Tongue Twisters
Title
Tongue Twisters
Creator
Maria Belen Cecconato
Date
10/03/2022
Text
I have never had more of an issue with the Spanish language than when I moved to Miami. Not because of the fact that being in an English speaking country forced me to lose my mother tongue minimally, but because of the different accents and lexicons of Spanish within the city.
“Oh my god, you’re Argentinian? Say pollo!”
“Cheeee boludo”
“How do you say corn?”
It gets a little old when you’ve lived in the same place and listened to the same requests or imitations over and over. Impersonating my accent is already a personal pet peeve of mine because it feels like an individual is making fun of me rather than “appreciating” how I speak in Spanish, for lack of better words.
Nine, almost ten years, of living in the same place enables the understanding of when to speak in Spanish and when not to. This applies to both the accent and the words that are different from other Latinx and Hispanic countries.
When it comes to the topic of words, there can be two types of experiences that my family and I have gone through: the word is not the same in their country, or the word is insulting or inappropriate.
To start off lightly, take the word “ojotas”. The majority of my Hispanic friends did not understand what it meant until I explained to them it was my word for “chancletas”, or flip-flops. “Frutilla” is what I grew up calling “fresas”, strawberries. I call beans “porotos”, but in most Hispanic countries, they are referred to as “frijoles”. Even corn and popcorn have diversity name wise; I tend to say “choclo” and “pochoclo”, respectively. We do say “maíz” for corn too, similar to others. For popcorn, I have been told things like “palomitas”, “cotufa”, and “maíz pira”, to name a few. All these are basic examples of everyday wording that have other names from the ones I grew up with in Argentina.
If the term “chocha” is brought up, however, that creates more violent reactions. Where I was born, “chocha” means a female person is happy. It means a joyful woman, unlike its male counterpart, “chocho”. In countries like Venezuela and Cuba, I found it means something completely different, and not something I can say in a phrase that I would like when I’m with my family. I don’t use that word around others anymore.
Every now and then, when wanting to imitate Argentine idioms but not knowing what they mean, a person will insult us to our face. My mom, my dad, my brother, and I, we all have been called “boludo” or “boluda” casually because it is a celebrated word they know is from our country. In work, my father has told stories about how he has been tagged as “sorete” and even “pelotudo” because of the mere sake of impersonating our accent and dictionary without understanding their definition. Do not call an Argentinian any of those words deliberately; they are insults that should not be taken as gingerly as they are said.
I am aware of the irritated tone this text has had so far, but I want to clarify that I personally find these distinctions incredibly interesting. One of the first characteristics of Miami that I noticed, as a matter of fact, was that iconic divergence in Spanish languages.
In the beginning, there was a big adjustment to be made: it was a large jump from everyone having the same Argentine accent as I do to only a handful of people sharing it with me. It came as a surprise to me the first time someone was surprised to notice I’m from a lower South American country and pointed it out loud. Every now and then, it still does catch me off guard. Little by little, the differences in Spanish dialects became a common topic of interest with my friends and even my family.
“That’s how you say it?”
“It’s so different from how I say it, oh my god”
Phrases like that became more regular throughout the years, and in the best way possible. Making jokes about the way my Cuban friend says her word for seesaw in her mother tongue and giggling at my interpretation when saying “rain” in my accent became a subject that created a very specific bond between my relationships: like an unspoken spoken tie that everyone knows is there but no one brings up. It’s an unexplainably entertaining thought to have, so to speak, to spark up a bunch of conversations.
Spanish is a singular language, one of the most prominent and dominant in this South Florida city. Miami offers this web of a variety of dialects within one speech; it generates a feeling of understanding for newcomers, and a familiar one for the residents and citizens. The language is like a glue for every kind of Spanish: the lower South American, the Central American, the broken kind, the “I can’t control my accent when speaking English” kind. As much as it may have been, and still is, a struggle for me to parlay in my mother tongue with other Hispanics, it is exactly what we all have in common here:
Spanish.
