The Accidental Linguist

Cielito Lindo (click here), a famous serenade composed by Quirino Mendoza y Cortés, has been claimed by Mexicans as a second national anthem, and is also known to most English-speaking Americans simply as the “ay, ay ay ay” song. It is also worth mentioning that Spaniards, Cubans, Argentines, and people from almost every other territory of the Spanish-speaking world have jealously claimed that the song originated in their particular area– which is probably more due to the enchanting nature of the ballad than to any serious historical evidence.

It has been one of my favorite songs for more than two years now, though I must admit that until recently the lyrics made very little sense to me. The words “cielito lindo” roll nicely off the tongue, though I couldn’t imagine why anyone would talk to a pretty little sky; and all the talk of contraband eyes rolling down the mountain and moles telling you not to touch them really had me confused. I honestly did not guess that it was a love ballad– if I had not done any research, I would not have known how to translate it. The English translation of the two well-known verses and the chorus is as follows:

Coming down from the brunette mountains
Are two dark eyes like robbers,
Pretty little sky

The mole you have beside your mouth
Do not give it to anyone, for it touches me,
Pretty little sky.

Ay, ay, ay ay
Sing and do not cry
For singing makes hearts happy
Pretty little sky.

The story goes that Quirino Mendoza was visiting the Andalucía region of Spain when he saw a beautiful girl with a beauty mark next to her mouth, and was inspired to write the song. In the first verse he borrowed a metaphor which had been used in local Andalusian folk ballads for many years. The Sierra Morena, or Brown Mountains, were in times past a favorite hide-out for gypsies and thieves, who according to contemporary accounts would descend upon hapless travelers and rob them of everything they owned. From here comes the comparison to the eyes of a girl, coming down from the mahogany mountains of her hair, ready to steal a man’s heart away.

The first time I can remember hearing this song in Mexico, was from a group of about ten older men and women, stopped by the side of a trail in a canyon, singing along with a guitar. This is how I will always remember it– as an uplifting ballad that is meant to be sung and not listened to, that invites people to sing out loud and take a more sunny view of life. I never found it necessary until now to actually have a recording of the song.

In listening to samples from over a hundred different recordings of Cielito Lindo recently, I quickly found out that there were many of them that I do not like. A large number of these recordings are very mariachi-fied, with a prominence of fancy trumpets and such that I really find gratuitous. Other singers try to mess too much with the rhythm of the words or the melody, thinking that somehow they will make the song newer. Still others over-interpret with very slow, wistful singing, as if somehow it were a very sad or tender song– which it is not. It is a teasing, upbeat love song, and it should be sung that way. Also amusing are a considerable number of gringo-rific recordings by North Americans trying to pronounce Spanish.

Mexico has been on my mind recently, but this is not the main reason I wanted to share this song. As the Spaniards, Cubans, Argentines, and even the goofy North Americans who have recorded the song prove, Cielito Lindo has meaning for everyone; and it can belong to anyone who carries the melody in their heart.

You may also be interested in reading the complete lyrics and translation, or Cielito Lindo haiku. I would also like to give credit to Arturo Ortega Morán from El Porvenir for his article on the topic. You can read an English translation of that article here.

It is a funny thing to be angry.  I have always known anger as a passing emotion, because it motivates you to take some action, and that action will remove the anger one way or another.  But it is different to hold in anger.  To choke on it.  I never knew that the sensation could really be so near to choking.

It is like the building excitement you feel growing bigger inside you as you wait to finally live out that one big dream– except that this dream is a nightmare and it will bring down you and your whole house if you ever let it loose.  Anger can be forgotten, too; you can let it go and think that it has floated gently away down the stream– but when new anger is triggered, you will find the old anger is still there, like a bad dream that visits when you sleep but fades with the light of day.

It is amazing to me the disturbance that can be caused merely by my choice of a wife.  I am not the only one who’s getting married.  Why can’t people be happy for me, too?  I hope there would be a similar reaction if some joe married a Colombian Catholic– because everyone knows that most Colombians and most Catholics are terrorists.  So that would at least be consistent.  But since when was bigotry fair?

