I speako el inglish ese. Though judging by the nature of the media that streams from Amerikkka one be hardly pressed to see that here in Europe, ok Sweden pues. Ok, so am not an american citizen, well wait, I am, but the kind that one usually associates american with, gringo et al. blond, blue eye and california suntanned, nope. Yeah, that’s what europeans, ok, pues, swedes, think about americans, and then of course there are blacks. Nothing in between, forget he latte kind, like we.
I must confess that whenever swedes pick Americans for their english I get tummy aches all over. Hell, am a native english speaker no? They pass me over. They only see the Mexican in me. Txale. Explaining what a Xicano is to swedes requieres a year’s worth of anthropological courses. Ahhh, fighting media raised ideas about what an American is only leaves me, get a load of the violin in the background, sad.
So I grapple a lot with english. Can I really be called an english speaker and a native english speaker at that? These past months I had about two of those spams, thoughts were I ponder my english and I reflect the way it came into my life and whether english is my language or not. Argh.
Ark, bly me. You see my existencial dilemma. Although this was a problem in proper Aztlán too. However, there, english had this smoothness to it. I was using english to pretend to be an American Citizen. Heck, I was an illegal alien, I had to pass off as the legit stuff.