Spanish Stories

    B1Challenging · 8 min read · 796 words

    La razón por la que se fue

    The Reason He Left

    A university student interviewing her grandfather for an oral history project finally asks the question the family has avoided for sixty years: why he never went back to Galicia.

    Topics

    • family history
    • identity
    • immigration
    • intergenerational conversation

    Tap or hover any underlined word for its English meaning.

    Listen to the story

    Learner-paced · Spanish

    What you'll encounter

    Grammar
    Pluperfect and reported speech (le prometió que volvería, le escribía que la extrañaba), Imperfect vs. preterite in extended narration, Present perfect for unresolved past (lo he pensado más de lo que te imaginas), Subjunctive after emotion and "sin que" (sorprendida de que hubiera podido, sin que le tiemble la voz)
    Vocabulary
    Immigration and family history (valija, aldea, echar raíces), Emotional and relational vocabulary, Argentine regionalisms (acá, gallegos, mate)
    Language skills
    Following an extended oral-history interview, Understanding motivations behind decades-old decisions, Recognizing emotional subtext in dialogue

    Sofía necesita entrevistar a un familiar mayor para un trabajo de la facultad sobre historia oral, y decide, casi sin pensarlo, que será su abuelo Manuel. Lo llama un domingo y le pregunta si puede ir a tomar mate con él y grabar la conversación con el celular. Manuel acepta enseguida, aunque le advierte, entre risas, que su vida «no tiene nada de interesante».

    Show English
    Sofía needs to interview an older relative for a university assignment on oral history, and she decides, almost without thinking about it, that it will be her grandfather Manuel. She calls him on a Sunday and asks if she can come over for mate and record the conversation on her phone. Manuel agrees right away, though he warns her, laughing, that his life "isn't interesting at all."

    Se sientan en la cocina, la misma donde Manuel toma mate todas las tardes desde que Sofía tiene memoria. Ella enciende la grabadora y empieza con preguntas fáciles: cuándo llegó a la Argentina, qué trajo en la , cómo era el barco. Manuel responde con anécdotas que Sofía ya ha escuchado antes, historias pulidas por los años, casi como un cuento que se repite igual cada vez.

    Show English
    They sit in the kitchen, the same one where Manuel has had his afternoon mate for as long as Sofía can remember. She turns on the recorder and starts with easy questions: when he arrived in Argentina, what he brought in his suitcase, what the ship was like. Manuel answers with stories Sofía has already heard before, anecdotes polished by the years, almost like a tale that gets told the same way every time.

    Pero entonces ella hace la pregunta que nunca le había hecho directamente: «¿Nunca quisiste volver, abuelo? Ni siquiera de visita.» Manuel se queda callado unos segundos, algo que Sofía no le había visto hacer nunca, y después, en lugar de responder con una anécdota más, empieza a contar una historia distinta.

    Show English
    But then she asks the question she'd never asked him directly: "Did you never want to go back, Grandpa? Not even to visit." Manuel goes quiet for a few seconds, something Sofía had never seen him do, and then, instead of answering with one more anecdote, he starts telling a different kind of story.

    Le cuenta que salió de Vilar de Xestas, una cerca de Lugo, en 1965, con veintidós años y una valija de cartón. No se fue para siempre, según él lo entendía entonces: se fue para juntar dinero y volver a casarse con Amparo, su novia desde los dieciséis años. «Le prometí que volvería en dos o tres años», dice Manuel. «Ella me acompañó hasta la estación y me hizo jurárselo.»

    Show English
    He tells her he left Vilar de Xestas, a small village near Lugo, in 1965, at twenty-two, with a cardboard suitcase. He didn't leave forever, or at least that's not how he understood it then: he left to save up money and come back to marry Amparo, his girlfriend since he was sixteen. "I promised her I'd be back in two or three years," Manuel says. "She walked me to the station and made me swear it."

    Los primeros años en Buenos Aires fueron de mucho trabajo y poco dinero: horas larguísimas en una fábrica textil, un cuarto compartido con otros tres , cartas que iban y venían cada mes. En sus cartas a Amparo, Manuel le escribía que la extrañaba, que todo era temporal, que en cuanto ahorrara lo suficiente compraría el pasaje de vuelta.

    Show English
    The first years in Buenos Aires were full of hard work and little money: endless hours at a textile factory, a room shared with three other Spaniards, letters going back and forth every month. In his letters to Amparo, Manuel wrote that he missed her, that it was all temporary, that as soon as he'd saved enough he'd buy the ticket home.

