Spanish people have an incredibly rich vocabulary of curse words so here’s just a few that I learned and found very funny
1. Mola Mazo!
Mazo literally means hammer, but in Madrid it is used to mean a lot of something. (Me duele mazo la cabeza= my head hurts a lot) Mola is a word with gypsy origins used to express that something is really cool. Therefore, “mola mazo” means, “It’s really cool!”
2. Menudo coñazo!
This expression means that something is really annoying or really boring.
3. Te voy a pegar una hostia//un guantazo
“un guantazo” is from the word guante, which means glove. hostia literally is the flat communion wafer. Therefore, “te voy a pegar una hostia” or “te voy a pegar un guantazo” means “I’m gonna hit you really fuckin hard”
4. Me cago en la mar
Literally, it means “I shit in the sea”. It is one of many versions of “me cago en x”(me cago en dios, me cago en todo, me cago en su puta madre--a personal fave). However, this one is a particularly special version from the north.
5. Que puñeta....
This is a fun one I had never heard before and learned from my boyfriend. It means “what the fuck” as in “what the fuck are you doing?”
6. Ni x ni hostias
This expression means I don’t want any of [this stupid thing] or any stupid bullshit.
“yo no quiero ni poesia ni hostias” -- “I don’t want poetry or any of that bullshit”
“Where are you from?” This is the first question people often ask me and the question I seek to answer in these portraits. Gene Kim and I met in the summer of 2011, art students in a “nerd school” of sorts over the summer. Ever since then, we have been exploring our Asian American identities together. Where are we from? Is there any way to truly explain who we are from, where we are from, and who we are?
Flags have long born a strong significance in identity, nationalism, and most importantly patriotism. At this current moment in history, flags have suddenly become focal points of national movements. In the US, there is public outcry against those who would choose not to “pledge allegiance to the flag” during NFL games. In Spain, those who disagree with Catalunyan independence hang the Spanish national flag in their balconies. For my part, I have collected flags for years. Every room I occupy for more than a month has at least three flags: Malaysia, America, and Spain. In a time of nationalism, extremism, and chaos, I seek to establish identity using flags and traditional dress.
There is no way to express how close you have come to my heart this year. Most of my life I have worked with children under the age of 7. When I was sent to work with you all I was afraid of your sassy remarks and preteen awkwardness.
But you all proved me wrong. Each of you has become such a wonderful piece of my heart. Alvaro, Cesar, and Adrian, I am so sick of yelling at you to be quiet and sending you out into the hall. But at the same time I cannot imagine a classroom without your lively jokes and hilarious comments. Girls of 6A: the Tanias, Erika, the Lucias, Celia, Maria, Pilar, you prove that a group of girls can do anything they set their mind to. You are our future. You will be the girls who show us that we as a society have been wrong this whole time. Stay hardworking and show them what we’re made of!
The boys of 6B: Marcos, Catena, Jon, Ramon, Blanes, Dorado, Jesus Christ you have to stop talking so much but I love you anyway. Blanes, you will go far in this life with this beautiful spirit if you would only apply yourself a bit more. Hugo, Manuel, Guijo, and David F, the world needs more kind, sensible, and intelligent young men like you. Alicia and Carla, you are true champions overcoming what sets you back. Mohamed and Yassir, you have had many challenges which you face with a beautiful spirit. To all of you: It has been an honor and privilege to call myself your teacher and I know you are all destined for great things. Please come back and visit me soon!
For the majority of my time teaching children I have always been with very young children, most under 8 years old. This year I have spent the majority of my year with the 1st grade (6yrs old) and spent a significant amount of time with infantil (3-5yrs old). In January my boss told me I would begin to work with the 6th grade (12yrs old), and to be honest, I wasn’t very excited. I remember what it was like to be 12yrs old and I had all the same stereotypes you might have: early pre-pubescent teenagers with their silly preoccupations and their weird awkwardness. The truth is, I was afraid. I wasn’t sure how to impose my authority or relate to them at all.
What I never anticipated was to come to love each and everyone one of them as my own. As the year progressed, I began to learn about them, their strengths, weaknesses, hobbies, crushes, friendships, and fears. Between learning about magnets and practicing for the PET/KET English exams, something happened. I began to see them as people, not kids. In reality, they’re just like me. they’re kids trying to find their place in the world, with friends they care about and hopes and dreams of a future.
