English name of the letter D.
Más gente así (Acacias) (Spanish Edition)
English from of as out of in off on than to by. English than. English de-. English theatre theater playhouse drama theatrics cinema movie theater. English to allot to hand over to accord to accord to advance to allow to assign to award to bear to blow to bring forth to deal to dish out to dispense to dispense to dole out to earn to get in to give out to give out to hand out to hold to hold out to impart to issue to lay on to pass on to pitch to play to produce to produce to proffer to put on to quote to render to send forth to show to sing out to stage to strike to strike to throw to throw out to throw up to toss to utter to yield to deal to perform to pitch to strike to quote to return to give to provide to deliver to ruin to spoil to administer to face to flow into to go into to lead to to give on to to hit.
Context sentences Context sentences for "obra de teatro" in English These sentences come from external sources and may not be accurate.
More by bab. He refuses to accept the crumbling of the dream, and he finds his job is the only alternative, the only hope. This is the story of a man who knows the price to pay doesn't matter when he has a chance to change his society.follow site
ISBN 13: 9786071123701
Audience Level. Related Identities. Associated Subjects. Briski, Naum, Spanish 87 English 1. Author , Actor , Performer , Other. To encompass the total reality of who we are in America? If that can even begin to encompass it. I did the same for the Bra- zilian women, who walked out and had to be led back in by my pleading hand. All of this in front of Spanish speaking Latin Americans. If we look at the history of language in the Dominican Repub- lic, for example, we see multiple examples of linguistic hegemony as a tool for oppression.
For example, the idea that Spanglish is an outgrowth of the Dominican Yorks Domini- cans in New York , denigrated by the middle and upper classes for their working class ethics. Your class is your nationality. That is the legacy that I resist, and that I think it is necessary to resist if we are to deepen our analyses and complexities as peoples in the Western Hemisphere.
I have recently had a crisis of conscience. Whose agenda is the Latino agenda? What does it mean for me to be Latina? To have been born from a gringa and a Dominican, raised in Africa Ana M. What does it mean when the people I relate to in my country of birth want nothing to do with Spanish, or the Spanish history of dominance?
Or when the extended family I was born into wants nothing to do with those same people, because my family made it over and those people are still on the island? Or that nationalism is being reinforced by the development of a Latino identity, and nationalism is directly contrary to indig- enous land rights, and the promotion of human rights for com- munities and individuals?
An acquaintance once asked me, many years ago, what makes a Latino? I tried to respond: language. What about kreyol? As part of my crisis, I have taken well to the stripping of my identity. Sure I was angry about it for awhile. I felt the petulant attitude of a child who is told they are too young to understand. An ally to poor people, everywhere: whether campesinos, Haitian laborers or garment workers, yes.
I will go to the rallies, I will listen to our stories, and I will not let the violence that affects our lives go un- challenged. A believer in African-based resistance and Africanity, yes. The history of Africans on the American continent is complex and spans across all language and nations. An ally to indigenous rights without nationalism, yes.
I have been educat- ed in the United States, a fact which gives me access to English which then allows me to write this essay. My Dominican Spanish also gives me access to how people think, and differentiates my experience from that of other Spanish speakers from throughout the continent. But both of these languages are the languages of Domination, Colonial History and European power. These questions, these thoughts, form the cloak that covers my shoulder, the manta that heals my wounds and that gives me the tools to live by.
I have come to believe that if we are to come away with a com- Ana M. We have to be stripped of everything we took for granted so that we can get to deeper truths. And we have to go to those places where language is just a medium for interpretation. Fuerte y voluntariosa.
Atada a la tierra, como la hembra de un toro.
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Los vecinos, refugiados bajo el manto de sus palabras, se relajaban, hablaban y, sobre todo, compraban. Su nueva vida. Abrigo y calor. On my wall, I have a photograph taken during a road trip along California Highway , somewhere near Salinas. And yet, we recognized it. My parents had emigrated from El Salvador eight years ear- lier and while we mainly spoke Spanish and English, Spanglish also eventually became part of our lingo. For a while even my parents criti- cized and resisted this tongue twisting; we always lowered our voices to each other when we slipped into Spanglish.
