I first met Juan when he came by my house to give me a quote on a remodel project, in the suburbs of Atlanta. He stepped out of his truck, a dented white pickup that looked like it had lived at least three separate lives. He greeted me with a confident, “Mister Jeff, my friend! Today….we fix everything. No problem. Like a country song, yes?”
That should have been my first warning.
Juan, an immigrant from south of the border, was a building contractor by trade, spoke English in a way that was both impressive and deeply confusing. He had learned it, as he proudly told me, by listening to country music while driving a taxi in Texas.
“I learn from the best teachers,” he said, nodding seriously. “George Strait….. Alan Jackson…and one man named Toby, who is very angry but….God bless…so patriotic.”
Now, I prided myself on my Spanish. I’d studied it, practiced it, even had used it ordering food, without accidentally asking for a shoe instead of soup. But standing there with Juan, I quickly realized I was about as fluent as a toddler with a phrasebook.
Our conversations became a linguistic jambalaya – half English, half Spanish, and half wild gesturing. Yes, that’s three halves! That’s how confusing it was.
One morning, I asked him, “Juan, did the materials arrive?”
He nodded thoughtfully, “Si… the madera is here. But …..how you say…. The truck, she broke my corazón.”
“Your heart?” I asked.
He shook his head. “No, no. The axle.
Another time, I tried to explain a design change, with my limited Spanish, “Necesitamos mover la Puerta….uh…. two feet….hacia la izquierda. »
He squints, processing. Then lights up.
“Ah! You mean…. We take the door; we put her on the road again, like no good honky tonkying woman?”
I gesture widely and say, “No, we move the honky tonkying lady right here!” and I take a pencil and mark the location on the two-by-four.
He nods smiling and jots a few notes on his note pad.
I wonder if he is writing a new country music song. He is wondering if I realize the new position, I so eloquently instructed, would now be directly above a central air vent.
His crew, who spoke even less English, would watch us like we were performing some kind of experimental theater. Juan would translate for them, but not quite accurately.
The moment that truly defined Juan happened late one Saturday afternoon. We’d wrapped up a long week, and he leaned against the countertop, which he had built, and studied the job, like a cowboy surveying his land.
“Mr. Jeff,” he said, “In life….. you build things, you lose things… sometimes you fix things. Is like a country song, always.”
I nodded. “That’s….actually pretty accurate.”
He smiled, then added, “Aso, if something goes wrong….you blame the truck.”
“The truck?” I question.
“Yes”, he said firmly. “Always the truck. Even if there is no truck.”
I laughed. “That might be the most useful Spanish/English lesson you’ve given me.”
He grinned. “Next week, I teach you about love, whiskey, and drywall.”
And that’s how I learned that fluency isn’t about perfect grammar or the right words. Sometimes, it’s about meeting somewhere in the middle-with a little Spanish, a little English, a lot of hand gestures. …..and just enough country music to make everything make sense.
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