Of course, my girls were the light of my life those days, greeting me every day with enthusiasm and admiration, learning eagerly. However, the ones who really began to change my world view was my boys. When I began the year, I had the same objectives as any teacher: for my children to all pass the grade and pass the PET/KET (national English exams for 6th graders). Over the course of the year, I began to see my students as people, not students. As a child, I was a relatively good student. Faced with a significant amount of pressure from my parents, I was led to believe that the way to success is linear, most of all focused in making good grades in school.
My students, however, did not necessarily share the same aspirations, most of all my boys. Most of them spent their days discussing football, talking nonstop, and bothering the girls. Many of my classes were spent sending them out to the hall and yelling at them to be quiet. The truth is, I’m not sure how many of them learned the difference between the European Union and Europe, or the way to separate various chemicals.
However, my most impactful moment came on the last day of school. Adrián was a student I always had trouble with. Impossible to stop him from talking, he was tall, handsome child, with blonde hair and blue eyes, and already older than most of his grade. He has a very hard time taking anything seriously, and I think I have singlehandedly yelled at him more than anyone else. However, I’ve never been able to stay angry at him, and I wasn’t sure why.
On the last day, I walked into their classroom, and announced that I was here to say goodbye. As with other classes, I was expecting the awkward “ew don’t touch me” hug of my 12yr old boys, but then Adrian was the first one to jump up and said “TEACHER!” and came to give me a strong, sincere hug. I don’t know what happened, but I was so surprised that I began to cry. Any of my other boys would have become awkward, and most of my students surrounding me began to ask why I was crying. But Adrian did not, he just hugged me tighter and patted me on the back and said “Teacher, please don’t cry, I’ll miss you.” And that was when I realised what I had been missing all year. All too often we measure success in numbers and grades, and we neglect something extremely important in the development of our students: emotional empathy. I suddenly realised I had never even considered the number of times he had asked me how I was, or what I had done this weekend. It’s true that he is your typical 12yr old boy, bothering girls and disrupting class, but I have never heard him talk bad about the other students or mocking them, as is sadly typical of most other students of that age.
I know it’s important to do well in school, and I know life won’t be easy for Adrián if he doesn’t apply himself a bit more, but I can’t help but recognize that he already has something that many people will fail to develop in their whole lives: emotional empathy. We would all do well to recognize that there’s a lot more to success than just grades and knowledge. My beloved Adrián, for the love of God please talk less in class, but other than that, please never change.
(PS I’m not egoistic, I’m not allowed to share photos of my kids on social media so this is as good as it’s gonna get)
As most of you know, I love Asturias and think it’s one of the most beautiful places on earth. When my friend Paula invited me to her her home in Oviedo to spend Christmas, I jumped on the chance to participate in how the Spanish celebrate the Christmas holidays
First and most importantly, I cannot express how grateful I am to Paula and her family. I could have spent Christmas alone, but the Vila Gomez family not only allowed me to stay with them but welcomed me into their home as their own daughter. I truly believe that they are some of the most generous people I’ve ever known. They also took the time to show me around town, where they pointed out and explained all the art, including a statue called La Regenta, a figure of a literature book set in Oviedo (important later). They took me to all the family events and dinners, went with me on walks with their lovely dogs, Lua and Tango, and best of all made amazing Spanish/Asturian food for me every day. (this is a homemade paella)
Christmas holidays in Spain are very important, just like in the US, but they are a bit more spread out. The festivities include Christmas Eve (Nochebuena), Christmas Day, Nochevieja (New Year’s Eve) and Dia de los Reyes Magos (Jan 6). Nochebuena (”the good night”) is the most important part of the festivities. This is celebrated by a big dinner. In this case, we went to her maternal grandparents house. Our dinner was a formal setting with massive amounts of food. Our dishes included a pastel (a casserole) of sea urchin, another of fish, a seafood soup, a stuffed chicken, and pimientos rellenos (stuffed peppers). Also there was a chocolate cake, and finally, I received the most important piece of information: “In France, they drink champagne. In Spain, we drink cava. Oh, and in Asturias we drink sidra.”
