Mexican't

What do you get when you cross an Australian with an Indonesian?

Apparently, a Mexican. At least in Miranda’s case.

Despite having an Aussie papa and a Sumatran mama, Miranda looks more like she hails from Baja than from Brisbane or Bengkulu. Not that this is necessarily a bad thing. In fact, in America, she is often able to use her Mexican complexion to her advantage. For instance, she frequently receives preferential treatment – e.g., faster service, fewer hairs in her refried beans – when drunk-dining at Taco Cabana. And back in 1993, Miranda was able to get accepted to the rather elite Trinity University because the theater department was putting on a production of “West Side Story” and needed an understudy for the role of Maria. (I realize that Puerto Rico and Mexico are different countries, but not to Americans.)

The problem is that when you live in Mexico and you look Mexican, people tend to address you rapidly in Spanish. Worse, they expect you to respond in kind, unless you are hearing impaired, mentally handicapped or a professional soccer player. Well, the locals know that Miranda can hear just fine because she’s constantly covering her ears when Mexican music is playing. And they know she’s not a pro soccer player because she has no Adam’s apple, plus they can see that her freakishly long second toe would preclude her from comfortably wearing cleats.

Thus, in the eyes of Mexicans, Miranda – a highly cultured world traveler with a Master’s Degree – is a little “special.”

Miranda’s current inability to speak Spanish has nothing to do with aptitude and everything to do with circumstances and time. She is certainly smart enough to learn the language, but she has been working long days at a furniture factory where the people with whom she interacts on a daily basis speak English. She then comes home – too tired to study – to an American husband with whom she is accustomed to speaking English. Thus, she has neither the free time (the few spare hours she has are spent wondering why she ever left Austin) nor the necessity to excel in Español.

And the truth is, I don’t really push her to learn, as I benefit somewhat from her mono-lingualism (ok, she can speak Indonesian). When waiters or retail salespeople or building tenants here in Puebla begin speaking to the very local-looking Miranda and see how she simply smiles and looks for me to step in and respond, they assume I am a saint – a compassionate man who has dedicated his life to assisting the developmentally challenged.

In addition to Miranda’s lack of Spanish earning me respect and admiration among the Poblano populace, it enables me to converse in front of her without her understanding that I’m just as obnoxious in my second language as I am in English. Yes, she probably suspects that such is the case, but without being able to discern exactly what I’m saying when I speak Spanish, for all she knows I might be coming off as a likeable, well-adjusted man to the Mexicans.

But, alas, all good things must come to an end. Lately, Miranda has been picking up on some key verbs, nouns and modifiers when others and I are engaged in Spanish discourse. I’ve noticed she has started laughing right on cue when an amusing anecdote is told, and nodding her head in agreement when the conversation calls for such action. The other day she even rolled her eyes when I made a corny joke in Spanish. She is on to me, and her growing comprehension has become a big concern.

Fortunately, however, she still struggles to put the words she’s beginning to recognize into any kind of fluid order when trying to speak. So, the Mexican misperception of me as a humble Samaritan who delights in helping people with cognitive disorders is still intact.

Now, if I can just find a good hiding spot for the Spanish grammar books I brought to Puebla, and pick up the pace when speaking with locals, there is a good chance that Miranda will remain that “special” girl I married.