No hablas español

Slimy Jaime is a bureaucrat with a gold finger hanging around his neck and a silver SUV streaked with black flames. When Heather and I are forced to share breathing space with him (in the interests of using Ingala's free internet) he does one of two things: makes sexual advances on us in front of our students or lashes out with mean comments.

Yesterday was a little of column A, a little of column B. Let me first explain that he speaks too fast and slurs his words. Combine this with the fact that I don't give a shit about what he has to say (Donde estan las otras gringas? Come look at these gross photos of my half-dressed teenage daughter. Eres muy guapa, sabes. Did you know I fly to San Cristobal every ten days? etc.), and you arrive at Disculpe? land, where I beg pardon after every question because I either don't understand or don't want to understand his inane articulations.

This annoyed him more than usual, so he lashed out. 

No hablas Español, no?

Umm, hablo un poco.

Pero, no bien. No hablas bien.

Por que me dices esto? No es muy simpatico decir esto a una amiga.

Pero tu amiga Heather habla mejor.

Ella ha estudiado por catorce años, y ella enseña español en los estados unidos.

No hablas Español. Necesitas praticar.

Go fuck yourself.

But it stung. Even coming from ridiculous Slimy Jaime, the words stung, and cued some first-child, Type-A personality guilt: I could have learned more in this time. I swam, and thought this. I biked to class, and thought this. I went to bed, and thought this. Then I woke up and remembered some truth: Criticism is a poor soil to grow in. I'm putting down the words Jaime gave me and walking away.