    Pero el dinero tardaba más de lo previsto en juntarse, y la vida en Buenos Aires, sin que él lo buscara del todo, empezó a . Conoció a Elena, hija de otros inmigrantes gallegos, en una fiesta del club español del barrio. «No fue que dejé de querer a Amparo », explica Manuel, «fue más lento y más confuso que eso. Uno no elige exactamente cuándo empieza a construir una vida nueva.»

    Show English
    But the money took longer than expected to add up, and life in Buenos Aires, without his quite meaning it to, began putting down roots. He met Elena, the daughter of other Spanish immigrants, at a party at the neighborhood's Spanish social club. "It wasn't that I stopped loving Amparo overnight," Manuel explains. "It was slower and more confusing than that. You don't exactly choose the moment you start building a new life."

    La última carta de Amparo llegó tres años después de su partida. En ella le contaba, con una amabilidad que a Manuel todavía hoy le duele recordar, que se casaba con un maestro del pueblo vecino y que le deseaba lo mejor. Manuel nunca contestó esa carta. «No supe qué decirle», dice, «y cuanto más tiempo pasaba sin responder, más imposible se volvía hacerlo.»

    Show English
    Amparo's last letter arrived three years after he left. In it, with a kindness that still hurts him to remember even now, she told him she was marrying a teacher from the neighboring village and wished him the best. Manuel never answered that letter. "I didn't know what to say to her," he says, "and the longer I went without answering, the more impossible it became to do it."

    Después de esa carta, Manuel dejó de hablar de Galicia con casi todo el mundo. Se casó con Elena dos años más tarde, tuvo hijos, después nietos, y construyó una vida entera en Buenos Aires sin volver jamás, ni siquiera de visita, al pueblo donde había nacido. En la familia, con el tiempo, todos aprendieron que ese era un tema que no se tocaba.

    Show English
    After that letter, Manuel stopped talking about Galicia with almost everyone. He married Elena two years later, had children, then grandchildren, and built an entire life in Buenos Aires without ever going back, not even to visit, to the village where he was born. Over time, everyone in the family learned it was a subject you didn't bring up.

    «¿Y la abuela Elena sabía todo esto?», pregunta Sofía, sorprendida de que un secreto tan grande hubiera podido tantos años dentro de la misma casa. «Lo supo siempre», responde Manuel. «Se lo conté yo mismo, antes de casarnos, porque me pareció que tenía derecho a saberlo. Ella nunca lo escondió ni lo convirtió en un secreto. El único que lo fui yo.»

    Show English
    "And did Grandma Elena know all of this?" Sofía asks, surprised that such a big secret could have lived inside the same house for so many years. "She always knew," Manuel answers. "I told her myself, before we got married, because I thought she had a right to know. She never hid it or turned it into a secret. I was the only one who buried it."

    Manuel se queda mirando el mate un momento antes de seguir. «Hay una parte de mí que nunca terminó de sentirse de », dice, «pero tampoco podría decir hoy que soy de allá. Me fui tan joven que no sé si extraño el pueblo real o solo la idea que me quedé imaginando durante sesenta años.»

    Show English
    Manuel stares at his mate for a moment before continuing. "There's a part of me that never quite felt like it belonged here," he says, "but I couldn't say today that I belong there either. I left so young that I don't know if I miss the real village or just the idea of it I kept imagining for sixty years."

    Sofía le pregunta, con cuidado, si alguna vez pensó en volver ahora, aunque fuera solo para conocer el pueblo de nuevo. Manuel duda antes de responder. «Lo he pensado más de lo que te imaginas», admite. «Pero también tengo miedo de que el lugar que yo recuerdo ya no exista en ningún lado, salvo en mi cabeza. A veces prefiero seguir imaginándolo tal como era.»

    Show English
    Sofía asks him, carefully, whether he's ever thought about going back now, even just to see the village again. Manuel hesitates before answering. "I've thought about it more than you'd imagine," he admits. "But I'm also afraid the place I remember doesn't exist anywhere anymore, except in my head. Sometimes I'd rather go on imagining it the way it was."

    Sofía apaga la grabadora, aunque ninguno de los dos se levanta todavía de la mesa. Se quedan un rato en silencio, con el mate ya frío entre las manos de Manuel, hasta que él, sin que ella se lo pida, dice el nombre de Amparo una vez más, en voz alta, sin que le tiemble la voz. Es, quizás, la primera vez en sesenta años que lo hace delante de alguien de su familia.

