My youngest was on the slide when she heard the drums, a lively Latin rhythm carried into the playground on a spring breeze. It was a music class. I’d seen it before from a distance. In the fall large groups of parents and nannies with toddlers, at least a dozen and sometimes more, would create a large circle on the park lawn to sing and dance together. I mostly ignored it and drew my daughter’s attention elsewhere. We are not looking to add more classes to our schedule. But the teacher approached us on the playground with a smile and, maybe because it’s the time of year when I’m feeling most generous and least cynical, we walked over for a trial.
To be perfectly honest, I was there as much for myself as for my daughter. I also offer classes in the park and, though they are very different in nature, I was curious to compare.
As promised on the flyer, there were canciones en Español. Spanish was peppered throughout the “hello” and “goodbye” songs, and one or two songs were entirely in Spanish. My bilingual daughter took note, as she does whenever we hear our home language out in the world. The class flowed much like every other music class we have taken. There’s the intro, the familiar hits (egg shakers, scarves), the crescendo (drums), and the decrescendo (lullabies) into goodbye. My daughter was curious, and the teacher was kind and warm. But as welcoming as he was, I didn’t feel welcome.
Of the families there, only one other child spoke Spanish. Everyone else seemed to be amused by the language or at least at the thought of their child saying a word or two. I watched as one mom exaggeratedly sang, “Arriba! Arriba!” while shimmying and waving her hands in an attempt to get her toddler to mimic her. This was followed by several adults commenting on the cuteness of it all. Not the cuteness of toddlers in general, or the cuteness of toddlers learning, but the cuteness of their toddlers trying on someone else’s culture.
It took me until the last two songs to stop trying to talk myself out of this observation and the discomfort it engendered. It was a salsa-inspired original song that the teacher sang with a put on Caribbean accent that drove the point home. I’ve heard my daughters sing similar lyrics. I’ve seen them dance and play güiros while they belt songs tan calientes que arden. These are songs they learned from relatives, from a flight attendant on our trip to Puerto Rico, from our family dives into the salsa playlists on Spotify. They are not songs learned from a white teacher who made no attempt to connect the songs to culture or a community, and who didn’t speak a word of Spanish to me or my daughter despite the several invitations I presented him with.
Six years ago the doubt would have stayed with me. I would have buried it with my shame, put on a smile and moved on.
I’ve taken my daughters to many Spanish classes over the years. The best one was taught by someone who is not a native speaker. She is, however, a polyglot with a love of language and culture. The songs she sang were contextualized. We knew where they came from, to whom they belonged. At every other class the Spanish has felt either like an add-on or a selling point for English speakers. A resume booster for the toddler set.
In other words, the Spanish classes I’ve been to are not for me or my daughters. Our role, as is often the case, is either to lend legitimacy or to educate the others. I’ve been asked more than once to clarify how a word is said.
My daughter and I stayed until the end of class. I added myself to the email list because I felt too shaken up to say no. I googled the teacher in a final attempt to prove to myself that maybe I was misreading the situation. I was hoping for some personal connection to the language, or some acknowledgement of the value it has to so many of us. I found nothing. Just the familiar feeling of gaslighting myself.
Six years ago the doubt would have stayed with me. I would have buried it with my shame, put on a smile and moved on. I might have even signed up for the class in an attempt to numb the sting through my approval. But having a daughter changed me. Having multicultural, white, Latina daughters changed me. I want them to know and embrace all of who they are, and that means knowing what is beautifully theirs. I also want them to know what is beautifully others’.
So we will not be joining this class. I will be sharing these thoughts in the hopes they inspire you to bring compassion and a critical eye to your world as well. I will be taking a long, hot bath. I’ll be writing a kind note to the teacher in the hopes of sparking change. And I’ll be reevaluating my own classes because there is always more work to be done.
For those of you who have found yourselves in similar situations… let’s talk about it.
What concrete acts from teachers or educators have helped you feel welcome?
Thank you for sharing this Melina! I’m sure it wasn’t easy to feel those feelings. I have find myself in situations like these and it’s so hard to put into words, but I think that it’s our job to stand up for our culture and language and don’t let others to use it as a costume. I appreciate your work ❤️❤️❤️