Precerpt from My 20th Language: Codeswitching
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Code-Switching: When Languages Collide
One of the curious side effects of speaking multiple languages is something called code-switching. In simple terms, code-switching is when you shift from one language to another in the middle of a conversation, sometimes without even noticing you’re doing it. Linguists have studied this phenomenon for years, mostly in bilingual or multilingual communities where people flip back and forth between languages as part of everyday life.
For me, though, code-switching happens even when I’m speaking English, my first language. Sometimes, without meaning to, I’ll slip into another language for just one word—usually a noun—because that word captures something that English doesn’t quite express. It’s not about forgetting the English word. It’s about finding that the English version doesn’t bring with it the same cultural weight, emotional color, or even visual imagery that the original word does.
Take Arabic, for example. I lived and worked in Jordan for three years. In order to function well in both professional and daily life, I had to learn not just Arabic, but how to navigate the culture—and that meant learning how to work with wasta. There is no true equivalent in English. The word influence doesn’t even come close. Wasta is about using personal connections to get things done, sometimes calling on favors or stepping into situations to smooth the way for others. It’s not just a word; it’s a social system that underpins how things work in much of the Middle East. Over time, I also had to recognize that as a foreign academic leader in the community, there were moments when I became the wasta—when people looked to me to open doors, solve problems, or offer protection. Those situations required careful navigation, and the complexity of the role doesn’t translate easily into English. So when I talk about those experiences, even in English, wasta is the word that slips out—because there simply isn’t another one that holds the same meaning. I know the person I’m talking to probably won’t understand it, but no other word feels right.
Then there’s Czech. Before I ever set foot in Prague, I had fallen in love with the 1988 television series Cirkus Humberto, a Czech classic that follows the lives of circus performers across six generations. It’s a sweeping story, full of artistry, resilience, and changing cultural landscapes. Much of it was filmed in Karlín, a neighborhood in Prague near the Vltava River and within sight of the Charles Bridge. The bridge itself—Karlův most—became, for me, a symbol not just of the city but of the poetic, almost dreamlike atmosphere the series evoked. So when I finally made it to Prague and crossed that bridge, it was already steeped in meaning. Even now, when I refer to it, I instinctively use the Czech name, Karlův most, because Charles Bridge doesn’t stir the same images or emotions. That single phrase—Karlův most—brings back the mist over the water, the weight of history under my feet, and the echoes of circus music in the background. It’s a different word because it calls forth a different world.
Russian gives me yet another kind of code-switching moment. The English word kiosk exists, of course, and it refers to a small stand or booth where you might buy snacks or souvenirs. But Russian киоск (kiosk, pronounced kee-OSK) refers to a very particular style of small shop that once dotted every Russian city and village—tiny little huts where you could buy everything from cigarettes to newspapers to canned fish. The look, the feel, the role these kiosks played in Russian life is something entirely different from the sleek glass kiosks of the West. Even though the spelling of the English and Russian words is the same, when I refer to those little shops, my mind (and mouth) default to the Russian pronunciation. It’s subtle, but for anyone listening carefully, it sounds like I’ve switched languages mid-sentence—because in a way, I have. The Russian kiosk belongs to a different mental landscape, one that English can’t quite repaint.
I’ve noticed that these little slips mostly happen with culturally loaded words—things, places, concepts—that matter deeply in one culture but don’t quite have an equivalent in another. While they’re occasionally verbs or adjectives, they’re much more frequently nouns—things that exist differently, or more vividly, in one culture’s world than in another’s.
And so, without even thinking, I code-switch. It’s not confusion. It’s something deeper: the mind reaching for the word that feels most right in the moment, no matter what language I’m supposed to be speaking.
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