There was nothing special about us when we were growing up. There were a lot of ethnic families … I’m pretty sure Mexicans and Italians were the most common, at least the ones where it seemed like they had an “extra” identity. There was a tiny Spanish community, but not enough for most of us to notice. And, since it was the time of assimilation, we were raised as middle-class white kids.
Still, my maternal grandmother spoke with a thick accent, and she had a big painting of a bullfighter on the wall, and she made interesting foods we didn’t find anywhere else. I never thought of myself as Spanish, I was always an American, but there was a touch of something different.
This was pretty much my identity until I went to Spain for the first time, in 1984. Didn’t actually get down to the part of Spain my family is from … we stayed north amongst the Catalans … but I felt some weird romantic specialness when I heard the water outside our hostel that first night. Perhaps coincidentally, the European soccer championships were going on then, and Spain made the finals, where they lost to that great Platini-led French team. I paid some attention to the goings on, although to be honest my memories are less about the Spanish team and more about Platini.
Beginning in 2000, we started going to Spain fairly often: 2000, 2003, 2007, 2009. Each time we went to Andalucía, land of my father’s family. Robin noted from the start that I was able to relax there in ways I never relax anywhere else. Between those trips, and my improved command of the Spanish language, I guess I felt more Spanish than I ever did before.
Not that I was ever anything other than American. In 2009, I was in Spain when the Confederations Cup was being played. By that point, Spain hadn’t lost a match in three years. The United States met Spain in the semi-finals. Spain’s team that day was largely composed of the same people you’ve been watching the last month in the World Cup. The U.S. won the match, 2-0. I assure you, I was rooting for the USA.
That was the last time I rooted against Spain, a team that is now one match away from putting aside the final remnants of their reputation as underachievers. Somewhere over the years, I came to understand that perhaps the most Spanish thing about this American white boy was my own excellence at underachieving.
I think of these things, as I await tomorrow’s match between Spain and the Netherlands.
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