Print

Email story

Comment

Email editor

Column

It's Jorge now; George is 28 years in the past

By Jorge Sanchez
Published October 9, 2005

America is a land of immigrants, and I am one.

As Cuba fell to revolution in 1960, my parents sought political asylum in the United States. We came over on the Freedom Flights, a short hop from Havana to Miami. I was part of the first wave of a Cuban exodus that literally transformed the culture of South Florida. I grew up in Palm Beach County, immersed in the Cuban-American lifestyle of Big Macs for lunch and frijoles negros for dinner.

Being Hispanic in South Florida is pretty simple. It's all set up for us. People have to get along, so speaking two languages is really not a big issue.

Most Cubans speak enough English to get by, and most non-Cubans understand enough Spanish to be able to converse with their sons- or daughters-in-law.

While South Florida is accommodating to Hispanics, it's not quite the same thing here in Citrus County. When I first arrived in 1978, I felt like I was probably the only Hispanic person here.

I set my ethnicity aside. I spoke Spanish with my parents during phone calls, but mostly I spoke English. In Citrus, people called me "George." In South Florida, they pronounced my name Hoar-hay.

There are several reasons for this. I'm a newspaper writer, so my name appears in print regularly. In 1978, here in Citrus, people didn't know enough of the Spanish language to realize that a "J" is pronounced like an "H." So, Jorge became George, although it was spelled differently.

Being a laid-back person, I didn't argue too much. I became George. But somewhere south of Orlando, George was left waiting alongside the turnpike; Jorge got in the car and drove the rest of the way.

I don't think my parents ever met George. My sons did. They met both of us and seemed to accept things.

Recently something happened that forced me to deal with my duality. In May, my father, Julian Sanchez, died of cancer. As the end neared, I made several trips to South Florida and was blessed to spend some precious last moments with him. I was at his bedside as he drew his final breaths.

All those trips took their toll on the George/Jorge thing. I was often both people in the course of 48 hours, going from George to Jorge and back to George again, while all the while dealing with the impending and inevitable loss of my father.

Finally, my overburdened psyche lashed out. Something that I had compartmentalized, accepted and lived with for more than a quarter century suddenly became nonsensical.

On a trip back to Citrus County, Jorge drove the whole way.

I haven't seen George since.

It's funny how the subconscious works. My father never called me anything but Jorge. And I suppose because I'll never hear him say that again in this life, I chose to use my Spanish name as a way to honor his memory.

Many of my close friends and associates have been dealing with calling me by my Spanish name for a few months now. For some, it has been quite a struggle. I can certainly understand. Why should they have to call me by a new name just because I had some kind of epiphany?

To their credit, they've all tried their best. They've slipped up from time to time, but Jorge is beginning to roll off their lips more often. It's okay to say it with a Southern twang; you don't have to try and sound like a Cuban. I realize that the "twirled R" sound isn't part of normal English diction.

It will take a while to undo 28 years of George vs. Jorge. In the meantime, don't worry - you're still mi amigo.

[Last modified October 9, 2005, 01:08:18]