Tengo La Camisa Negra

“Perro. Perro,” he said, glancing at me while keeping his hands on the steering wheel. “Peh-row,” I repeated. “Peh-row, peh-row, peh-row.” “No, mi pony,” he sighed. “One more time.”

At five years old, I had nothing in common with Papi except for my above-average height, childlike humor, and weird smile. In pictures, his smile was always crooked, his right eye on the brink of a wink. I inherited the same facial expression, so he’s definitely my dad. That should have meant that I inherited his Venezuelan heritage and, thus, the ability to roll my r’s. Pero all I could manage was Spanglish. And it was a broken Spanglish. On a trip to my paternal abuelos’ house in Caracas, I touched every expensive sculpture on the coffee tables and I reached for them on shelves. My abuela scolded me: “No touch! No touch!” One day, before Papi and I left the house, I turned to her and said, “Tú feliz por que ‘no touch’ se va” (You happy because “no touch” is leaving).

Unlike my parents and Latino friends, who grew up knowing their first language, Spanish and English were my half-languages. There were a few phrases I didn’t understand in English and because of that frustrating “rr” sound, even more that I couldn’t understand in Spanish. Rolling your r’s isn’t an important skill in the United States. It doesn’t exist in the English vocabulary. But Mami and Papi decided to move to Doral, a young, growing city in Miami-Dade County that’s close to our familia and where Spanglish is the unofficial second language. There are so many frequently-used words that possess the double-r: carro, perro, arroz. Even my second surname, Arrieta, has it. There was no way that I could escape the “rr,” even in myself.

Mami is also Venezuelan but, unlike Papi, she wanted me to be Americanized. When she was ten, she moved to McLean, Virginia, learned English in three months, and lived there for three years. In that short time, she fell in love with what the United States offered: opportunity and mobility. She made sure that I was born in the United States and that I attended the one school in Doral that prohibited Spanish-speaking and only taught in English. That was the only language the teachers could understand anyway; all my teachers were from Wisconsin or some other Midwestern state I didn’t know about and didn’t care to know. My accent became more gringa-like as I learned my ABCs and I eventually became the gringa in my extended family. I couldn’t talk with my primos, tías, and tíos without causing some confusion and being called out for speaking “okay Spanish” (for an American).

Papi had lived in Venezuela for most of his life and, compared to Mami, his accent is a lot thicker. He can speak English, but he prefers Spanish. As a result, he would push me in my Spanish-speaking whenever possible. He would speak to me in Spanish, make me reply in Spanish, and correct me when I made a mistake. I’d repeat the same ridiculous ones: “mucho mejor” instead of “mejor,” “el” instead of “la,” “uno” instead of “un.” Even though I knew that he was trying to help me improve, I felt stupid and distanced from my heritage and from him. Each correction felt like an insult, a recurring reminder that I am gringa, not Venezuelan.

The only time when I didn’t feel the sting of my insecurity was when Papi would play his Latin playlists in the car. There wasn’t any pressure to say the right words or create a perfect sentence; just to enjoy the music. While playing certain songs, he would reminisce about how he and my mom kissed for the first time at a Hombres G concert while they were dating in the 90s and how he and his family would sing along to gaitas during Christmas Eve. 

But the song that became a part of our shared memory was Juanes’s “La Camisa Negra.” I didn’t know who Juanes was, and I definitely had no idea that he was a Colombian rock-star, but I would ask Papi to play his song over and over again. I didn’t just love the song for its infectious melody; I loved it because I could easily understand a couple of its words. The only Spanish I understood at the time was the first line of the first verse and the chorus: “Tengo la camisa negra.” It was simple. The guy had a black shirt. Apart from that, all I understood was the music: how the guitar notes set the scene for tragedy, the steady drums occasionally rose to accompany the heightened pain and emotion he felt, and how he sang with bitter vocals, enunciating every lyric.

I remember the song because it accompanied us on our seven-minute drive to kindergarten every morning. During those drives, Papi would have me practice rolling my r’s. I’d sit there, repeating after him, twirling my tongue in an attempt to mimic the trilling-like sound he’d make. “Rrrrrrrr,” he’d say. “Errrrrr,” I’d reply. He’d shake his head and urge me to keep trying. Sometimes, the passenger seat would feel too much like the classroom and I’d get frustrated. I’d cross my arms, glare at the window, and tell myself that I’d never get it right. I’d never be able to speak Spanish well, I’d never be able to talk to my family, I’d never be Venezuelan. 

When this would happen, Papi would pause the Spanish lesson, reach for his iPod, and plug it into the stereo. Suddenly, electric guitar chords would tear through the speakers, mixed with a steady, irresistible beat. He’d playfully nudge me while I would try to contain my smile. “Come on, pony.” “No.” “Ponyyyyy.” “Nooooooo.” Eventually though, I would begin to dance in the passenger seat, slowly headbanging to the song. “Ahhh, see, I know what you like,” he’d chuckle. He’d tap the steering wheel while I would drum on the dashboard, and the three of us — Juanes, Papi, and I — would sing, “Tengo la camisa negra.” 

I listen to “La Camisa Negra” now, after having had thousands of Spanish conversations and lessons with Papi, and I finally understand that the narrator wears a black shirt as a way of mourning a failed love affair. He wears a black shirt because “his soul is black.” It’s a sad song, but that didn’t matter then and it doesn’t matter now. Where language failed to bring me the confidence I needed to feel like I could improve in my Spanish, Papi introduced Juanes to me. And for four minutes, I felt like I didn’t have to prove that I was Venezuelan. I could revel in my Latinidad with Papi without any self-imposed personal or language ba-rr-iers.

I’m not sure when I finally achieved rolling my r’s. I’m sure it was sometime during one of our many car rides to school. I probably jumped in my seat, rr-ing with pride, repeating every single word that I could remember with a “rr.” But the memory that sticks out more than the fluttering feeling of the “rr” on my tongue is singing “La Camisa Negra.” The song never taught me how to pronounce my “rr’s”, but it made me realize that my Latinidad and connection to my familia never had anything to do with my Spanish-speaking abilities. These transcend language, like the song. Fifteen years later, I might still be considered a gringa who can speak better Spanish than before, but who cares? I’m dancing in a black shirt, and that’s all you need to know about me.