Our first day of an Arizona getaway, at noon, we were sick abed with flu. A maid knocked. Marlo staggered to the door. I listened from the bed.
“Habla Ingles? (Do you speak English?)” he asked the maid.
“Solo Español, (Only Spanish)” she answered.
He croaked out a few Spanish sentences.
“Estamos enfermos. (We are sick)”
“No necessita limpiar el cuarto. (You don’t need to clean the room.)”
“Pero queremos toallas limpias,” (But we do want clean towels.”
The next morning, I manage to stagger to breakfast with our fellow vacationers. Between coughing spells I narrate yesterday’s incident.
One tablemate says she doesn’t understand why, in a position like that “they” don’t master some basic English.
I take exception,too fast and too dogmatically, I’m afraid.
“After struggling through learning Spanish as an adult, I have more sympathy for that,” I say. “Learning a language is slogging hard work—and not everyone has that capacity. . .”
Nicaragua is still teaching me to sidestep cross-cultural snap judgment.
God grant me the grace to offer the same to people from my own culture.
That’s taking me much longer.
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