THE FIRST FEW times I met my Salvadoran brother-in-law in his country, we had long conversations in Spanish. My grammar was atrocious, but our conversations were real. Then, when he moved to the US with my sister and nephew, we stopped speaking Spanish.
“Mateo,” he said, “I know you speak good Spanish. Why do you never speak it?”
“Because,” I said, “I can only speak Spanish when I’m drunk.”