“Oh my god, you’re Argentinian? Say pollo!”
“Cheeee boludo”
“How do you say corn?”
It gets a little old when you’ve lived in the same place and listened to the same requests or imitations over and over. Impersonating my accent is already a personal pet peeve of mine because it feels like an individual is making fun of me rather than “appreciating” how I speak in Spanish, for lack of better words.
Nine, almost ten years, of living in the same place enables the understanding of when to speak in Spanish and when not to. This applies to both the accent and the words that are different from other Latinx and Hispanic countries.
When it comes to the topic of words, there can be two types of experiences that my family and I have gone through: the word is not the same in their country, or the word is insulting or inappropriate.
To start off lightly, take the word “ojotas”. The majority of my Hispanic friends did not understand what it meant until I explained to them it was my word for “chancletas”, or flip-flops. “Frutilla” is what I grew up calling “fresas”, strawberries. I call beans “porotos”, but in most Hispanic countries, they are referred to as “frijoles”. Even corn and popcorn have diversity name wise; I tend to say “choclo” and “pochoclo”, respectively. We do say “maíz” for corn too, similar to others. For popcorn, I have been told things like “palomitas”, “cotufa”, and “maíz pira”, to name a few. All these are basic examples of everyday wording that have other names from the ones I grew up with in Argentina.
If the term “chocha” is brought up, however, that creates more violent reactions. Where I was born, “chocha” means a female person is happy. It means a joyful woman, unlike its male counterpart, “chocho”. In countries like Venezuela and Cuba, I found it means something completely different, and not something I can say in a phrase that I would like when I’m with my family. I don’t use that word around others anymore.
Every now and then, when wanting to imitate Argentine idioms but not knowing what they mean, a person will insult us to our face. My mom, my dad, my brother, and I, we all have been called “boludo” or “boluda” casually because it is a celebrated word they know is from our country. In work, my father has told stories about how he has been tagged as “sorete” and even “pelotudo” because of the mere sake of impersonating our accent and dictionary without understanding their definition. Do not call an Argentinian any of those words deliberately; they are insults that should not be taken as gingerly as they are said.
I am aware of the irritated tone this text has had so far, but I want to clarify that I personally find these distinctions incredibly interesting. One of the first characteristics of Miami that I noticed, as a matter of fact, was that iconic divergence in Spanish languages.
In the beginning, there was a big adjustment to be made: it was a large jump from everyone having the same Argentine accent as I do to only a handful of people sharing it with me. It came as a surprise to me the first time someone was surprised to notice I’m from a lower South American country and pointed it out loud. Every now and then, it still does catch me off guard. Little by little, the differences in Spanish dialects became a common topic of interest with my friends and even my family.
“That’s how you say it?”
“It’s so different from how I say it, oh my god”
Phrases like that became more regular throughout the years, and in the best way possible. Making jokes about the way my Cuban friend says her word for seesaw in her mother tongue and giggling at my interpretation when saying “rain” in my accent became a subject that created a very specific bond between my relationships: like an unspoken spoken tie that everyone knows is there but no one brings up. It’s an unexplainably entertaining thought to have, so to speak, to spark up a bunch of conversations.
Spanish is a singular language, one of the most prominent and dominant in this South Florida city. Miami offers this web of a variety of dialects within one speech; it generates a feeling of understanding for newcomers, and a familiar one for the residents and citizens. The language is like a glue for every kind of Spanish: the lower South American, the Central American, the broken kind, the “I can’t control my accent when speaking English” kind. As much as it may have been, and still is, a struggle for me to parlay in my mother tongue with other Hispanics, it is exactly what we all have in common here:
Spanish.
Citation
Maria Belen Cecconato, “Tongue Twisters,” Everything Speaks To Me , accessed September 18, 2026, https://everythingspeakstome.com/items/show/154.