an-gli-cism, noun
1: a characteristic feature of English occurring in another language
2: adherence or attachment to English customs or ideas
Reading through El País as I do on a regular basis, it is no longer a surprise to be interrupted mid-article by the occasional English word (yes, they are always italicized.) As a native English speaker, its comprehensibility is a non-issue; I understand it, I get irked for a second, and then I move on. But there are more significant concerns at bay here: first, what are monolingual Spanish speakers to make of alienesque words like gossip and fitness cropping up in their daily newspaper? (The equivalent of throwing cotilleo in The New York Times for all to understand.) And no less disconcerting, what is happening to the Spanish lexicon that already-existing and perfectly healthy words are being replaced by foreign equivalents?
Undeniably, the English-dominated tech world carries some culpability. Terms like USB, e-mail, and blog belong to a set of previously nonexistent concepts, developed in the English-speaking world, that somehow needed to be expressed in other languages as well. One of few linguistic remedies - and perhaps the most common - is to accept them as loanwords, borrowing the terms from a donor language (English) and incorporating their fully preserved forms into the recipient language (Spanish, in our case.) The only change, typically, is in pronunciation. Alternatively, a language may retain the essentials of the original term while attaching language-specific traits to it - domesticating it, in other words. Take the verb to tweet, for instance, whose Spanish equivalent tuitear takes on the traditional -ar verb ending and undergoes a fundamental orthographical change (twee- to tui-), facilitating pronunciation for speakers of the language. What is produced as a result bears a much greater resemblance to the original English than if a Spanish speaker had simply attempted to pronounce tweet based on their own language's conventions.
Now, while we can make a case for tech jargon finding its way into a language like Spanish, what about those words conceived long before the first telephone or computer? One of the most striking examples came to me today while, again, reading El País online: the italicized expression wedged between flawless Castilian was not wi-fi or networking, but on fire. On fire as in, "That fútbol team is on fire!" Does Spanish not have a way of expressing such a concept? Of course it does. This, it seems, has little to do with lexical inadequacies and a whole lot to do with a shifting cultural mindset. And, in fact, I shortly after came across this article (titled "Don Quijote was a geek") that sheds some light on the issue - most importantly, from a Spaniard's point of view. It explains that behind this phenomenon is the profound and widespread belief that English is elegant, trendy, cool. It is a matter of English sounding better and being in style, and it is also a matter of a so-called "cultural inferiority complex" (complejo de inferioridad cultural). For a native speaker of English wanting to immerse herself in Spanish, this is evokes a great sense of frustration. English is not cool or superior; English is just English. When I travel to a Spanish-speaking country or pick up a Spanish newspaper, I do so in part to escape my own language. And yet, this is never entirely possible. English is ubiquitous. There is no escaping it - until perhaps another, trendier language comes along.
Once over the frustration, I reach a point of acceptance and empathy because I, too, fall victim to the cultural inferiority complex. I feel it when boarding a trans-Atlantic flight, holding up my navy blue passport amongst a sea of red and green, as if announcing, "I am a crass, uncultured American." I feel it when I take my seat behind souvenir-clad groups of American tourists, so I raise a newspaper with large, Spanish print to my face as to separate my world from theirs. In these moments, I reach to identify with something beyond my own - something perceived as superior - just as the Spanish, among many others in our world, have done. In other words, I get it. The césped is always greener on the other side. Just please, let's keep it to a minimum.
- Carrie Pichan is a 2012 graduate of the University of Michigan. She holds degrees in Romance Languages and Linguistics.
1: a characteristic feature of English occurring in another language
2: adherence or attachment to English customs or ideas
Reading through El País as I do on a regular basis, it is no longer a surprise to be interrupted mid-article by the occasional English word (yes, they are always italicized.) As a native English speaker, its comprehensibility is a non-issue; I understand it, I get irked for a second, and then I move on. But there are more significant concerns at bay here: first, what are monolingual Spanish speakers to make of alienesque words like gossip and fitness cropping up in their daily newspaper? (The equivalent of throwing cotilleo in The New York Times for all to understand.) And no less disconcerting, what is happening to the Spanish lexicon that already-existing and perfectly healthy words are being replaced by foreign equivalents?
Undeniably, the English-dominated tech world carries some culpability. Terms like USB, e-mail, and blog belong to a set of previously nonexistent concepts, developed in the English-speaking world, that somehow needed to be expressed in other languages as well. One of few linguistic remedies - and perhaps the most common - is to accept them as loanwords, borrowing the terms from a donor language (English) and incorporating their fully preserved forms into the recipient language (Spanish, in our case.) The only change, typically, is in pronunciation. Alternatively, a language may retain the essentials of the original term while attaching language-specific traits to it - domesticating it, in other words. Take the verb to tweet, for instance, whose Spanish equivalent tuitear takes on the traditional -ar verb ending and undergoes a fundamental orthographical change (twee- to tui-), facilitating pronunciation for speakers of the language. What is produced as a result bears a much greater resemblance to the original English than if a Spanish speaker had simply attempted to pronounce tweet based on their own language's conventions.
Now, while we can make a case for tech jargon finding its way into a language like Spanish, what about those words conceived long before the first telephone or computer? One of the most striking examples came to me today while, again, reading El País online: the italicized expression wedged between flawless Castilian was not wi-fi or networking, but on fire. On fire as in, "That fútbol team is on fire!" Does Spanish not have a way of expressing such a concept? Of course it does. This, it seems, has little to do with lexical inadequacies and a whole lot to do with a shifting cultural mindset. And, in fact, I shortly after came across this article (titled "Don Quijote was a geek") that sheds some light on the issue - most importantly, from a Spaniard's point of view. It explains that behind this phenomenon is the profound and widespread belief that English is elegant, trendy, cool. It is a matter of English sounding better and being in style, and it is also a matter of a so-called "cultural inferiority complex" (complejo de inferioridad cultural). For a native speaker of English wanting to immerse herself in Spanish, this is evokes a great sense of frustration. English is not cool or superior; English is just English. When I travel to a Spanish-speaking country or pick up a Spanish newspaper, I do so in part to escape my own language. And yet, this is never entirely possible. English is ubiquitous. There is no escaping it - until perhaps another, trendier language comes along.
Once over the frustration, I reach a point of acceptance and empathy because I, too, fall victim to the cultural inferiority complex. I feel it when boarding a trans-Atlantic flight, holding up my navy blue passport amongst a sea of red and green, as if announcing, "I am a crass, uncultured American." I feel it when I take my seat behind souvenir-clad groups of American tourists, so I raise a newspaper with large, Spanish print to my face as to separate my world from theirs. In these moments, I reach to identify with something beyond my own - something perceived as superior - just as the Spanish, among many others in our world, have done. In other words, I get it. The césped is always greener on the other side. Just please, let's keep it to a minimum.
- Carrie Pichan is a 2012 graduate of the University of Michigan. She holds degrees in Romance Languages and Linguistics.