When two languages bump into each other, they borrow stuff.

English: “Hey, Español! I need a word for these flying pests. Can I borrow ‘mosquito’?”

Español: “No problemo. While we are on the topic, I could use ‘boycott’ (though I might spell it ‘boicot’).”

Ahora voy a typiar mi column. Come on now! You had no trouble getting el gisto of that sentence. And in the near future, you’re likely to be seeing much more of this kind of linguistic mélange.

At issue is a recent conference of Royal Spanish Academy, one outcome of which was the fear of English (or slightly modified) words that make it into Spanish. That was one concern of attendees of the parley in Puerto Rico.

Simply, many of the planet’s half-billion speakers of Spanish have noticed a tendency to Spanishize many English words.

A Los Angeles Times article by Caroline A. Miranda provides words like “drone,” which becomes “dron” and even “Botox” and “selfie” as among the newcomers. The tug-of-words over “selfie” could result in a compromise, in which we call it an “auto-foto” instead.

Back in my youth, I recall hearing and using “troca” and “carro,” whose meanings are obvious. For centuries, we’ve found it convenient to claim adoptable words as our own. Miranda’s article makes it clear that “when two languages meet, they borrow stuff.”

Begun in 1997, the academy meets every three years in various Spanish-speaking venues. Since the start of the academy’s conferences, Spanish has ceased being what the author calls a “marginalized language,” and predictions are that by 2050, the United States could become the largest Spanish-speaking country on earth. And current estimates are that only 10 percent of the world’s Spanish speakers live in Spain.

My dad, J.D., has been gone 18 years, and with his last breath, he probably expressed unfailing support of Spanish, “which must remain pure.” Dad’s lament was what he called “the corruption (he used a stronger noun, not printable here) of Spanish.” And at no time did he find humor in our taking liberties with Spanish.

If Dad were still with us, he would probably be leading the trumpet section to maintain the “purity” of his first language. He never tolerated any use of Spanish slang, even in jest.

Sometimes, trying to be cute, my brother Severino or sister Evangeline or I tried to do some gymnastics with Spanish, such as turning “mucho” into “muncho,” for effect. Dad set us straight. And he was critical of those who were unable to think of the correct Spanish word and opted for the English equivalent.

We owned a portable manual Underwood when I was in high school. Once, I made the mistake of asking Dad if I could borrow “el typewriter” so I could “typiar un papel.” The last part of the request was to show off my verbal flexibility. And cuteness.

Well, I received a rapid lesson on how, with my help, Spanish was “becoming adulterated.” He added that “papel” is only paper, whereas “composición” was the finished product.

Many of us have sat through a class lecture whose ending words are, “For tomorrow, I want you to write a paper on Shakespeare’s debt to Hemingway.” Never once does the professor call it a composition. And that’s why we say “papel” in Spanish.

I deserved being corrected by my dad, but calling it “una maquina de escribir,” with its seven syllables just to identify a piece of equipment made me wish Spanish had evolved enough to accommodate “typewriter,” which contains just three syllables.

So if your “troquita” or your “carrito” is on the fritz, it helps to have a dictionary handy to provide words like “camión” for truck and “auto” or “coche” for car.

Whether rightly or wrongly, English was mainly what we spoke at home. The smatterings of Spanish we picked up — very conveniently — came from conversations between our parents but about us. How is it possible to hear our parents speaking Spanish with not much rubbing off on us?

Our eavesdropping, by the way, taught us words some of us kids thought of as praise, words like “atascado,” “embustero,” “mentiroso,” and “malcriado.” The meanings of the words in our newly acquired lexicon range from slothfulness to brattiness to dishonesty.

Many times during my 32 years as a teacher, I heard the story: “Our parents spoke Spanish to each other, but English to us. And that’s why our Spanish is limited.”

But there are other factors as well. In elementary school, almost every word we heard on the playground at Immaculate Conception School was in Spanish. If we didn’t know the Spanish equivalent of “basketball” or “bat,” we’d say “dame el bateh” or “tira el basquetbol.” We’d try to make the mystery word at least sound like Spanish.

One of our elementary school teachers, Sister Mary Kay Lástima, once told my friend, Alfred, “You are not to speak in Mexico.” She meant “Mexican,” but really, “Spanish.” My friend’s reply was, I’m not speaking in Mexico; I’m speaking in the U.S.”

That earned him an hour’s worth of whacking erasers after school.

I seldom saw Dad become as animated as when we misused a Spanish word. Dad overlooked some language misdemeanors in English, freeing us to say “ain’t,” “cuz” and “nothin,’” but a butchered Spanish word (“muchas Garcias” or “yo quiero jando (pronounced hando),” was a felony that earned us a lecture but no spare change.

David Pharies, a dean at the University of Florida, and the author of “A Brief History of the Spanish Language,” says he fears that “efforts to preserve language can be futile.” He adds, “Sooner or later, language guardians are forced to abandon conservative positions in the face of relentless changes in usage.”

Although common, “Nuyorican,” which describes a New Yorker of Puerto Rican roots, has not made it into official dictionaries. The author fears, however, that it “may just be a matter of time.”