    Show English
    Sofía turns off the recorder, though neither of them gets up from the table yet. They sit in silence for a while, the mate gone cold in Manuel's hands, until he, without her asking, says Amparo's name once more, out loud, without his voice shaking. It is, perhaps, the first time in sixty years he has done that in front of anyone in his family.
    Show English translation

    Sofía needs to interview an older relative for a university assignment on oral history, and she decides, almost without thinking about it, that it will be her grandfather Manuel. She calls him on a Sunday and asks if she can come over for mate and record the conversation on her phone. Manuel agrees right away, though he warns her, laughing, that his life "isn't interesting at all."

    They sit in the kitchen, the same one where Manuel has had his afternoon mate for as long as Sofía can remember. She turns on the recorder and starts with easy questions: when he arrived in Argentina, what he brought in his suitcase, what the ship was like. Manuel answers with stories Sofía has already heard before, anecdotes polished by the years, almost like a tale that gets told the same way every time.

    But then she asks the question she'd never asked him directly: "Did you never want to go back, Grandpa? Not even to visit." Manuel goes quiet for a few seconds, something Sofía had never seen him do, and then, instead of answering with one more anecdote, he starts telling a different kind of story.

    He tells her he left Vilar de Xestas, a small village near Lugo, in 1965, at twenty-two, with a cardboard suitcase. He didn't leave forever, or at least that's not how he understood it then: he left to save up money and come back to marry Amparo, his girlfriend since he was sixteen. "I promised her I'd be back in two or three years," Manuel says. "She walked me to the station and made me swear it."

    The first years in Buenos Aires were full of hard work and little money: endless hours at a textile factory, a room shared with three other Spaniards, letters going back and forth every month. In his letters to Amparo, Manuel wrote that he missed her, that it was all temporary, that as soon as he'd saved enough he'd buy the ticket home.

    But the money took longer than expected to add up, and life in Buenos Aires, without his quite meaning it to, began putting down roots. He met Elena, the daughter of other Spanish immigrants, at a party at the neighborhood's Spanish social club. "It wasn't that I stopped loving Amparo overnight," Manuel explains. "It was slower and more confusing than that. You don't exactly choose the moment you start building a new life."

    Amparo's last letter arrived three years after he left. In it, with a kindness that still hurts him to remember even now, she told him she was marrying a teacher from the neighboring village and wished him the best. Manuel never answered that letter. "I didn't know what to say to her," he says, "and the longer I went without answering, the more impossible it became to do it."

    After that letter, Manuel stopped talking about Galicia with almost everyone. He married Elena two years later, had children, then grandchildren, and built an entire life in Buenos Aires without ever going back, not even to visit, to the village where he was born. Over time, everyone in the family learned it was a subject you didn't bring up.

    "And did Grandma Elena know all of this?" Sofía asks, surprised that such a big secret could have lived inside the same house for so many years. "She always knew," Manuel answers. "I told her myself, before we got married, because I thought she had a right to know. She never hid it or turned it into a secret. I was the only one who buried it."

    Manuel stares at his mate for a moment before continuing. "There's a part of me that never quite felt like it belonged here," he says, "but I couldn't say today that I belong there either. I left so young that I don't know if I miss the real village or just the idea of it I kept imagining for sixty years."

    Sofía asks him, carefully, whether he's ever thought about going back now, even just to see the village again. Manuel hesitates before answering. "I've thought about it more than you'd imagine," he admits. "But I'm also afraid the place I remember doesn't exist anywhere anymore, except in my head. Sometimes I'd rather go on imagining it the way it was."

    Sofía turns off the recorder, though neither of them gets up from the table yet. They sit in silence for a while, the mate gone cold in Manuel's hands, until he, without her asking, says Amparo's name once more, out loud, without his voice shaking. It is, perhaps, the first time in sixty years he has done that in front of anyone in his family.

    Vocabulary in this story

    valija
    suitcase (Latin American Spanish)
    aldea
    small village, hamlet
    gallegos
    Spaniards (colloquial term used in Argentina, from the many immigrants who came from Galicia)
    echar raíces
    put down roots
    de un día para el otro
    overnight, from one day to the next
    convivir
    coexist, live alongside
    enterró
    buried
    acá
    here (Argentine Spanish)
    Comprensión(check what you understood)

    Answer a few quick questions about the story. This is just for you: there's no account or score saved.

    1. ¿Por qué decidió Manuel irse de Vilar de Xestas en 1965?
    2. Según la historia, ¿qué impidió realmente que Manuel volviera a Galicia como había planeado?
    3. ¿Cómo reaccionó Manuel cuando recibió la última carta de Amparo?
    4. ¿Qué descubre Sofía sobre la relación entre su abuela Elena y la historia de Amparo?
    5. Al final de la conversación, ¿cómo describirías la actitud de Manuel sobre volver a Galicia?