I’ve Come To Accept Almost Everything About My Disability. But There’s One Part I Just Can’t Get Over.

"I felt like a 4-year-old, unable to take part in the adult discussion. I could have been working on a coloring book, for all I was able to participate."

Recently, my cousin got me a ticket to a comedy show entirely in Spanish. At the Hollywood Improv, Venezuelan-born comedian Angelo Colina and Netflix organized for five stand-ups to perform for a full room of Colombians, Mexicans, Venezuelans, Salvadorans, Dominicans and Puerto Ricans.

At first, I didn’t want to go.

I speak Spanish, kind of. My mother was born and raised in Puerto Rico. She moved to the States at 18, met and married my white father, and raised two boys in this country. She somehow managed to preserve Spanish in the household, imprinting the language deeply for both my brother and me. But the tongue is a muscle and it requires exercise, like any other. Without regular practice, my fluency fails me.

I was afraid regional accents and slang would inhibit my understanding, like an English learner being dropped in Deep Arkansas or South Boston. I nevertheless forced myself to attend. Once there, I howled with laughter. I was surprised to find I followed a good 90% of the humor.

I wish that’s how it ended: Bilingual boy loses Spanish, goes to funny ha-ha show, and reclaims his identity. Unfortunately, there’s a twist.