I have read Anzaldua’s work in the past, and each time I read her words I feel a deep emotional response well inside of me. Her pain spills out on the page, and I always get a sense that it is pain and rage, pain and rage, pain and rage. The mixture of languages is beautiful. I love how she disperses Spanish and all the various dialects along with English. It also provides an emotional break for me, though I can figure out some of the words, and I feel the tone.
I empathize with her plight, and the plight of her people. Language is culture, language is self. Our thoughts, our ideas, our lives are embedded in our language. It is sad to see any language die, because that is the death of the people who speak it. I am my language, my language is my essence. I’ve often wondered how people “thought” prior to the development of language. Was it in pictures? How did abstract ideas, like the idea of time, enter the minds of people without language?
My emotions are mixed. While I believe that people should continue to speak their own languages, without shame, without feeling that they are less because of their language, I still feel that people should also learn the language of the culture in which they live. If I moved to France, I would expect to have to learn French in order to communicate with the people there. Same goes for anywhere. I would not expect them to learn my language, though my language is widely spoken in the world, it’s not quite the same.
I think that diversity should be celebrated. I also believe that we are all responsible for finding common ground. There is a balance, “when in Rome.” I hear the languages of others around me in my community. I think it’s beautiful. We have a large Mexican population in my community. They work the blueberry fields and farms in the area. When I hear them speak, in the stores, or in a restaurant, I always think they’re language is beautiful, melodious. I’ve tried to roll my “r’s” but I am unable to do so. I don’t believe my language is any more valid than theirs. I've also heard the stories of how they are abused. They work hard and long, for little pay, but fear complaining. It is sad to see people being used, just because they can.
I believe that Anzaldua’s rage (I think it is rage) is more than a rage against language. It’s also class warfare, and how the elite look down on people because of language. It is also about the oppression of women. Somehow, her rage is both a condemnation and beautiful. Maybe, it is because I am a woman that I see it that way. I am cheering for her, her language, and her people.
We are all made of the same stuff, star dust, and we sprang from the same well. If only we could see into the eyes of others, without judging their skin, their status, their language, their cultures, their beliefs, then maybe the hatred and fear in the world would disappear. I read her words, and a deep sadness comes over me. I see what she sees, and I hear her pain. The world should be a better place.