[ WP ] Police say a northern New Mexico father shot his adult son after an argument over who better spoke both Spanish and English . ( True story ) Write the conversation they had .

`` Spanish…'' my dad says, breathing the word out like its very concept is ridiculous. 
 
 `` What?'' I ask, distracted, eyes on the TV. 
 
 `` The bank website has an option in Spanish. What's this country comin – oh, crap.'' 
 
 `` What?'' 
 
 `` I clicked the Spanish option.'' 
 
 `` So? Just click return.'' 
 
 `` Nah, I got this.'' 
 
 `` Just click return, it's the button on the top left.'' 
 
 `` I can do this.'' 
 
 `` You do n't speak Spanish, dad.'' 
 
 I hear a loud bang, and I look back to find my father slammed his laptop shut and is eyeing me with wide, angry 
 eyes. `` Que tu me hablaste, nino?'' 
 
 `` I said you do n't speak Spanish, dad. Which you just proved right now.'' 
 
 `` Yo hablo el espaniol muy major que tuedos los peoples!'' 
 
 `` All right, all right'', I say, raising my arms in surrender. `` You speak Spanish better than all the people. Ok. Got it.'' 
 
 I turn back to the TV, but I can sense his eyes on me still. I try to ignore it. A couple of seconds go by and I turn 
 off the TV. His reflection is staring at me from behind the couch. 
 
 `` Como tu puedes habler that I no hablo espanol?'' 
 
 I sigh, turning to face him. `` Dad, you sound like Google Translator became self-aware. It's no big deal, you just do n't --'' 
 
 `` TU NON PARLA COMIGO DESTA FUERMA RAPARIGO!'' 
 
 `` Ok that was part Italian, part Portuguese'', I say. `` Still wrong, but impressive.'' 
 
 `` VOY TE MOSTRAR! VOY TE MOSTRAR LA OVEJA, NINO DE MIERDA!'' 
? 
 `` And now you said you'll show me the sheep, dad'', I reply, tired. `` Why are you so upset? You're not 
 Spanish! Your name is Connor Smith, you're like the most American person ever. It's ok that you –'' 
 
 I hear a loud bang and I feel a hot pain in my chest, and I look down. There's blood in my shirt. My eyes draw a line from the wound to the smoking gun my father's holding, and from there to his eyes. They are sharp and mean. 
 
 `` Dad, you shot me.'' 
 
 `` Voy te mostrar la oveja', he repeats, firing again. I fall to the floor. `` La oveja, cabron.'' 
 
 `` La oveja'', he says, firing a third time. He turns back on me and starts walking away. 
 
 My eyes feel heavy, and I think of sheeps and semantics as the world starts blurring out of focus until everything is darkness. 
 
 `` La oveja'', I hear my father's voice, from the distance. `` La maldita oveja.'' 
 
 
 

