English-Spanish Differences - Word Stress

Pronunciation – Vowels

English-Spanish Basic Differences

VOWELS

We all know that in Spanish the five vowels have each only one invariable sound, and each of those sounds has no 100% match in English.

In English the five vowels have at least 14 possible articulations and there are no rules when, for instance, the ‘a’ is pronounced short (the mouth less open) as in ‘at’ or long (the mouth more open) as in ‘artist’.

Stress

English: stressed vowels are lengthened

Spanish: stressed vowels are somewhat louder but not lengthened (except for emphasis)

atom - átomo

atomic -  atómico

English: The [ǝ] symbol is called the schwa and it is used to indicate the indefinite sound of an unstressed vowel.

If you look up the word ‘atom’ in the dictionary, you’ll find it is pronounced as átǝm (the ‘o’ is indistinct)

Take the word ‘átomo’ in Spanish. A movie actor trying to imitate the English accent when speaking Spanish would pronounce it as ‘aatǝmǝ’.

The schwa [ǝ] is also found in stressed syllables consisting of a vowel plus the letter ‘r’, such as bird [bǝrd], turn [tǝrn], earn [ǝrn]. Again, in these words the vowel has become blurred.

Spanish: No such thing as a schwa. Unstressed vowels are not shortened and blurred. No vowel blurring in Spanish pronunciation.

Exercise. Make sure to pronounce every vowel clearly in the Spanish version of these words. First exaggerate the articulation of every syllable in Spanish, and then pronounce it normally.  

atom  -  átomo  [á-to-mo]                                 

atomic – atómico [a-tó-mi-co]

competitive  - competitivo [com-pe-ti-ti-vo]

original  -  original [o-ri-gi-nal]

invitation  -  invitación [in-vi-ta-ción]

famous – famoso [fa-mo-so]

And those who want to reduce their American accent when speaking Spanish should practice by reading at least a couple of paragraphs exaggerating the articulation of every syllable and then read them again normally. Do that every day.

We can practice further in class.

Las Preposiciones

LAS PREPOSICIONES

In Spanish, all those verb endings, the tenses, and the subjunctive mood . . . But in English, ay, Mami, las preposiciones . . .

Nothing is more difficult for a Spanish-speaking student learning English than the use of prepositions. Para un hispanohablante nada es más difícil en la gramática inglesa que el uso de las preposiciones.

DIFFERENCE: In Spanish we don’t have verb phrases or idioms in which the preposition changes the basic meaning of the verb. En español no tenemos frases verbales o expresiones idiomáticas formadas con preposiciones que alteran el significado del verbo.

EN  INGLÉS:

Tómese el verbo get, que en su forma básica significa conseguir, obtener. Usado en combinación con preposiciones, get adquiere más 30 diferentes significados.  He aquí un ejemplo:

Get through (terminar).  “Finally, I got through (finished) reading that book.” TRANSLATION: Al fin terminé de leer ese libro.

[Observe cómo en inglés se tiene la alternativa de usar la expresión idiomática o, de forma menos informal, sólo el verbo correspondiente.]

IN SPANISH:

Notice how in Spanish we don't use prepositions to form idiomatic expressions:

Costar trabajo (costar means 'to cost', but this idiom means 'it takes a lot of work' and it is used with the indirect object pronouns me, te, le, nos, les).  “Me costó trabajo". 

Un domingo en la biblioteca

Por Eugenio Rodríguez

Lo tomaron de la foto, le dijeron que su muerte vendría, o le había sobrevenido, dos años más tarde, en 1978. Así sin más, lo decía la revista de arte de los tiempos.  Pensaron que aquel hombre con porte de artista de experiencias fuertes, fuera de época --una mano se adivinaba más allá de su espacio en la  foto--, no tomaría la noticia sino con una carcajada retumbante de galería. Sucedió lo contrario. Lo más opuesto del mundo. Le cayó un desánimo, una flojera, como que las costuras del cuerpo ya no lo sostenían. Era de verse: palpitaciones, fatiga, palmadas en los cachetes, alcohol en las narices. Si no hubieran acudido pronto a desmentirle la verdad, a la carrera decirle que todo había sido una broma, hombre, que no se preocupara --la cara le hacía pucheros--, que cómo era posible que creyera en fechas de muerte. Así, poco a poco, con estas razones fue cobrando color, la camisa se le infló de nuevo, la mirada recuperó su perspectiva, el ángulo del mentón se hincó en los aires, reaparecieron los rabos en las comisuras de los labios y sin mayor esfuerzo, como el que se pone su chaqueta de pana verde botella, se reincorporó a la pose exacta de la foto, donde aparece en la revista de la época, al lado de uno de sus cuadros neoexpresionistas.

