Precerpt from My 20th Language: In Search of Lingua Franca
After a party in Tashkent, I found myself riding home in a
car with five people. Among us, we knew eleven languages—but not one that
united us all. I spoke Russian, French, and English. Another knew Turkish and
Uzbek. A third had Finnish (not helpful) and Russian. A fourth spoke French and
Uzbek. The fifth, Uzbek and English. Any two of us could communicate, but all
five of us could not. So, we bantered in a joyful melee—five people translating
for each other as topics shifted and languages rotated.
More absurdly, non-linguists—or at least non-language
learners—often don’t understand how languages work, and absurdities arise.
Once, I traveled from Prague beside a woman who spoke only Czech. I helped her
fill out her landing paperwork but worried she’d struggle at passport control.
I asked an airport employee if I could assist. “No,” he said. “She’s a visitor,
you’re a resident—separate lines.” Then, he reassured me: “Don’t worry. All the
passport agents speak Spanish.” What?
Most absurdly, I was once seated beside the head of a
40-person delegation from Shanghai en route from LA to Cincinnati. The
stewardess quickly realized none of them spoke English comprehensibly. The
delegation hadn’t brought a translator, assuming one would be assigned at each
meeting. But the plane? The stewardess turned to me: “You’ll be the
interpreter.” I protested, “I don’t speak Chinese.” She replied, “That’s okay.
I need someone who speaks English!” Oy, vey!
We managed—with a dictionary, my experience working with
limited-English populations, and some drawings by the delegation leader. I
learned about their purpose, their LA experience, their Cincinnati plans, and
that the leader’s wife was a doctor and they had a young son. I also learned
what Shanghai and Beijing mean: “Above the Sea” and “Northern
Capital.” He learned how to ask for blankets, orange juice, and beer—and was
unpleasantly surprised to learn that unlike in China, alcohol on American
planes isn’t free.
Having found myself in so many situations of lingua
extranjera—where no shared language exists—I’ve become willing to step
forward and help. I dislike formal interpretation roles, but this kind of
interpreting is rewarding. It’s just helping. Sometimes, I’m left with a warm
fuzzy. Other times, a cold rag.
One cold rag moment came at Sheremetyevo Airport in Moscow.
I was traveling on a diplomatic passport. The passport control agent was
struggling to communicate with the Vietnamese diplomats ahead of me. I’d just
spoken with them in broken but understandable English. I stepped across the
yellow line and offered to translate. The agent was grateful. I translated. The
line moved.
Then, it was my turn. I handed over my passport. The agent
frowned. “I doubt this is your passport,” he said.
He grilled me on every detail. When he asked for the
passport number, I blinked. “I have no idea,” I said. “Who memorizes passport
numbers?”
“Exactly,” he said. “Only people who steal them. You are
free to leave.”
A much better experience came in Tashkent with Dr.
Yoldashev, Minister of Education of Uzbekistan—a man I came to admire deeply.
Sitting in his office, it was that five-person car all over again, but this
time with three: a young professional who spoke Uzbek and English, Dr.
Yoldashev who spoke Uzbek and Russian, and me, fluent in Russian and English.
No lingua franca.
Dr. Yoldashev began in Uzbek, explaining the project he
wanted my help with: restoring Uzbek to full usage after decades of suppression
under Russian as the default lingua franca. My limited Uzbek got me through the
overview but faltered when details emerged. “Really,” I asked, “do you not
speak Russian?”
He smiled. “I speak better Russian than Uzbek,” he said in
articulate Russian. “I earned my PhD in Leningrad. But I didn’t want you to
understand our problem here”—he pointed to his head—“I wanted you to feel it
here”—he pointed to his heart.
He had my attention—and my empathy.
We decided I would lead a workshop for regional ministers of
education on building effective language acquisition programs in K–12
classrooms. I’d conduct it in Russian, with an Uzbek-Russian interpreter on
hand. Then, he announced the opening session would be broadcast on national
television. Ulp!
He didn’t say I’d need to speak. But, of course, I would. It
was my workshop. I could have spoken in Russian—but what a slap in the face
that would have been. A true irony: explaining the value of Uzbek instruction
in Russian.
That would not do.
I wrote my remarks in English and gave them to a native
English-Uzbek speaker, an education director, to translate. Then, I practiced.
She coached me. “You’re ready,” she said. “Everyone will understand you.”
“I’m not ready,” I replied, “until the cleaning lady
understands me.” Educated listeners can navigate foreign accents. Translators
can anticipate meaning. But I needed the cleaning lady. The director fetched
her.
She sat before me, mop in one hand, bucket in the other. I
read my speech. Her smile widened with each sentence. “I understood it all,”
she said in Uzbek.
Now, I was ready.
The next morning, the room was beautifully appointed.
Regional ministers sat in audience formation. Excitement buzzed. Dr. Yoldashev
stood at the podium on the left. I stood at the one on the right. Between us, a
small white fence—perhaps a foot high.
The cameras rolled. Dr. Yoldashev opened with a powerful
speech on the importance of our meeting, its meaning for the Uzbek nation, and
the educational system’s role. Then, he introduced me and asked me to say a few
words.
I’m sure he expected Russian. I spoke in Uzbek.
He was shocked—pleasantly so. So moved, in fact, that he
stepped across the little white fence and gave me a big hug. On national
television.
Muslim men don’t do that. Uzbek men don’t do that.
But he did. He understood the respect I had just given him,
his ministers, and the Uzbek nation—by making it possible for Uzbek to be the
lingua franca, if only for the opening ceremony.
For more posts about language learning, click HERE.
To purchase copies of any MSI Press book at 25% discount,
use code FF25 at MSI Press webstore.
Want to read an MSI Press book and not have to buy for it?
(1) Ask your local library to purchase and shelve it.
(2) Ask us for a review copy; we love to have our books reviewed.
VISIT OUR WEBSITE TO LEARN MORE ABOUT ALL OUR AUTHORS AND TITLES.
(recent releases, sales/discounts, awards, reviews, Amazon top 100 list, author advice, and more -- stay up to date)Check out recent issues.
Interested in publishing with MSI Press LLC?
Turn your manuscript into a book!
Check out information on how to submit a proposal.
We help writers become award-winning published authors. One writer at a time. We are a family, not a factory. Do you have a future with us?
Turned away by other publishers because you are a first-time author and/or do not have a strong platform yet? If you have a strong manuscript, San Juan Books, our hybrid publishing division, may be able to help.
Planning on self-publishing and don't know where to start? Our author au pair services will mentor you through the process.
Interested in receiving a free copy of this or any MSI Press LLC book in exchange for reviewing a current or forthcoming MSI Press LLC book? Contact editor@msipress.com.
Want an author-signed copy of this book? Purchase the book at 25% discount (use coupon code FF25) and concurrently send a written request to orders@msipress.com.Julia Aziz, signing her book, Lessons of Labor, at an event at Book People in Austin, Texas.
Want to communicate with one of our authors? You can! Find their contact information on our Authors' Pages.Steven Greenebaum, author of award-winning books, An Afternoon's Discussion and One Family: Indivisible, talking to a reader at Barnes & Noble in Gilroy, California.MSI Press is ranked among the top publishers in California.
Check out our rankings -- and more -- HERE.
Comments
Post a Comment