You say emigrado, I say immigrante,WELL, FOLKS, the IVC Spanish department has weighed in on the Tan Nguyen letter—at least a sampling of them has. Rebel Girl did her best to lure her colleagues into her office and then thrust copies of the letter at them. She must report that the letter's prose style isn't impressive in Spanish either.
You say tomahto, I say tomate.
Tomahto, tomate,
Emigrado, immigrante,
Let's call the whole thing off!
The verdict? While the writer (aka Sergio Ramirez) may indeed be a native speaker of Spanish, he has issues with his written expression. Also, the writer is most likely a Mexican-American, that is, an American of Mexican descent as opposed to, say, an immigrante or emigrado, or a Cubano or Salvadoreno or una Peruvian—perhaps someone who grew up in the Central Valley in a Spanish-speaking home, someone who became conversant in spoken Spanish but not in written Spanish. Still, the espanol comes in handy when visiting the tourist resorts Mexico has to offer and when presented with an opportunity to translate a letter spiced with racismo.
This view was determined, I think, primarily by word choice—the term emigrado—and a verb form to which the scholars also objected: registrado, I believe.
What does it all mean?
Beats me. I look forward to the day when we know who crafted this thing, though, and we can see how accurate the estimations of my fine colleagues are.
Meanwhile, Rebel Girl herself remains astonished by the vision at the heart of the story Tan Nguyen keeps telling: how, after the hysteria broke out about the letter, he retreated to the shores of the Pacific where, he claimed, he met many Latinos. He approached them and asked them the meaning of emigrado. These Latinos with sand in their zapatos all told him the same thing: an emigrado is a green card holder and thus, in Nguyen's loca cabeza, they exonerated him and his campaign. I can't help but picture the scene: Huntington, maybe Corona del Mar. Latino families out for the day with Igloo coolers and folding chairs. It's what we call Indian summer here in So Cal. You can still don shorts and tanks tops and not catch a chill. The kids let the waves chase them. Seagulls squawk. Bags of Doritos flutter in the breeze. Los Tigres del Norte play on the boom box. A slight man dressed in a white button down shirt and dress pants stumbles toward las familias. He clutches a crumpled letter, looks harried.
Can you help me, he asks. Can you tell me what emigrado means? Please? Please?
My family would have run away, but in Nguyen's dream, these people stay, welcoming him and giving him a lesson in Spanish 1. Maybe they even offer him a Coca-Cola. The cold silver and red can feels good in his hot hands. Its promise is sweet.
Pobrecito, they think. Poor man, brought low by the liberal media, misunderstood by his own, sold out by a bad translator. They know how it feels.
Isn't America great?
Where one man can create his own reality!
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