Genesis

 

I learned the truth from my mother, who confessed it to me, her voice as if coming from another person, something of a ventriloquist in her that evening in the nursing home, years before her mind all but faded away. "Your brother Gabriel came into this world by accident. I tried to terminate the pregnancy but the doctor tricked me." I didn’t know what to say when I heard that confession, as if she were thinking aloud. I reacted in time to get her to continue, make her travel back in time.

She had gone to a doctor in Santiago, where she lived for a couple of years, for an abortion drug; and the doctor, after hearing her out about my Dad’s follies, his inability to be her dream husband, to be a reliable father, gave her some pills. Weeks passed and still menstruation. Finally she returned to the doctor and he, an odd combination of science and religious faith, talked her into having that child: the pills he had given her, on the contrary, were intended to "fix" the pregnancy.

No wonder always this absence in "Gabriel," this instability, in his jobs, in his marriages. "With him there is no life, nothing suits him," as his last wife had said. No wonder this insatiable longing for other cities, other countries, other views out the window, whether willowy trees or sand dunes, preferably mountains, not beaches, that tedious come and go of waves. 

 

No wonder he used to have this dream of being somewhere, apparently a foreign country, and walking by he recognized the house: That was it . . . Yes, he had finally found home; and opened the gate, knocked on the door and told the people to get out, “This is my home. This is my home . . . Get out . . . Out, out . . . I don’t care what language you speak. Get out of my home,” and not listening pushed himself in only to find it was like one of those propped-up Hollywood façades, only for camera effect. And then and there he always woke up. 

 

In any event, after that confession, at least "Gabriel," her only child, had the privilege of knowing what so many others don’t --the illusion that he belonged to this world.

 

 

That's Life

 

Emboldened by a sense of life very much his own, they said that he set out to be nothing, nothing at all (a strenuous task if you will). He lived beyond days, weeks and months, and years were not of his concern. Some folks, always ready for those sightings, began to see him in a different light; maybe he was truly not of this world. But others, the jugglers and  jesters in town, said things with a smile and even asked for something of his body, just for the living room they said, or perhaps bedroom. All that and more, the daily fun and games never missing.

Then one day he got up feeling he had arrived, or so he said, because he spoke on the sidelines of tenses. The truth is that he moved like no one on the streets, and people noticed. Free at last. He was now nothing, nothing at all of this world.

When careless, in his euphoria (or who knows), stepping off the sidewalk, he got on the wrong trip with a delivery truck, dragged for what seemed an eternity. A horrid death.

That’s life, now people say. The worst they could say in his memory. But, then,  by saying so they are confirming the validity of his escape –or quest.   

 

 

     

 

Party

  

The guy came out of nowhere, as if lacking a true face, or so it seemed, with a certain whiteness of hands and gestures. Tight-lipped, he looked like the type reluctant to speak the words, the expected words, like those children who refuse to smile at the photographer's lens. But something about him, I don’t know, he couldn’t fool me (there, underneath, deep down, the scream was there). In his eyes, you could tell the intention, someone who kept some secret, the secret of the other who looks at him (his eyes in the mirror like those eyes in a painting that follow you). I wanted, what’s more, I would . . . But then, at that moment I heard my name. Back outside the bathroom, the crowd, the music; someone had crack-opened the door, Janet was calling me.

He disappeared from the mirror.

 

The dream (or movie)

The dream about a film, or the film about a dream, I can’t hardly tell anymore (as always happens, like a child grabbing on to the rest arms, trying to prolong the movie’s last gleams, before being splashed with light in the Lyceum, snapped out of the Sunday matinee and back to the alcoholic father stumbling home later tonight).

What remains with me is the end, something of a young lady whose incongruent face I can’t tell anymore if smiling, but nothing ironic, appears at the end talking about the characters, in what seems like a French New Wave film from the early 60s. In that last coda of a scene, the camera cuts to her boyfriend (I don’t remember the other characters) now sitting next to her, and the actor says that when he turns 60 he’ll start worrying about his final act, but for now life is rolling. At that point the young lady turns and looks at me, to the camera, and her face freezes on the screen. With that freeze-frame the movie ends. But it turns out they were all dead, all the actors, even she (the movie being so old).

I don’t remember if they knew it, that the movie would eventually come to a freeze, and hence the incongruity of the young lady who looking into the film from an outside perspective, she too was playing her role; as if actors could not escape, talking, smiling, dancing, kissing, making love scenes, as if those in that movie would always be walking the Paris postcard streets. And yet there was something about her face, about her eyes when she looked straight at the camera, something that stays with me to this day, as if deep down she knew (about the freeze frame).