Code-switching — 3 mins

Code-switching is when someone goes from one language to another. Cesia can do it in a blink, as can many of the people I know. But for me, code-switching from English to Spanish is close to impossible, and going the other way is barely any smoother. Regularly I find myself in conversations with Mexican people in which I am speaking broken Spanish and they are speaking broken English, and neither of us is making sense.

My Spanish is basic but I try to use it a little every day. This means exchanging rote pleasantries with security guards and receptionists as I go from one office to another. It throws me off when, after the first week or two, the guards recognise me and speak in English.

‘Buenos dias,’ I’ll say.

‘Teacher, good morning, how is your day today?’ he’ll say as he doffs his blue cap at me.

You would imagine that code-switching would only have problems one way, but that’s not the case. When I’m confronted with a language I’m not expecting, even my native language, I notice a familiar sound, but I don’t recognise that sound as a word. And the guard is met with a blank stare.

What goes through his mind? He spoke in English to someone he knows is an English teacher from England. He must assume he made a mistake. There’s no logical reason for me to not understand him so the most obvious answer is that he got it wrong, not me. Why else would I look at him like that? Well, it’s because I’m a bad code-switcher and my brain is made of jelly.

I was in a Starbucks getting a chai frappuccino for Cesia.

Acoustic guitar played over the speakers and the smell of coffee and sugar wafted around, carried by the blast from the air conditioning unit. I practised my drink order in my head, and anticipated questions I might be asked. I ordered and I saw what the barista wrote on the cup, and I knew that I had made myself understood.

I went to the end of the bar and waited. It was about 4:30 and busy so my order was several places from the front of the line. I was looking at a wicker basket of Kopelani Hawaiian blend coffee for sale when a barista placed a frappuccino on the wooden counter and called out in Spanish. I caught the word frappuccino so I grabbed the drink and went to leave, but someone behind me said something to grab my attention.

‘Perdón?’ I asked.

‘I think you picked up my drink,’ the guy said. He had immediately identified me as an English speaker. His accent and skin colour and the fact that we were in Mexico made me guess that English was his second language, but he spoke effortlessly. He was smiling, amused at the mixup, and looking at me, expecting me to hand him his order so that he could leave. I stared at him with my mouth open as my jelly brain jiggled uselessly. I looked down at the cup that read “Green Tea Frap” and “Morino” and I wondered what was going on.

‘Can I get my drink?’ he said.

I thought about the sounds his mouth made and realised that I was being asked a question.

‘Sí,’ I said, and continued holding the icy cup.

He repeated his question. I realised that the word Morino is a name and that I had heard it before. It was when the barista put the frappe on the counter and called out the name of the man in front of me.

‘Oh!’ I said, ‘Disculpe, lo siento.’ I gave him his drink.

‘Don’t worry about it,’ he said and headed for the door.

A minute later my frappe was ready and my name was called. I picked it up, smiled at the barista, and confidently said ‘Thank you’ instead of ‘Gracias.’

 

Have you ever embarrassed yourself in a Starbucks? Tell me about it in the comments, or tweet me.