The second day was Christmas day, which we spent with her father’s family, which is significantly bigger. For this dinner we also had a formal dinner with formal placings and of course, tons of food. There was seafood soup again, several casseroles, and the crowning jewel of this experience: these little hors d’oevres filled with creamed pepper cheese, topped with cranberries. The smoked salmon on the side is topped with egg filaments and consumed with the pastry. Que rico!!
Of course, no discussion of Spanish Christmas can be complete without a mention of turrón, a Spanish dessert for Christmas. There are many types of turrón, and they can include chocolate, marzipan, almond, and more. Sometimes they are in squares and sometimes they are made into shapes like squirrels and ducks (Her parents had a good laugh when I referred to asked for the turron that looked like a run over squirrel).
The most interesting thing about how we spent Christmas Day was that it was a beautiful day, so we spent it walking around Oviedo and sitting in the plaza having a drink. It seemed that everyone was out on the streets, and the family kept running into people they knew. Even I ran into someone I knew from Madrid, which was really surprising. The most striking thing about this is that it really demonstrates a lot about how social Spanish culture is, because in the US Christmas is such a private family holiday that you would never see anyone outside or any shops open.
On Christmas Day, the most moving moment happened when her father called us to give me presents, which of course surprised me because I certainly wasn’t expecting anything. They had already given me so much by giving a happy home to spend the holidays. So even on top of this, they gave me Moscovitas (a typical Asturian cookie/candy) and also La Regenta, the literature book. I was so overwhelmed by their thoughtfulness and generosity that I cried. Honestly, that moment basically summed up my experience in Oviedo: overwhelmed with gratitude of the generosity of this family and deeply moved by the power of compassion and goodwill. I cannot express how much I respect and love the Vila-Gomez family and how much they have taught me and convinced me that ultimately, it really is this kind of opennnes and generosity that is the key to fostering global understanding.
If you know anything about me at all, or if you’ve known me for any period of time, you know that I spent the majority of my teenage years obsessed with one thing: Real Madrid.
Throughout the years, Real Madrid has been a lot of things to me. Real Madrid is the reason I speak Spanish, because I spent so much time watching interviews. Real Madrid (and La Liga football) is what occupied every Saturday (and also Wednesdays and Sundays sometimes) of my high school career. I have 7 jerseys, a lot of posters, an a ridiculous amount of Internet history dedicated to it. And again, I apologize to every single person that had to endure my 15-18yr old self complaining about football every weekend, and especially to my parents, who could not get me to do anything on Saturday and had to deal with me screaming and crying about soccer all the time.
These days, I’ve grown up a lot. I am not a blind supporter of Real Madrid or of football like I used to be; I know that there is a lot more than meets the eye and that there cannot possibly be any perfect team.
Real Madrid is no longer my dream, my perfect team that consumes my heart and soul, but Real Madrid still represents something extremely important to me: the ability to dream. I have been telling my friends and family since I was a child that I wanted to go watch Real Madrid play in the Bernabeu. To understand how much this means to me, you have to understand that at 15years old I was a kid living in Spain with literally no money and no reason to go to Spain ever for this. It’s really hard to believe that I now live in Spain and have the means to attend Real Madrid games in person when at 15 it might as well have been the moon. Real Madrid is a symbol of how one passion can change everything; I can speak fluent Spanish, I live in a foreign country, and the course of my life has changed. So here’s to dreams, here’s to passion, and Hala Madrid!
So fall. Fall in love with the breeze ruffling the fall leaves, with the rain drizzling down on your head, with the dark fog obscuring your path, with the sun shining down your face, with the golden shadows thrown by the sunset.
Fall in love with the boy holding your hand, with the old man at the fruteria who asks about your day, with the child who wants to tell you hes going to football practice today.
Fall, even though it will rip you apart in the end, when the child grows up, when youre at the airport crying your heart out, when you wake up next to someone for the last time.
Nothing lasts forever, it never ever does no matter how much you think it will. No one ever stays; no place, no person, no moment. No one is who you thought they were, so dont bother trying to think, just take them for who they are now. Some things last longer than others, but in the end it all rushes by.
