Precerpt from My 20th Language: Linguacy (Leaver)

 


Linguacy, a term coined by Brecht and Ingold (2002), is not just about speaking or understanding a language. It’s about grasping the systems of meaning that shape how people think, solve problems, and communicate—whether through words, numbers, diagrams, or gestures. I didn’t set out to learn these things, but over time, I found myself needing to understand them in order to function across unfamiliar terrains.

Some of the differences were subtle. In certain places, math is taught through calculation first, theory later. That reversal of order changes how students approach problems. Instead of being handed a formula and told to apply it, they’re expected to wrestle with the numbers and discover the logic through use. It’s not better or worse—it’s just a different way of thinking.

The orientation of math problems also varies. Some are designed to be solved forward, step by step. Others are meant to be worked backward, with the answer in mind and the path reconstructed. That shift affects how one reads a problem, how one even begins. I had to learn to spot those cues, especially when helping others navigate systems that assumed a particular kind of reasoning. More especially, my daughter, Echo, who attended seventh grade in Soviet schools when I was researching at the University of Moscow, had to learn that instead of the U.S. “division bracket” where the dividend sits inside and the quotient goes on top, the Russian method uses a vertical layout that unfolds downward. It’s more columnar and often feels more arithmetic-driven than algebraic. And, at first, I had a dickens of a time helping her with math. Fortunately, she is talented in math and could handle most of it completely on her own. Later, in Russia, when I stayed with friends and the young son, Lyovik, was struggling with me, I actually could help him with his homework, thanks to learning alongside Echo.

Mechanical drawing was another surprise. In some school systems, as in the Soviet Union educational programs, it’s part of the regular curriculum from an early age. Children learn to visualize objects in space, rotate them mentally, and render them with precision. That kind of spatial literacy isn’t just artistic—it’s mathematical, anatomical, and deeply practical. I cannot say I ever truly appreciated it, not ever having studied it, but little, logical Echo loved it and excelled at “cherchenie.” Fortunately, she never needed help from me!

And then there’s the abacus. I’d seen them before, but I hadn’t understood how they functioned as cognitive tools. They’re not just counting devices—they train the mind to hold and manipulate quantities visually. That kind of fluency doesn’t translate directly into spoken language, but it’s a kind of literacy nonetheless. They are also fantastic tools at inrgaining concepts of a decimal system. I had to teach Echo how to use the abacus because it was part of her schoolwork, and she had a small wooden abacus she carried in her backpack. Helping her helped me; the stores of the time used the abacus as the main calculating machine. It has evolved, and I have followed along: from abacus to cash register with abacus on the side for double checking to cash register to the more sophisticated cash registers now used in a point of sales system.

Cultural subtleties shaped my learning just as much as formal systems did. In Belém, Brazil, I arrived with an umbrella, only to discover it was useless against the daily 2:00 downpours. The rain came fast and hard, shredding umbrellas and flooding streets—but it passed just as quickly. Locals didn’t bother with gear; they simply stood under overhangs or stayed inside for twenty minutes. Afternoon appointments weren’t scheduled by the clock but by the rain: “an hour after the downpour,” “two hours after,” and so on. I learned to follow suit.

In Jordan, I learned not to throw a party before 9:00. The first one I hosted in Amman, I optimistically scheduled for 7:00—what I considered a reasonable U.S. time. No one arrived until after 9:20. Eventually, I adjusted and began setting my invitations like everyone else: “after 9:00,” with the understanding that guests would drift in up to 20 minutes past that. (More than that would have been impolite; less than that would be rude.)

Mealtimes were another adjustment. Many countries eat later than the U.S.—Spain, for example. That was difficult for me for physical reasons. With a hiatal hernia and GERD, I needed earlier meals. So, I ate very carefully at parties and kept to my usual 5:00–7:00 window at home or in hotels. It wasn’t always easy, but it was necessary.

And the buses—every country seemed to do it differently. In Russia, I “rode rabbit” for my first few trips, simply because I couldn’t figure out how to reach the ticket box when people were packed belly button to belly button. Then I saw it: passengers handing money to the person next to them, who passed it on and on until it reached the person by the box. That person would insert the fare, take the ticket, and pass it back through the crowd. It was elegant, communal, and completely foreign to me until I saw it in action.

In Russia, I also had to relearn how to count on my fingers. Starting with the thumb and waving digits in the air marked me instantly as American. Russians begin with the pinkie and fold inward toward the palm—a small gesture, but one that carries cultural weight. I adjusted, quietly and found that even finger-counting could be a kind of linguistic camouflage.

There were so many new ways of learning to live, each differing from others, as I went from language to language and country to country that I can only describe them in the chapters devoted to each language—and culture.


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