Malecon, Havana 2009.

In Spanish, there are two verbs meaning “to be.”  Before you can say “I am,” you’ve got to think about whether whatever you are is permanent or temporary.  All states of being – feelings, characteristics, relationships – fall into one category or the other.

There’s ser, for things like nationality, time, and the relationships of people to one another, and estar for things like feelings and physical characteristics and the location of objects.

There are set rules (you can’t say “estoy mujer,” for example, even if you’re thinking of a sex change) and these rules betray particular cultural ways of thinking about what is set and what is not (religious and political beliefs, for example, fall into the “permanent condition” category of ser.)

Yet there’s also an element of malleability that makes these verbs personal.   There’s a grey zone, a linguistic minefield for Spanish students, in which the individual has to make a ser/estar executive decision depending on the particular situation or condition at hand.

Herein lies that existential moment – I am the verb I chose.  Having to select between two “to be’s” also means having to select which parts of yourself are temporary and which permanent.  Of course, in a rapidfire conversation at a Mexican cantina, you end up doing this unconsciously, meaning that, in a flash of linguistic improvisation, you could unconsciously render temporary your deepest convictions, or declare some provisional part of yourself permanent and lasting.  (This is particularly dangerous when you’re dealing with drunkeness.  Estoy borracha means I’m drunk.  Soy una borracha means I’m a drunk.)

So you have to wonder, am I fat or thin as part of who I am, or is that simply the phase I’m going through this month?  Is something inherently interesting to me, or do I just find it interesting now, in this place and this moment?

Soy flaca, and thinness is an essential characteristic; estoy flaca, and thinness is a passing state, the result of malaria or anxiety about MFA programs.  Cocinar es interesante implies that cooking is inherently interesting; it appeals to the inner geography of my personality.  El partido esta interesante, meanwhile, implies that the football game here and now has got me sucked in, but in the longer scheme of things I could probably care less and would pay much more attention to making the perfect lasagna.

Then there are the inflexible rules.  Having two verb choices makes these rules seem even more constrictive, makes parts of life we’d perhaps like to dismiss as random or temporary into permanent conditions.  I’m an American—no estar or temporality about it.   Whether I flinch at being called “gringa” or not, whether I marry a Mexican or not, or live in the furthest flung yurt in the Mongolian steppes, in Spanish there’s still a “soy” attached to my Americanness.

Sometimes, this is a relief.   The older I get, and the further from the States I am, the more I can see how much Americanness belongs to ser, and having that fixed category can be reaffirming.  For as many other parts of being I accumulate there is always a baseline of Americanness, and I have to figure that into the equation.

But, overall, I think I prefer using estar.  It feels more fluid and flexible.  Estar allows for whims and beliefs and phases that skirt the givens of ser and ultimately contribute to it, but without the weight of permanent commitment.  Estoy feliz por que, estoy buscando algo, estoy interesada en…I’m happy, looking for, interested in…through estar you search and transition.

Estar is also used for all progressive verbs – “estoy viajando, pensando, tomando muchos fotos…” I’m traveling, thinking, taking a lot of photos…it’s the verb of the moment, full of potential and uncertainty.

This divide between ser and estar, between temporary and permanent states of being, between the essential and the changeable, is for me an ongoing linguistic predicament that parallels all sorts of other predicaments—the decision to stay or to go, the links between historical and modern realities, the overlapping of cultures, the connections between people and places.  Spanish allows for a dialectical interplay between these things; it’s not as simple as “is” or “are” or “am.”

And, most crucially, ser and estar mark for me the twin poles of life.  The desire, on one hand, for rootedness, for home and its ease and familiarity, for the deep connections felt there, and on the other hand the desire to be on a road, on an old bus, chugging up a hill in the jungle with nothing but the crisp sense of being utterly present in a moment.  One minute soy…and the next, estoy.  Sigo siendo y estando, buscando un equilibrio entre los dos.