So don’t hold on, give away every moment just as freely as you received it, because you’ll never live it again. Run, fly, leave everything and everyone you ever knew. Lose yourself thousands of miles away from home and find out what it means to be truly happy. Dream, live your fantasies; lose your mind and gain your heart.
"I’ve never tried a Chinese girl before”: Being Asian in Spain
Recently the O’Reilly Factor released an extremely ignorant video of a white reporter basically infantilizing and mocking Chinese political opinions. The Daily Show released a briliant response calling out everything that is wrong with the video, and it got me thinking about how my own experiences fit into this larger narrative. In general, I do not engage on such topics because I’ve always felt like I couldn’t explain myself well. But honestly at this point in our nation’s history, I now feel like I can no longer afford to stay silent.
I have been living in Madrid for three weeks, and overall I think it’s a very cosmpolitan city. People don’t stare at me on the street, people often assume I can speak Spanish, and really, it’s not that bad. I understand it could be a lot worse. But lets not fool ourselves, or pat ourselves on the back.
People, sometimes even my real friends, tell me I’m being sensitive, or that I’m making it about race. The thing is, I am not the one making this about race. In general, I tend to forget I’m the only one who isn’t Spanish, or European. It’s easy for me to forget because I can speak English and Spanish fairly well, and honestly. I don’t think about it. It is not until a guy comes up to me and says konichiwa, or someone makes ching chong noises to me, or guys try to hit on me in the bar saying “Nunca he probado una china” (I’ve never tried a Chinese girl before) that I realise wait, I’m not like the rest of you. In fact, it is these people who are making it about race. And you know what? I know that these are only comments and they can’t really hurt me, but I’m sick of it. I’m sick of wondering whether a guy really likes me because I’m nice and smart and fun or just because I’m Asian. I’m sick of every European boy who feels the need to tell me they’ve never been with an Asian girl--like, Okay, I get it, racial diversity isn’t really a thing here. I’m sick of the narrow categorization of Asian women, like boys asking me why I’m so tall, or why I’m not quiet, or why I can speak Spanish properly without confusing the R and L. I am sick of the sexual fetishization, like guys telling me I’m really small (I’m actually 5′7″, 170cm), or asking me if I’m quiet in bed, or asking me if I’m a tiger because the national animal of Malaysia is a tiger.
And sure, it’s easy to say that’s just Spain. But ever since coming here, I have been deeply reminded of my high school days. People used to tell me to go back to China (I was born in Malaysia, thanks) and the worst, make ching chong ling long noises at me as I walked down the hallway. Every time someone says things like that here, I think of the 15year old that had to listen to guys ask her if her pussy was sideways, or if she was really tight.
The most important lesson I am begging you to understand is this: when I get angry about these actions, I am not being sensitive. I am frustrated because of the years of dealing with such comments have weighed on my person. I am not “always making it about race” because in fact, other people are making it about race. It’s true, I don’t have to fear for my life, or experience violence. But that doesn’t mean it’s okay and that doesn’t mean it doesn’t weigh on me and every other Asian person that goes through this.
Let me draw you into one final anecdote. I am now a teacher in a primary school, with the first grade. I have 81 children about six years old. There is only one Chinese child; his name is Alex. . He is very happy and affectionate with teachers, always wanting hugs and high fives. But for three weeks (before I came to school) he was struggling; he was barely communicative, he never did work, and he would cry almost every day and never explain why, much to our extreme frustration. One day, he threw a pencil at his classmate, and then threw a water bottle, and then flipped a table and slammed a door. We had never seen anything like it, and we had to send him to the principal. We asked him over and over what was wrong but he seemed unable to tell us. It seemed like a small fight over papers.
The next day, I was walking by to check their work, and as usual trying to get Alex to do work. Out of the corner of my eye I saw his seatmate across from him pull the corner of his eyes, and then immediately the other boy started muttering gibberish at Alex. All of a sudden I realised that this was the boy that Alex threw the bottle at. I had a stern lecture with the other boys, and honestly they did not seem to understand what was so wrong. Luckily, the teachers at my school are very understanding, and they agreed that it was best if Alex moved seats.