But as my father reached for the camera, that hesitance seemed to fall away as a historic picture taking moment for our family shed new light. We felt a strong connection to the sign, and we valued having proof of its existence—hence the Kodak moment and me- mento. Spanglish has often been frowned upon for reasons that have motivated English-Only efforts—among them, the insistence on speaking correctly. Englispan For instance, in an After-School Spoken Word class that I taught in the Mission District of San Francisco in , several of the middle school students experimented with writing freely with no rules or corrections and mixing the sounds of Spanish, English, and even Tagalog.
On several occasions, they nervous- ly, but bravely, publicly read poems referencing their families and ethnic identities. Unz, let me clarify that no proposal for the replacement of either English or Spanish is being presented.
Teatro by Enrique Jardiel Poncela - AbeBooks
Hech s en Califas This question of who we are is one Latin and Chican artists boldly explore throughout the country, as well as abroad. Speaking of community, a Chican family in San Diego, committed to self-determination created Calaca Press, and has since brought together intergenerational Chican voices with Central and South American ones. Chap- books, c. Going back up North, an annual Latin arts festi- val Hecho en Califas, made in California , has featured artists in various mediums who express their cultura on their terms. Rather, they present realities that are not completely translatable and audi- ence friendly.
The task that the young Latin and Chican generations face then is not simply to make Spanglish cultural expressions more public, but to continue creating the very spaces in which to present them. Espresso Mi Cultura, comprehensive in everything from its name, to its merchandise, to its events, provides a model suggesting that through a cultural and practical focus, organizing might be possible for such a fragmented group. As one of the most unapologetic Spangliphiles around, Alcaraz began writing the Spanglish script way before it was popular. Spanglish even seems to be emerging as a global phenom- enon, which explains why Stavans teaches his class in Spanish and looks at Spanglish in Latin America as well.
For a long time associated just with Chican culture, Spanglish has shown to have an impact in different Latin American countries. In the years since, a Central American Poetry group, Epicentro has emerged and, throughout California, pushed generations of Salvadoran and Central American immigrants and their children onto the radar of the U. Latin literary scene. This is an important moment for Central Americans in the U. Gaps within the gaps. Split Tongues The gaps persist, however, and a reluctance to recognize and validate the symbols of biculturalism continues especially on the Northern side of the U.
Mexico border. Thus, Spanglish be- comes a symbol of resistance on cultural terms, that challenges the dated assimilation model of success. It just is no longer as simple as you are either assimilated or newly immigrated; even some new immigrants arrive already affected by mainstream North American culture and the English language, and further- more, not all of us are immigrants.
Moreover, in light of such simplistic argu- ments, the racism against Latin s is overlooked. I wonder, when my grandmother who speaks about a word for every year she has lived and worked in the U. Thinking on her interesting mispronunciations, I wonder about the future North American city and what it will not only look, but sound like. Appropriately, we need to pierce through the idea of U. Latin s as a group that has trespassed in language or presence into the U.
And that, is just the beginning. Bueno pues, ay los wach-o. Will you see me? I was standing by the copier, copying away the last hour of one of my three work-study jobs. Professor X supposedly was a genius, not a social one obvi- ously.
He famed himself on being able to answer any question with a pretty elaborate response that routinely included at least ten words of more than four syllables and that contained approxi- mately 3. He was Jew- ish, from the Bronx, proud he was Jewish from the Bronx, had a beard, rounded glasses a-la-John-Lennon and loved brown sweaters and beige slacks.
That Mexican-Americans from Texas came from various cultures and that some of us spoke Spanish, English, Tex-Mex, and many other languages. Unfortunately, there was his class the next day. He was an advisor for a special research project I was awarded. Of course, we were the only two that understood exactly what the word meant. Nobody else in the class was bilin- gual—Spanish or any other language. But I think even they got his general message.
He should understand. She did. The next class he asked me outside for a private conversa- tion. He asked me why I went to the Dean when I could have spo- ken with him directly. Professor X said that he disagreed with his father. That being Jewish was a state of mind and daily practice. I am not sure why my Latinaness was not also a state of mind and daily practice.
Three years after the copier incident, the college made a vid- eo about Latinas on campus—our life in the classroom, at home, and our family. It would be viewed by all the professors that worked at the college and then would be distributed to other Ivy League sister schools so that those professors too could under- stand their Latina students better. Latino language experience. In the video, I told this same story knowing that he would see it. Knowing that other professors like him would see it. Knowing that they too had said it—perhaps—or thought it.
