The day before the class period that ended with me wanting to choke my Spanish instructor, Antonio had asked me what my teacher's name was and whether I liked him. He had used a different verb than "gustar" and told me how the father of his host family in Puebla told Antonio to use this other verb when referring to his preteen daughters. "It's an important difference. Entiendes?" Antonio had said and I agreed, that, yes, it was an important to use the right kind of "like" when telling a man you like his young daughters.
So instead of ever answering the question, I had talked grammar with Antonio.
Now, during comida after the class period when Juan told me I needed to speak more, I decide to answer Antonio's question. "My teacher's name is Juan," I say. "And no, I don't like him."
Enrique, Cherie, and Antonio all just stare at me, open-mouthed.
What the hell did I just do? I would never sit down to dinner in Arizona with people I know casually and suddenly announce that I don't like a person. This kind of public shit talk is never cool, even in bad Spanish.
But then, out of nowhere, right when I am feeling weak and meanspirited and kind of dumb, Antonio says in Spanish exactly what I have specifically requested my wife Rebecca tell me when I'm suffering through some bout of depression.
"Maybe tomorrow will be better," Antonio says.
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