English Only - Reflections on Speaking My Native Tongue
By Emilio Gonzalez
When I told my mother what the principal had done to me she took off her white cotton apron, put on her walking shoes, and in her everyday house dress took me by the hand, dabbed my tears, and said, “Let’s go, Emilio. I have a few things to say to that Nazi bitch.” “Why did you spank my son, Madam Principal?” my mother asked.
“Emilio was overheard speaking Spanish in the playground by one of the teachers, and we have strict rules, English only on school property.”
The Principal, Miss Werner, of German stock, full bodied, big breasted and wide beamed, the kids named her ‘Miss Weenie’.
“I don’t give a damn about your rules,” Mother shouted. “I see no reason for inflicting pain on helpless young children to force them to speak your cold, stiff language.” I held on to my mother’s skirt and stared at the floor.
“May I remind you, Mrs. Gonzalez, that you are in America now and in America we speak English,” she adjusted her rimless glasses. “I’ll have you know that I was born here, in Tampa, educated in your schools, and learned perfect English without submitting to punishment.” She slapped her hand on the desk.
“If these Cuban children are to be successful in getting a good job, they must speak English, preferably with no accent.”
“My husband cannot speak one word of English, yet he always has a job, and makes enough money to feed our family.”
“Times change. The cigar industry is in decline and there won’t be many jobs available in the future. We must prepare these children for higher education and positions in a modern economy,” she stood as if to dismiss us.
“So, forcing them to speak English with brutal spankings will make them into true Americans?”
“I don’t make the rules, I just enforce them.”
“And this is how you enforce English?
She took me by the hand turned me around and lowered my short pants to show my blood red buttocks and tracks of the paddle she used on me.
The principal’s paddle made of dark wood with a turned handle, the better to hold it with, and a circle of half-inch holes drilled near the end (the holes makes it hurt more.) It hung by a leather cord on a hook just behind her office door and clearly visible to the students walking down the hall to remind them to obey the rules, English only, or else.
“Take a good look, Fraulein. If you ever touch my boy again, I’ll come down here and spank your fat butt until it’s just as red as his.”
The principal starts for the office door. “Thank you for coming, Mrs. Gonzalez, but I have a meeting.”
“Just so you know, Emilio promised that from now on he would speak only English in school.” Mother said, and slammed the office door. It echoed down the hallway.
Orange Grove Elementary, an English only public school located in the heart of the Spanish speaking community of Ybor City (Tampa, Florida) served the children of Italian, Spanish, and Cuban immigrant cigar makers. The school building of Spanish architecture sat in the middle of a former orange grove and was landscaped by hibiscus hedges, palm trees, and bougainvillea vines. On Seventh Avenue, Ybor City’s main commercial district, you could smell Cuban coffee roasting, Cuban bread baking, spicy deviled-crab croquettes sold by street vendors, and Spanish bean soup cooking in award-winning restaurants.
By the end of the first grade, I had learned simple sentences and limited conversation in English, thanks to my sister, who was one year ahead of me in school and taught me the new words she had learned. My mother and aunt both spoke perfect English with no accent and they tutored us with correct pronunciation. And, in the classroom we recited the Pledge of Allegiance to the Flag (no ‘under God’ back then). We sang God Bless America, America the Beautiful and The National Anthem, all in English. That year our class planted a Victory Garden behind the school to help with the war effort against the Japanese.
Maybe the spanking motivated me, but I persevered at learning this new language and before long I was introduced to a whole new world of words, beliefs and values. My Cuban-ness began to fade as did my self-esteem. I became ashamed of my heritage, my parents and my home. If it wasn’t American, it was no good. In our texts the parents were always white, Anglo, and wore modern clothes. In one assignment I had to bring a picture of my parents to class, but I did not show it to anyone for fear that they would laugh at these funny looking immigrants on their wedding day.
Florida rednecks (Crackers) weren’t sure what to call these new immigrants. “They’re not black, but they sure as hell ain’t white,” so they called us Cuban Niggers.