But I also knew that the Dean too would be there. Me, sitting in a chair, a lamp on a small side table, my rebozo wrapped loosely on my shoulders. It is mine. You cannot have it. You are not an expert. I live it. They exist and like all organisms they transform, adapt, and adopt to survive—never loosing but amending, not always making amends, but surviving nonetheless. The face in the mirror surprises me, never quite what I expected though I am not sure what that would be. I puzzle over my features. Has my nose changed shape somehow?
And those eyebrows, so heavy and dark, who do they belong to? In family pictures, I tower over my parents, nothing but my arms stretched behind their shoulders to suggest that we are related. Somehow I grew to be more than six feet tall even though my mother shops in the petite section of department stores, and my father keeps a footstool handy in the kitchen. They joke that my height is the result of having been fed so well as a child, a good, healthy American diet.
And though I have looked, I have nothing of her patient, steady gaze. Usually I am just a shade lighter than his toasted complexion, but after a long winter I can become as pale as my mother though never with her rosy hue. We look like strangers to one another, our faces perfectly distinct, especially in the suburbs of Kansas City where they now live, a place, my mother says, where everyone looks like they are related to each other.
Strangers and new acquaintances inevitably ask me where I am from. Usually I make them guess, and while they purse their eyebrows and bite their lips, I try to predict their answers. The businessman with the red face and soft white hair will think I was born in Korea, but was adopted as an infant by a nice, well-to-do family since of course I speak perfectly, no trace of an accent. But here, in my country, I can be anything. I am never quite sure what people see when they look at me. We study each other carefully, casting speculations, waiting for some clue to slip out.
With polite scrutiny, they assess my cheek- bones, the color of my skin, listen for the hint of an accent and puzzle at my height, while I smile and nod, trying to gauge what it is they see. When the guessing game is over, I usually reply by saying that I was born in the Midwest, but my family moved around while I was growing up. After a few years teaching at a public high school, I now attend graduate school in upstate New York. Looking past the sudden delight of their discovery, I nod and raise my eyebrows as if to share in their surprise.
A rich heritage of course. Yes, in fact both of my parents are excel- lent cooks. Even now I have trouble hearing her accent. But no one knew that, and no one would. Although my mother started teaching my older brother to speak Spanish when he was a child, by the time I was born that arrangement had ended.
I was well into high school before I realized the loss it was not to have been raised bilingual. Either one is somehow a mistake. I once told my mother that she should have taught us to speak Spanish. I talked about it as an academic advantage, a career asset, a useful life skill, but I was thinking of how much easier it would have made our visits to Monterrey. I continued as my mother listened to my unexpected harangue. She had been trimming her favorite ivy, but now she sat quiet, her hands folded on the kitchen table.
It was my brother who had assumed that Spanish was a problem. Maybe Dad would have preferred that we speak it. Did she ever ask him? How could she have followed the advice of a child so easily? And when I stopped, there was a long pause of silence, as if she was waiting in case I need- ed to say more. Her courtesy was deafening. We had to be strong, united. I knew exactly what she was talking about. There were no grandparents, uncles, or aunts within reach, no cousins to play with after school or old family friends to call for a weekend visit or a dinner at a favorite restaurant.
Neither were there church groups or neighborhood organizations, no community at all. When my parents decided to put up a fence on the one side of our backyard that was not already enclosed, the woman next door complained that it was a return to the Alamo.
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- Á primeira vista (Desejo) (Portuguese Edition).
My father said, no, the Great Wall, and although I did not understand what he meant, when I forgot my house key a few weeks later, I took a long walk through the neighborhood until my brother came home from soccer practice. Though it was never explicitly mentioned, I knew that part of my difference from the kids I met at school or on the playground was that unlike their families, mine was all alone. Of course people were friendly to us.
My grade school teach- ers were delighted to have my parents help out in the classroom. But always there was a distance. With the door closed against the winter winds and the kind strangers who despite their best, most sincere intentions would always be strangers, I re- laxed back into the comfort of our small but safe home. The four of us—my father, mother, brother, and me—made up a tight if narrow safety net. I realize now that the type of unity that existed in my family is rare in most American house- holds, and I was shocked to learn that some of my friends never ate with their parents, or received help on school projects.
