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Why Spanglish Isn’t a Mix .It’s a Response

Spanglish doesn’t exist because someone got lazy. It exists because life didn’t offer a perfect script. When I moved from Santo Domingo to Queens, I had two languages that couldn’t keep up with me on their own. One gave me homework. One gave me comfort. So I started responding to life in pieces that fit the moment. That wasn’t confusion. That was adaptation.

My Mouth Knew What My Mind Couldn’t Translate

People think Spanglish happens when you forget a word. But sometimes, I knew the right word. I just didn’t want it. It felt off. Too stiff. Or too tender. So my brain reached into both languages, pulled out what matched my feeling, and my mouth did the rest. This wasn’t carelessness. This was emotional precision that no single language could offer on its own.

I Built a Language That Let Me Be Two Things at Once

In English, I felt smart but distant. In Spanish, I felt loved but hesitant. Spanglish gave me permission to be both. I could joke, argue, cry, and explain  without switching entire identities. That’s the part no one talks about. Spanglish isn’t just about words. It’s about wholeness. It's how I held my Dominican roots and my New York survival in the same sentence.

When I Was Young, This Invention Kept Me From Disappearing

There were days when I wanted to stay silent. When I didn’t know if I’d be laughed at for saying “lunch” or “almuerzo.” But Spanglish saved me. I could say half and still be heard. I didn’t vanish between cultures. I blended them. And that blend became my voice. Not perfect. Not polished. But deeply mine.

Conclusion: I Didn’t Break Language—Language Broke Me First

I didn’t wake up one day and choose Spanglish. I invented it the way someone invents shelter in a storm. Because the two languages I was given weren’t made to carry me as I was. So I built something that could. Spanglish was never wrong. It was never broken. It was the first thing I ever made just for me and it worked. Still does.