I Say Tomate, You Say Tomato – English, Arabic, and Spanish Word Migration

Photo by Fastily Talk

It wasn’t until I started learning Spanish as an adult that I realised a lot of words used in English were, in fact, of Spanish origin. I grew up with words such as cargo, chilli, chocolate, and oregano, using them in the English sense but not having a clue about their beginnings.

English and Spanish are both part of the Romance language family (along with Italian, Portuguese, French, Romanian, and Catalan), so once I got my head around learning a new language, Spanish didn’t feel so hard (except for the grammar, don’t get me started on the grammar!). Since becoming fluent in Spanish, I’ve found I can read or hear other romance languages and get the general gist. And when words from one language are used in another in the same context (or at least sounds similar), then it makes life a lot easier.

American English (as most of you know) comprises of a lot of Spanish words passed to us from Mexican and Central and South American immigrants. This influence dates back to the days of the Gold Rush, and with more adventurous palates, Spanish words are used to describe certain dishes of which there is no English equivalent. Sometimes we adapt a foreign word even though there is a version in English – coriander is often substituted with cilantro, a Spanish word of French origin.

But it’s not just Spanish that influenced the English language. A lot of Spanish words have strong ties to Arabic, harking back to the occupation of the Iberian Peninsula in the 5^th century and continuing on into the 8^th and 9^th centuries. Many people of Islamic descent occupied this region, and as time went on, many Arabic words migrated into the Spanish language. You’ll find many words in English that begin with al have Arabic origins and commonly a Spanish influence. Classic examples are alcove and alfalfa.

The Internet and increasing travel opportunities have opened up new worlds of language, so it's no surprise that words from numerous languages are adopted across borders. Perhaps one day, there will be a single common language, such as Esperanto (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Esperanto), but in the meantime, English will continue to adopt new words from different cultures and put its own spin on it.

Photo by Enzik

Here some examples of Spanish to English (with a bit of Arabic, Caribbean, Nahuatl, Quechua, and Arawak thrown in):

adios

aficionado

alcove (Arabic al-qubba)

alfalfa (Arabic al-fasfasah..)

alligator (from el lagarto, "the lizard")

alpaca (Aymara allpaca)

armada

armadillo (means "the little armed one")

banana (originally an African word but was adopted in Portuguese and Spanish then English)

barbecue (Caribbean barbacoa)

barracuda

bonanza

bravo (Italian and old Spanish)

cafeteria (cafetería)

canyon (cañon)

cargo (Spanish meaning to load -- cargar)

chaps (chaparreras)

chihuahua (dog breed named after Mexican city and state)

chocolate (Nahuatl language xocolat)

cigar, cigarette (Spanish cigarro)

cilantro

cinch (Spanish word cincho)

condor (Quechua)

conquistador

corral

el Niño (means the child and this weather pattern was named this because it appeared close to Christmas)

enchilada (Spanish participle enchilar which means to season with chili)

fajita (In Spanish faja means a sash or belt which best describes the cut of meat)

fiesta

flan

flotilla

Picture by John Ryan M. Debil

galleon (Spanish galeón)

garbanzo

guacamole (Nahuatl ahuacam, "avocado," and molli, "sauce")

guerrilla

hacienda (silent H in Spanish)

incomunicado

jalapeño

llama (Quechua)

machete

machismo

maize (Spanish maíz but originally from the Arawak mahíz)

mariachi (a Mexican musician that performs a special type of music)

matador (in Spanish it means a person who kills)

mosquito

nacho

oregano (from orégano)

papaya (Arawak)

patio (often means courtyard in Spanish)

piñata

plaza

poncho (originally Araucanian, an indigenous South American language)

potato (Caribbean batata)

puma (Quechua)

rodeo

salsa (In Spanish this word refers to any sauce or gravy)

sassafras (sasafrás)

savvy (Derives from sabe which means to know)

siesta

silo

sombrero (The Spanish version of this means any hat, not just the Mexican hats most people think of. The word originates from sombra, which means shade)

stampede (estampida)

tango

tequila (named after a Mexican town that makes this drink)

tobacco (Caribbean tabaco)

tomatillo

tomato (Nahuatl tomatl)

tornado (tronada which means thunderstorm)

tortilla (in Spanish, an omelette is called a tortilla)

tuna (atún)

vanilla (vainilla)

vigilante

yucca (Caribbean yuca)

How Many Syllables Are in That Word?

When most Americans see Arabic script, the first thing that comes to mind is Islam, the Koran and perhaps those blue and gold postage stamps commemorating the holy month of Ramadan.

I, on the other hand, think of a former linguistics professor who once gave our class an unusual exercise. She put a big sheet of Arabic writing on the wall and asked us to describe what we saw. The lines reminded me of a time when, as a small child not yet able to read, I used to draw pictures and scribble squiggly lines underneath, my first crude attempts at writing a story. The Arabic looked a lot like those scribbles. Only prettier.

No matter how hard I squinted at the script on the classroom wall, I couldn’t tell where one word ended and the next began. There were dots everywhere, but nothing that resembled punctuation. For the first time in decades, I felt illiterate.

Fifteen years later, my Iranian husband’s parents came to live with us, and in a few months I had acquired rudimentary Farsi conversation skills. But the language uses the Arabic script so I still couldn’t read or write a single word. Unacceptable.

My husband patiently wrote out the Farsi version of the Arabic alphabet for me, all thirty-two letters (four more than in Arabic), then showed me how to form them. I tackled the problem much the way I’d learned to write the Latin alphabet, taking each letter in order and practicing its various forms. I had vague memories of first grade and lines of letters marching across the page: Aa, Bb, Cc and on to Zz. So I tried creating similar lines of آ to ى.

Unfortunately, the Arabic script doesn’t work like the Latin one. For one thing, it’s written in cursive style from right to left, except for the numbers which go from left to right. Then there are four forms to most letters, not just two, depending on where they occur in a word: beginning, middle, end or sitting all lonesome on their own. And here’s the clincher: even after breaking the words down into individual letters, the script still looks like bewildering squiggles, each symbol distinguished from its sisters only by the number and placement of the associated dots.

So is jim (prounounced like the man’s name) the one with the dot in the middle of the loop (ج) or above the letter (خ)? Is the ت with two dots above the line pronounced like a T, or is that the one with a single dot below the line? Nope, ب sounds like a B.

I was nearly at my wit’s end, figuring I’d never learn to read Farsi, when a cousin in Iran came to the rescue. She sent me a set of first-grade primers with pictures. Bingo! Turns out, Iranian kids don’t learn their letters by memorizing the alphabet from alef to ye. Instead the letters are presented in sets, so you learn these together: ب ت ث, and then these: ح ج خ . So much easier to remember where the dots are supposed to go this way.

I know the Arabic script now, but that doesn’t mean I can read the language with ease. That’s because Farsi has one more bewildering quirk: you don’t write the vowels! Vowel symbols do exist, but no literate person would be caught dead using them in written form.

So how do you sound out an unfamiliar word? Simple answer: you don’t. When all I’ve got are two or three consonants to work with, I can’t even tell how many syllables the word contains.

Over time, I’ve gotten a better feel for Farsi and its linguistic patterns, which makes reading easier as well. Sometimes I can even correctly guess those unfamiliar words. One thing is certain: practice makes perfect, and the more Farsi I read, the easier it becomes.