A second tongue.

I was raised around it.

My dad tried to teach me it.

JR tried to teach me it. All he succeeded in doing was teaching me the bad words.

I took class after class after class in it.

And beyond the pleasantries and asking direction to the bathroom, I can’t do much with it. Even in my writing I ahve to use a translator and then pas it under the nose of a real human to ensure AI didn’t botch the job of translation.

I’m talking of speaking Spanish. All things considered, I find it strange I never picked it up, and I’ve come to realize it’s part of who I am. That makes it important.

Oddly, now that I’m older and been away from it, what I do know has expanded and grown.

Who knows.

By the time I die, I might actually be fluent.