Back in Jan 2021, I was scribbling a storm in Spanish, tossing around phrases like “ese manto gris perenne que es el cielo de enero,” which is basically me whining about the ever-gloomy January sky, and “hablas en pasado para tratar de poner un poco de distancia,” trying to sound profound about distancing through past tenses. The whole thing felt like an uncorking of thoughts, no filter, just me and my chaotic brain dumped on pages. Then I tried the same gig in English. Bad idea or genius move? You decide. It forced me to slow the hell down, hunting for exact words. Like wading through emotional sludge but also kinda tamed my mental zoo.
Switching to English was like, “Hey, life’s not that bad,” in a way. Just to write about something personal, like a relationship or whatever, transformed it into some kind of therapeutic self-therapy. Like last summer, my brain went into overdrive — stuck, feeling like A Coruña (home sweet home) and Brooklyn (current digs) were like two sides of a weird, unsatisfying coin. Didn’t belong to either. Was like, “yo, can you ever truly belong somewhere when you’re not avoiding the urge to bolt?” So, using English, I untangled my feelings, cuz Spanish was just rainstorm of words.
But Ismael Ramos, a fellow hometown wordsmith, thinks that’s all nonsense. He’s into Galician, that’s like this beautiful hodgepodge between Spanish and Portuguese, and for him, it’s like breathing. Words flow, emotions spill — doesn’t get why I’m complicating things with English. He says there’s this body language thing, a visceral connection. Basically, writing in Engli–, nah, English doesn’t hit me the same, doesn’t ignite the same fire, but it’s freeing, man, it’s weird like that. Back in Lawrenceville, Ga., during my exchange student days, my blog was a word vomit of familiar Spanish thoughts. Deep introspection? Nah, nowhere close.
I remember jotting something odd about my ex —”You no longer see an impending possibility every time you look at him,” in April, mind you. “He is no longer a promise that feels as if it will never arrive,” super dramatic, right? Spanish never could’ve carried that, felt awkward. English wraps my chaotic thoughts with structure, like building cognitive Lego towers instead of just scattering blocks.
Sure, some writers go full polyglot on diary-keeping. Like Jhumpa Lahiri; she took on Italian, soul-searching mission style. “I don’t recognize the person who is writing in this diary,” she scribbled back then, laying her soul bare, raw and stripped. Me? I feel true to myself in Spanish; rhythm feels like a home-cooked meal — nostalgic, comforting. English is foreign comfort, a puzzle, but decoding myself through it reveals unexpected layers buffered from immediate chaos. Welcome to my weird, wonderful linguistic refuge.
