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(wow) Words Of Wonders Level 2626 Answers

(wow) Words Of Wonders Level 2626 Answers – I don’t remember when I realized I was multilingual. I’m not sure if it ever came to me as a realization or if it was just a hard fact of life for me. Until I was five years old, I lived with my mother in Puerto Rico in a house five minutes from the beach. I went to a private school in San Juan and spent my time finger painting, sleeping and learning the Spanish alphabet (it was the same English song, but with the decimals -Ñ and Rr and Ll). On weekends and after school, I would ride my pink bicycle with my neighborhood friend Genesis y Graciela, picking yellow weeds in their yard. When I used to go to my grandmother’s house (white, glass roof in the middle, red furniture smelling of old heat, plants growing from the garden on the floor), I would sit in front of the kitchen in front of the big TV and watch Barney. English because I knew my mother wouldn’t let me go to our house.

My life outside the home was mostly in Spanish. I went to school in Spanish, I beat other girls on barbie dolls in Spanish, I saw my mom in the store in Spanish (and hid behind her leg when she approached the counter), heard my dad on the phone in Spanish he shouted, I heard the aunt’s birthday celebration in Spanish. Cheers to watching, hearing my grandfather curse my half-brother in Spanish (“¡ME-CAGO-EN-DIEZ!”). I lived in a part of the US and there was still little English in the outside world, except for the occasional sign in San Juan (usually near the airport and tourist areas). The reason our home was partly in English was because it was the language my mother knew best. The daughter of Cuban immigrants, she grew up in Miami – her Spanish came from speaking with her parents and from language classes she took in elementary school under the Miami-Dade County Public School System. At night, she read me children’s books in English, and when I watched TV, I decided not to watch Sesame Street in Spanish because the dubbed version annoys me (especially the unnecessarily loud female voices). . The only one in my family who spoke Spanish was my father or my nanny – and yes, my mother too because she understood it. But maybe if he spoke to me in Spanish, it would be because he was angry (“Arranca por que si no te voy a dar una galleta!”). And so when the boundaries of where to speak English and Spanish disappeared, there was no place where Spanish was not allowed. When I chose to switch languages ​​internally, there was no thought or hesitation behind it, it just happened.

(wow) Words Of Wonders Level 2626 Answers

The only time I spoke English outside of the house, other than with my mother, was when my classmates in the United States were impressed by my foreign language. (“Viviana Habla Ingles—¿Verdad Viviana?” “Sí.” “Dígano’ algo en ingles.” “¿Qué?” “Yo no sé—algo.” “Moon.” “¿Qué e’so?” La Luna On the contrary – I loved the attention. My first elementary school in the US would be like this when they asked me to tell them something in Spanish. It was nice to know something that others didn’t know and it was nice that she show. But in the United States, growing up speaking Spanish in public was expensive. My mother taught me English, yes, but there was no way I could learn the slang words that kids use, words that you only hear when you grow up learn learn. a culture. And so even though I was in most English classes. After I learned, I looked up words when I didn’t know their meaning – for example “big” and “brat”. When I acquired these words (mostly with negative connotations), I incorporated them into my vocabulary with a ferocity that only extroverts would have. People who want to do it. Every child People who belong to me they were bad, they boasted a lot. Every kid who called me fat and ugly, told me to go back to where I came from, was crazy.

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My father lived with my half brother in Puerto Rico after he and my mother divorced. Although I still traveled to Puerto Rico at least once every two months, I slowly lost my Spanish. Ordering food at a restaurant has become a frustrating exercise – I’ll say lemonade instead of lemonade and the waiter will look at it. I forgot how to say the word bus and a family friend laughed and thought I was joking until she realized I wasn’t and she started looking at me like I was missing something. And I was. I couldn’t talk to my grandparents anymore. Yes – I could but I was afraid of it. The way people looked when I messed up my Spanish, the way they were afraid of my language, it was so sad, so embarrassing. In Puerto Rico, when they realize you’re from the United States, when they realize Spanish isn’t your preferred language, they switch to English, and when they do, there’s this implicit sense that you’re not alone. It broke my heart. When we were driving somewhere, my dad and my brother sat in the front seat of the car and tried to force me to speak Spanish, they wouldn’t answer until I spoke to them. They always underestimated how stubborn I was. I kept my mouth shut and my silence always won. They will return to English. Life would go on as usual, but every now and then there was this nagging feeling inside – like there was a hole in my stomach that I could feel with my fingers if I wanted to, this empty space where my Spanish used to be. I wanted to speak Spanish with them again.

I loved Spanish – I still do. I love the Spanish sounds of the Caribbean, it can come to music. I love when people curse in Spanish, shout in Spanish, tell each other they love them in Spanish. I love how people in my family interrupt their words and make up new words based on how fast they speak. The long rolled R is to me one of the most interesting sounds in the world, as is the E when one calls to another (oyE, compadrE). Written Spanish makes me happy, especially the menu board with all the dishes on the list. One of my favorite places in Puerto Rico is this beach with all those blue box kiosks dotting the sand on the beach, partly because it’s a great place to get cheap fritura and partly because of the menus – the fans who hanging out behind the counter next to the lake. the scream is plastered to the walls, there, handwritten in strange Microsoft characters on dirty, smudged paper that sits proudly in the junkyard outside the store.

Since I wasn’t old enough to leave my house, I spent a lot of time inside Puerto Rico, either in the public neighborhood or at my grandmother’s house while my father was at work. It’s changed – I’m eighteen now and I can go places on my own, and the most amazing thing is that I’ve now discovered my own island. The last time I was in Puerto Rico, I decided to walk Old San Juan with my little brother for the first time in years. I hoped Puerto Rico would be what it always was – people calling each other in the streets, stray dogs and cats, pigeons roosting on park benches, torn-up menus, frutura carts, salsa streaming through open windows, elderly people sitting outside the panaderia. plastic chairs, a shop selling piraguas, handmade items under red and yellow umbrellas. After all, I was hoping for a world in Spanish. I knew there would be tourists, but Old San Juan wasn’t so vivid in my memory that I knew Puerto Rico was gone. There was still admiration and love in the beer. In my memory, I was chasing pigeons in the park with the other kids as the sun was setting on El Morro – all in Spanish.

The old San Juan of today is not the old San Juan of memory. We were walking one afternoon, my brother was dragging his feet. The shops were surprisingly in English. The road signs were of course in Spanish, because they had to be, but there

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