And then it seems that of course we had to speak only one language between us. We were all we had. Even if my mother had tried to teach me Spanish during my childhood, I am not sure that I would have consented to the les- sons. I wanted desperately to belong, to have a grandmother who made apple pie and chocolate chip cookies, to look like the girls at school with their light hair and round blue eyes. Spanish would have been another secret, a language only for the home, a home which was already too small.
A few years ago my mother told me that when my brother and I were children, she was afraid of angering us too much. She scolded and punished us when we fought or failed to complete our chores, but she said that she was always careful to give us the space to return to her. Who could you have gone to? My mother was raised in a family of seven. But if something broke between the four of us, there would be noth- ing left. We learned to be careful with one another. When my mother told me stories of our relatives in Mexico I wondered at their au- dacity, their passion and vehemence.
They laugh more, cry harder, they indulge every emotion that strikes them. Is Lolita only teasing me? Testing how much a gringa will believe? I am glad that no one asks what my life is like. They have lives like soap operas while here we are something else, more prudent perhaps. Yes, and more rational, my father might say, not so excessive. We are careful and careful to be careful. Rage and fury are words I learned in books. This is not just care and prudence, this is survival. When I go to Mexico I am always the outsider looking in. He had gone on business but also to see if maybe there would be something, some connection to the people, to the culture.
He nodded. Al llegar al cruce su Carlos C. Esos pocos pero interminables segundos le parecieron una vida. Pero, dudaba. No era felpa ni mucho menos pelo. De repente dio un gran salto. Un se- gundo rayo y otro y otro. Carlos C. A white strait jacket in the corner. Points to chair directly in front of her. I see here your name is looks at the paper in her folder. Marialita Balseos Pignatorio. Marialita Balseos. Tries to pronounce it again. To herself. I believe you may have my name confused with los marielitos and los balseros.
Ja ja my name is pronounced I wanted to ask some questions related to your background and experience here in the United States. Which will bring us to the state you are in right now. After learning the differ- ent home idioms and dialects I was placed in an institution where they engraved rules and a standard way of speaking Spanish. Standard places you in the category of an educated native speaker. All these varieties in the U. Elaborate on why the confu- sion. Feel free to express the different feelings on each dialect you have experienced.
Could you relate to each dialect now? In fact I have rebelled. I feel weird, but in a backward sense. More to herself. I wonder about the standards in the Andes. Go on about the stan- dard and institution. What else can I share? I felt comfortable with Spanish, got into the institution and felt weird. Then I got out of the institution and instead of feeling comfortable because I knew the standard I felt displaced! Remember to breathe deep breaths, diaphragmatic breaths. Now you try.
Yes, hand gestures do stand up, dance, do what you must and start with your childhood. Ven a casa a comel. Stares out to the audience. And los argentinos, che Magui ese pibre siempre anda con el porro. I still am not owner of my accent. My accent is the American accent with a twist of all the various Spanish dialects. Mexi- can accent Ese chico te vigila porque pues necesita una chavala para conseguir la visa. Cuban accent Margaritica no no no no por nada mi cielito ese no te conviene. Or something like that. You do have the advantage to know a very diverse language and be connected to so many people.
I can not conform to the Latina status. I re- fuse the consumption of material objects. The focus must be to develop my voice in society. I need to know what that voice says. I need Chile. You said you were from Chile and not the United States? Where are you from? Massachusetts, I would reply.
They would laugh fake laugh ja, and then say, no come on, where are you really from? Or sometimes they would say, no, you know what I mean. I was Puerto Rican, Mexican or Cuban and any other group placed me into a special category. The color is okay, it just gets uncomfortable at times. One more thing I won- dered. The last name how did that happen? My grandfather was Italian from Calabria and he came to the United States in his thirties. Well, he met my grandmother who was Chilean, Sicilian, and born in the Untied States.
So he wined and dined and had on his mind him becoming a citizen, which he did. And so that is how I got an Italian surname. So the story goes. The lesson has been around for decades. The scenario is present history. Thank you, um, how do you pronounce your name again? But you can call me Maggie. Yo, what you talking? Who has a grassy ass? How many more times you going to ask me the same questions? I want the language, feel my tongue rise to the occasion of feeling at home, in common. And one day, someone does. It is brief, an introductory salutation and complimentary acknowledgement of my musical tastes.
