Riding the Metro this afternoon, I found myself wedged between three girls speaking in Portuguese and a large group of South American people telling stories that varied wildly in volume– from the over-the-top Argentine woman who was going on and on about… something in a very Argentine way, to the more sedate Colombian man who giggled and talked and reacted in that tell-tale Colombian accent (ask me more about the Colombian accent). Meanwhile, I was whispering to my mother in Spanish and we were both giggling about how the car felt a little United Nations-y. And all this in Trump’s America, no less, where English has been officially named THE language of the land . Oh, you need forms in your language, newly-arrived immigrant? TOUGH TITTIES. It’s English or Sayonara, compadre. See what I did there?

Anyway, fun story: When my now ex-husband was courting me, he told me his least favorite part of riding the bus was listening to working women and poor, Mexican women talking to one another because, he said, “it sounds so ugly.”

I blinked and stared at him, trying to think of what to say. He continued, undaunted. “You know, I think Spanish is a terrible-sounding language. It sounds so rough and coarse and I hate how loud they are, talking about whatever it is they talk about and invading my space.”

I wish that at the time I could have stood up for myself and my language and all the people with whom I share an unshakeable bond of something that goes beyond siblinghood. I wish I could tell you that I taught him a lesson in appreciating other cultures and that he came away enlightened and chastened and never said an ignorant and deliberately hurtful thing like that again. Instead, I laughed it off, said that they probably sound ugly because they are poor. Yes, I said that. Instead of defending my language and my culture, I added more insults to what was already indefensible. Also, I married him. In what world do you marry the person who is clearly on the side of your oppressor?

In mine, I guess.