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GANADOR / AWARD WINNER (Narrativa / Narrative)
Sharing Tristan Franz
W
hen I sat down at my friend’s dinner party, the six or so guests were in the middle of a lively conversation in Spanish. Slowly, as my presence sank into the room, the chatter quieted and polite introductions were extended to me in English. It was that moment when a group of people — who seemed to be having a great time until now — reluctantly smile and assess the newcomer, deciding whether we are worth the interruption. Here, in a room of Hispanic New Yorkers, I couldn’t help but feel that it was my closed-mouthed, monotone English that put a damper on things. “¡Tristan habla español!,” touts my friend, breaking the silence. “¿Ah, sí? ¿Y por qué no lo hablas?” someone asks me. “No sé, puedo si quieres. Hablamos español entonces.” At this, I receive the usual combination of raised eyebrows, smiles, and a few cynical scoffs. My Spanish, while certainly not native, sometimes sounds close enough that native speakers do a double take when they first meet me; it seems there is a truly disturbing incongruence between my freckled face and rolled r’s. And while my penchant for the language has earned me respect and friendships in some quarters, it draws a silent criticism from others, particularly at home in New York. If I am not admired, I am viewed as a culture vulture of sorts, appropriating a language and way of being that I, an Anglo-American, do
HISPANIC CULTURE REVIEW