It contains a query about what other musical interests I might have. And it is in Spanish. Or, perhaps equally likely: well, duh. Being Latina means being able to speak Spanish—and though many may never admit to it outright, the contrapositive is inevitably there as well, weighted, waiting: not being able to speak Spanish means not being Latina. I would like that to be an unfair, or at least a hasty, assessment, but things like this happen so often and so unremittingly that it is instead simply an accurate one. Why else the monolingual missive?
Being Latina means being able to speak Spanish. And are these my only options? What assumptions are operating here? Not being able to speak Spanish means not being Latina. I feel this move in my heart. I spend most of my time lately wandering the campus of an elite, moneyed, overwhelmingly white institution.
In this environment, how many times have my own ears pricked up at the sound of Spanish? How many times have I used Spanglish in a mixed crowd and refused to translate? How many times have I struck up a conversation in Spanish with the only other brown face in a room as a way of drawing battle lines? Strategic essentialism? You bet your culo; that Spivak was on to something. Rather, this kind of Spanish is an invitation and an offering, its utterance a counterhegemonic gesture that jumps to conclusions in order to leap across lines of class, nationality, generation, gender, and sexuality.
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There are limits to everything, including language. And so would you feel differently about my argument, about me, if I told you that the writer of that genial Friendster note was white? I bet for a lot of you, that changes things. Hometown: Lexington, Kentucky. Occupation: union organizer. Another maybe. And so I respond.
In Spanglish. I want to know which tongue this person will take. Which feels like home, English or Spanish? I am hesitant but curious—or, better, something in me wants to push the issue. He continues writing me in monolingual Spanish. Curiosity turns into wariness. What does he want? Who does he want?
What does he expect of me? I wonder if I am overreacting. I wonder if I should call him out. And I am continually amazed at this presumption, at the sheer amnesia. How many ways do we already have of remembering it? So I am willful. I want to burst that bubble. So you want to practice your Spanish, ese?
With who? Too much credit. Let me begin in medias res, turn origin into plot twist: half a millennium ago, some guys set out in a boat. Anyway, these men, these explorers or conquerors or mercenaries or imperial emissaries or Church missionaries—whatever we choose to term them—these men were looking for one place and stumbled upon another. Los hyphenateds. Mestizos, mulattos, half-breeds, hybrids, and border dwellers. Oh stop now, you must be thinking. I know. Who am I, a brown girl, to make myself the telos of history? A brown queer girl, an epistemic center? At home?
Indeed, if there is any rueful acknowledgement of fracture in her work, it is here, in the aching disjuncture between mind and mouth, heart and tongue. I realized this reading the journal entry Moraga shares, recounting the frustrating experience of calling Berlitz to inquire about Spanish lessons. When I was born between the legs of the best teacher I could have had. For years I remained stuck on that sentence, unable to move past the bitterness it evoked in order to see the larger critique the author was making.
My parents let me down! I never had a chance! And when I did, I realized that a process of partition had begun long before that of parturition. Maybe it started in Maybe in Ni modo. In my case, I cannot claim even that most fundamental proximity. And so what I mean to say with all this is, we are three generations in the United States.
In gringolandia. In Amerikkka. Three generations to acculturate—or be acculturated. And so I ask you: under these circumstances, what is giving up, or giving in? What is self- defense? And could you ever be presumptuous enough to render judgment on these not choices but decisions? So my mother, it turns out, was not the best Spanish teacher I could have had.
Too many precedents already set in place, their logic evident and inexorable. Did my mother ever have a chance? Three generations. Despite all this, I know exactly what Ray Gonzalez is talking about. I know the sound of home. I know how home sounds different, how home sounds speak in a language unlike any other. Here are vocabularies of love, anger, power, prejudice—family grammars that for me have no English translation, even though I am well aware of their English counterparts.
ISBN 13: 9786071123701
This is cultura, processual and dynamic. Contradictory and recursive. We do not have the luxury of seamless bilingualism; in its place, we forge new sounds and sites of home. Parque el troque.