This morning I went to school and as usual, I said “Good morning! How are you?” to my young class. To my extreme surprise, Alex answered me from his new seat with “I am fine, thank you” and a smile. I had no idea he could even speak Spanish, not to mention any English. For the rest of the day, Alex did not cry, and he seemed to engage in other child like activities such as drawing a multicolored dog and bothering his seatmate with his pencil. Of course, this is no miracle fix, and maybe he was just having a good day. I cannot protect him every day, everywhere, and that makes my heart ache. But if this one small move could make a difference in the life of this child, imagine how important it is to fight it as much as we can, every chance we get.
And so I’m begging you, if you care about me, and if you care about this precious child and people like us--if you see any sort of racial comment, no matter how small it seems to you: Please stop it and of course please don’t participate. This is not small. This is someone’s life and heart on the line. Do it for us.
Sunset, streetlights, a chilly breeze through the streets. Busy streets, cars honking, the neoclassical architecture lit up by the bright lights. You take my hand as we’re crossing the road and I let you. You pick me up and twirl me around by my finger and I laugh as I collide with the other people on the street. We’re in front of Cibeles now and I tell you excitedly that it’s my favorite place in the whole world. I’ve said that before, I realise, but it was another place, another time, and another person.
The strangest thing is that it should hurt, or at least I think it should, especially after nine months of his memory nagging on me, but oddly enough I really don’t care right now. And while I’m trying to figure out if I care, or why I don’t, I don’t realise that we’re sitting on a park bench admiring the water and the golden light of the fountain. I open my mouth to say something and suddenly I’m looking at you and I can’t remember what I was going to say. And I’m taken, so taken, not only by your green eyes and soft voice but also by the night, and the magic of this place, right here, right now, on this dirty park bench facing a funny little Alimentacion store. And suddenly your mouth is on mine and I close my eyes and fall. Now we are those people on the park bench that everyone hates but I can’t stop and I can’t help it. Suddenly I can’t remember whether it hurts or what hurts or why and I’m just happy, not just because it’s you but because it’s here, now, and it’s real. Maybe we won’t see each other tomorrow, maybe we’ll never see each other again, but right now I’m just a girl, and you’re just a boy, and we’re completely alone in the most magical city in the most magical moment. And I will fall into it with my arms wide open because I can’t imagine a happier place to be.
2 Weeks: Piso hunting, NBA 2k16, and A LOT of FIFA
Well, here we are at the 2 week mark: and I could tell you how much the last two weeks have been the most stressful ever. How I spent almost every day for two weeks obsessively on my computer going through ads, contacted 75 different apartments, getting only 11 responses, and 7 of them being “ya esta alquilada” (it’s already rented). How I got so upset one day that I went and sat in a Catholic church and cried for 30 min. But the truth is that miracles do happen, and I finally signed for a tiny but lovely little place in Noviciado, near the center (amazing, I know).
But back to the less boring stuff...the brightest part of the last few days has been my “housemates” for the past week. I have had the privilege to stay with my friend Pablo and his four housemates for the last week while frantically looking for an apartment. Yes, they are 5 guys (~scandalous~), and in many ways they are very much the dudes you would expect--they play sports, they watch sports, and they play sports video games. But they’re also not as bro-ish as you might think; they like to watch movies and go out and most importantly they all make me feel terrible because they can all cook better than me.
They have all been friends for years and it would be easy for them to forget to include me or to feel like I was an intrusion, and it’s true that living with 6 people in an apartment can’t be easy. But instead, they welcomed me into their home and allowed me to participate in whatever they happened to do...whether that was to go shopping for forks on a Sunday, or go out to dance reggaeton on a Saturday night, or to just sit around and play FIFA all day. Every day that I was dying from apartment stress, I could look to them to make me laugh. They were kind enough to allow me to actually get to know them...Kike likes the Golden State Warriors, Bernie claims he sleeps like a sponge, Pablo Chuzas (not my friend Pablo) is crazier about Real Madrid than me, and Javi is obsessed with the song La Bicicleta. Whether they are playing “basketball” in the living room, trying to destroy each other in FIFA, or in the kitchen trying to make squash pureé, they make the simplest moments a happy place to come “home” to in difficult times.