Really its not being pulled from a desirable job position, or barred from beneficial training, that begins to get to me.  None of those things are important.  It is the stone wall of silence, the implied whispers, the strong implication that all things considered I am worth nothing more than a bag of shit.

Underneath it all, stoking the flames, is my fear.  Fear that all is not what it seems and that the worst may be yet to come.  Because hate them or love them my fate is now tied to the whims of my company’s leadership.  I have not married yet.  The most precious thing in the world is still thousands of miles away.

It is this same love that saves me in the end.  Because no matter what hateful passions flow through my body and pollute my mind, they can never be more important than that sweet promise of a lifetime filled with family; the tender smile which lifts my heart; the great devotion which guides my days; the delicious anticipation of that second first kiss.

Still, some days I wonder if my love will always be stronger than my hate.  Sometimes I forget about everything except my hatred.  Even when I am among friends, and having a good time, it is still there.  When the friends leave, and the fun subsides, hate takes over.  I can bury it, I can juggle it, I can philosophize it and explain it long-hand to the nth degree.  I can wait longing for the day when I can finally drop it, let it go and watch it float down the stream.  But I cannot let it out.  Because its not only me I have to fight for.

As for philosophy, I think one wise man put it best, when he said: you pay to play, man.  You pay to play.

A particularly good lunch today at a Korean restaurant today made me reflect again on the many advantages provided to our town by our immigrant community. A good lunch is not only good food, of course– something in a mild day, relaxed company, getting lost on the way there and not caring, drinking an entire tall glass of sweet tea, being two minutes late back at the office and not hurrying; all these things are part of a good lunch. Savory barbecue bulgogi was a nice complement, and Korean-style land-sushi was always good.

I would like to offer a tribute to all those Korean slash Japanese slash Vietnamese restaurants in our town, who can give you cuisine from their own or any other Asian nationality in about 10 minutes flat, even if you order tempura and squid in a Thai place. If they are only open three hours a day four days a week, or if they never close up but I never see anyone eat there– then far be it from me to accuse them of anything underhanded. Chicken teriyaki is delicious.

And God bless the Korean wives, because without them we would all have to learn how to sew. And who else would think to offer a free neck massage with each haircut? And this may be a half-way podunk town, but I’ll be darned if we don’t have some good sushi places. I still get all my sushi straight from the supermarket. But I like having the option.

Just for fun, here is a song by a Lila Downs, a singer from Oaxaca who plays traditional Mexican music with a modern touch. I don’t know much about Lila Downs, except that she seems to be an independent woman in the mold of Frida Kahlo. I can say that I had this song stuck in my head before I had any idea what the lyrics were about, and once I understood the metaphor I liked it even better.

The lyrics for “El Relámpago” are actually missing from all of the song lyrics sites, so these, with their English translation, are the first ones on the net.

I have not offered many clear personal details about myself so far, but it may interest some of you to know that I work for the Communist Party of America. No, not that wussy impostor organization you may have heard of whose leaders all teach at the University of California. The identity of the real American Communist Party may surprise some, especially knowing that its unofficial motto during the height of the Cold War was “Kill a Commy for Mommy!”

It is probably not even clear to most Party members that, while they are pledged to defend the ideals of the American way of life, they are on a giant socialist and totalitarian island in the middle of our free capitalist paradise. It seems odd to outsiders, but for many members the social justice and iron-fisted rule of our Party feel very… reassuring. Personally, I can say that in spite of job security and free fitness club membership, I definitely have my gripes.

But even on days when job-related craziness is really getting me down, I can always take comfort in the thought that really, it’s getting everyone down, even the top leaders. There’s no one who doesn’t feel oppressed by the system, because the system is bigger than everyone. Our Party isn’t much different from any other large beauracracy, based on the principle that none of us can be as stupid as all of us, but every once in a while we’ll all get something right.

So on days like today, I can sit on my bed and thank America for inventing the 2-day weekend, and the foreign Communists and all our other enemies for giving me the chance to experience this alternate mini-society. At least until the time comes to cut ties and venture back into that jungle we call the free world.