to listen to the accent of our despisal. but somehow i feel better after doing so. i am unsure if it is a manic or righteous improvement, but? ? ? research in progress.
as i toy with the notion of building a web to snare foolish accent nazis, my current round of intrusive thoughts seem to be taking some interesting turns. describing those turns is still beyond my reach.
in the far more personal gyrations of the recent developments here on the farm, hubs and i have taken to calling the whole snot knot, "the sb4 incident." the psychotic spin out was triggered by the passage of a state senate bill being called, "sb4." the bill isnae much more than an attempt to bring federal laws which arenae being enforced down to the state level. the level of enforcement is the only change within the bill. that little change is more than enough to trigger serious anxiety among the illegal population and i agree that their anxiety is warranted, but it remains more than i believe i can handle without capsizing my still fragile little ship of fools.
in my damaged brain, CPS and INS are a deadly cocktail.
i'm not quite so ready to let go of my language obsession. i would like that to be a different subject, altogether.
i am grateful for the add-on of "the world language program" to this particular spin of the immigration not-so-merry-go-round, most especially the aspect where we are beginning at a kindergarten level. while this particular slice of the world language program is focused on the spanish/english connection, those are far from the only two world languages bumping cultural heads, both in my own native country and the world at large. the geographical location of our little ships of fools is predominantly spanish/english. think global, act local.
my intrusive thoughts on the "SB4 Incident" remain far more bitter than is good for the health, but shifting easily to the more generic and educated world language program. i am working to continue praying healing hopes for the current "visa bride" and all the other souls desperate enough to leave their home countries that they would consider such a deception. more prayers for the home countries desperate enough to be driving off their citizens. healing hopes for all. no exceptions.
targeting my intrusive thoughts toward the one-step-more-unified school program feels far more constructive than taking pot shots at confused and desperate immigrants, legal or illegal. the twist of targeting kindergarten teachers encourages me to keep it simple. k.i.s.s k.i.s.s. small steps, big faith and lots of prayer.
time to sound reveille. the end of school year countdown is on.
Have a good morning Arfie!! My best friend’s father, when I would sleep over, would yell reveille
In the morning at it got us up for sure!!
i hate calling our former farm assistant, "the visa bride," butttttttttaaaaaaaaa. . . she certainly ain't no farm assistant. i opine that "product development has been her most promising potential to date, but i am only opining while i work to maintain safe social distances between the CPS specter which hangs over our family and the INS specter which hangs over her family. between my ears, those two bureaucracies are a match made in hell. may the two never enter the same psychosis.
by whatever moniker i use here to protect privacy, hubs is meeting up with tvb to discuss future potential. in current fact, he is nearly out of stock of the cosmetic products (lotions, balms, salves) she developed for him. my wife sense believes he also misses her help on the farmer's market circuit, but he isn't saying and i suspect myself of projecting to side step the feared wish that he wants to hand the job over to me. i'm still arguing with my mother and elder sister about how perfect i am for that job. my perfection was fragile then. i donae care to test it now. please don't ask me to do retail on the family plan.
setting aside the farmer's market yaddahs for now. . .
there is little chance that hubby's business will require my participation, but my mental debates with her puppet inside my head are staying consistently in spanish on my side of the debates. her english skills have grown sufficiently to take on the local tradition of asserting linguistic superiority in extremely thick spanish accents. she has legally immigrated(?) family members who have been educated in u.s. schools with the corresponding accents. even with them, i find myself keeping my part of the subliminal debate in spanish. si, si, su propio accento in **mi** idioma tambien is feo. tengo muchas dudas que usted entiende la mayoria de cual esta oyendo."
as indulge my urges to play with these intrusive thoughts, staying mindful that they signal a psychotic symptom, i wonder if i am feeling a loosening of the linguistic snot knots attached to the culture clashes i have lived here in the north american southwest. just wondering. . .