The truth is that most auxiliares in my program here in Spain have not had the opportunities that I have had to get to know Spaniards and speak Spanish, and for this reason I am very grateful to have had Pablo and all his housemates as my first introduction into Spain.
Well, this is me procrastinating the very depressing apartment hunt here in Madrid. As an update, it is Week 2 and I have contacted 64 apartments and only received 2 positive responses...so that’s how this is going...
This weekend I took the opportunity to visit my friend Paula in Asturias. This trip was very meaningful for me because I have several good friends from the University of Oviedo. It was really special that after they spent time getting to know my hometown (Durham and Chapel Hill), I was able to finally go and get to know their “hometown” (Laura and Pablo are from Cantabria, so Oviedo is more of Chapel Hill for them). This was my first experience with the north, and I can honestly say that it is by far the hidden gem of Spain.
When you think of Spain, you probably think of the sun, flamenco, tapas, bullfighting, flat golden fields, and dark haired people. You probably don’t think of green rolling hills, rain, mountains, cheese, and bagpipes.
As I learned this weekend, the culture of the north is very rich and distinct compared to the south. The north is very rainy and green, and their people were never conquered by the Moors.
One of the most interesting aspects of Asturian culture is food and drink. Asturian food is very different from Andalucian food, which is what I had eaten until now (after studying in Sevilla in 2013). I was really lucky to eat food cooked by Paula’s grandmother, which was 100% homemade and delicious. I also found my favorite food of all time, which is escalopines al cabrales, which is filets of meat with blue cheese on it.
The most interesting thing I learned about this weekend is the culture of sidra. Sidra is technically translated cider but it doesn’t taste like what we in North Carolina would consider cider. It is more like beer with a sour apple taste. The most important thing to learn about sidra is that there is a very specific way to drink it. Pouring sidra is called escanciar, which involves holding the bottle straight over your head and pouring a tiny bit into a cup so that it splashes on the side of the cup. When you pour sidra, you only pour a little bit (a culín) and drink it all in one breath like a shot. Supposedly, you are not supposed to drink it all but rather leave a tiny bit to throw out in order to wash the cup. At the end of the bottle, you are supposed to leave the last bit in the bottle, because the apple fibers that are suspended settle to the bottom and they don’t taste good. The process of pouring sidra is significantly more difficult than it sounds, and you splash everyone in the process. Unfortunately, there is a hilarious video of me trying it, but it is lost forever.
Here’s a person escanciando the sidra and below is my first bottle of sidra, featuring my fantastic host, Paula.
However, drinking sidra became a significantly more dangerous activity after it started raining. My friend and I went out for the Fiesta de San Mateo, and annual week-long town festival. In the center of town they set up chiringuitos, which are booths that sell alcohol and sometimes food.
Since this is a very typical moment of Asturian culture, many places take the opportunity to promote the Asturian language/dialect. It’s not very different from Spanish, but it has u as an ending an some abbreviated words like pa=para and pela=por la
Everything was fine until it started raining, in typical Asturian fashion. I found out quickly that rain, smooth and ancient marble streets, and Vans with no grip don’t work. We were walking down an incline and whoosh my feet went straight out from under me and I smashed the bottle of sidra in my hand. The glass cut me in seven places and started bleeding everywhere. Luckily many people stopped to help and a nearby bar bandaged me up. As if that wasn’t enough, I later also had my phone stolen, so kind of an intense end to the weekend.
Even in spite of all this, I was determined not to let my weekend be ruined, so we also went to Gijón, a beach town 30min north of Oviedo.
The most amazing thing about this weekend was that the whole journey started two years ago in UNC when I was randomly placed with an exchange student from Spain (shoutout to Laura). Besides being the best roommate ever, she also later introduced me to Paula and Pablo, fellow students from the University of Oviedo, which does exchange with UNC. Pablo is my co adventurer who is also infamous for his blogs and photography skills, and Paula is the only person who wants to dance reggaeton with me at any given moment. Anyway, this is how I ended up with so many friends from the north. So a huge thanks for Paula and her family for hosting me; I fell completely in love with Asturias and as always I’m reminded by how incredible and fortunate I am to have friends around the world.
