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A FOREIGN LANGUAGE
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The ups and downs of
trying to speak like them
of TheColumnists.com
Nobody in this world
has tried harder to learn a foreign language than I. If you hand
me a book, magazine or newspaper containing strange words, what
they look like on paper hold no particular fascination for me.
But if I hear those same words spoken to me in a foreign tongue,
they no longer are alien sounds but come alive as beautiful music.
The significance of this fact took me a long time to recognize.
My earliest effort to unravel this jungle of foreign communication
and understanding began in the seventh grade. The brave teacher
who tried to guide me through the labyrinth of the Spanish language
was dark-haired, tall and soft-spoken Miss Hall. She placed me
in the first row to keep an eye on me and since I was somewhat
taken by her attractive appearance, I tried to reciprocate by
just looking at her and thinking how beautiful she was. Because
someone told me that this lovely senorita was related
to the famous co-author of “Mutiny on the Bounty,”
James Norman Hall, I made a valiant effort to please her. But
it was of no use. While Miss Hall tried patiently to jam bits
and pieces of Espanol into my thick head, very little
of it stuck.
Questioning me one day as to why I wasn’t studying, I was
surprised to hear a schoolmate speak up in class and volunteer
my defense, saying, “Oh, I’ve seen Gordy walking home
with his Spanish book every afternoon.”
That was true. But what good did it do?
The result was practically nada. Despite my incompetence
as her pupil, I continue to appreciate what Miss Hall tried to
do for me (muchas gracias) and now realize she secretly
was a true friend of every struggling student, particularly because
she gave me a passing grade.
Sorry to say, English bothered me from the start, too. Some kind
of dyslexia plagued me from childhood. Learning simple ABCs troubled
me from the moment I graduated from kindergarten. While I loved
reading at an early age, I had trouble distinguishing between
the letters “M” and “N.”
What proves this was a problem can be seen in an old photograph
taken of me standing bare-chested and arms folded alongside my
twelve-year old chum Jack Corbett atop a mound of earth in his
backyard. Becoming bored by the peewee golf course we’d
made there, we decided to do something really adventuresome.
We decided to turn ourselves into Neanderthal men and live in
a cave. So one summer with picks and shovels we spent our afternoons
digging a deep pit in his backyard, which we made into a cave
by laying wooden boards over the gaping hole, covering the planks
with earth and fashioning a long trench using the same engineering
devices to create our secret entrance. To get into the main chamber
you had to crawl on hands and knees through a long, dark underground
tunnel and then close the swinging door behind you by pulling
on a rope.
Inside we’d light candles and sit in the semidarkness giggling
over the fact nobody knew where we were. When we came out we
were so proud of this accomplishment we got Jack’s mother
to snap a photo of us with her Kodak camera which now shows two
boys, arm in arm, holding a sign that reads, “Cave Mem of l934.”
Guess who printed the sign?
My supreme test–the Super Bowl of Foreign Language Learning–finally
came in college. From the moment I walked through Sather Gate
wearing a Blue and Gold freshman beanie at UC Berkeley, I began
wrestling with two foreign languages, Spanish and French. They
were needed to satisfy the university’s undergraduate requirements.
Thus began my long struggle with new languages that challenged
me all the way through graduate school.
As a Ph.D. candidate I remained confounded by the need to acquire
a reading knowledge of German and French. Seated at my desk one
day, pouring over “Shorter German Reading Grammar,”
the language book my German instructor F. W. Strothmann had assigned
me, I studied every word as carefully as a prisoner locked up
in Alcatraz hoping to find a way to escape.
Recognizing that in Old German each word beginning with an “f”
should be treated as the equivalent of a modern “s”
was the first obstacle to be faced. Then figuring out what should
be the proper placement of the verb in each German sentence became
the challenge.
Too often my translation turned out to
read, “Throw the cow over the fence some hay.” But
I plugged along in what seemed a hopeless and vain effort to
crack the code and decipher each word, sentence and paragraph
correctly.
Then, at the start of one of the chapters, words of advice in
English suddenly
grabbed my full attention when the sentence said, “Learn
the following verb forms by heart.” Instantly my brain did
a complete somersault and began translating the idiom from Old
English into American English. What those words said to me now
was, “You’ll never learn by hating your work but only
by loving what you’re doing.”
No wonder Italian, French and Spanish could be called the Romance
Languages. Linguists trace the term to its Latin origins but
I know now that isn’t the real reason. It’s that love
that makes the world go round. So I began courting French by
taking an imaginary trip to Paris. By picking up posters, newspapers
and magazines from a travel agency, I turned my study into a
miniature Parisian cafe.
To give it as much authenticity as possible, I began searching
for a way to bring the sights and sounds of France into my life
through radio. With the help of a cheap, second-hand Japanese
short-wave receiver I began searching the wireless spectrum for
foreign programs. While Spanish language was picked up easily
by roof antenna from Central and South America, my little radio
couldn’t quite reach Paris.
However, I did find French programs from the Voice of America,
Radio Canada, and Radio Cuba (which aimed its propaganda at French
Canadians). To supplement what radio provided, I went bargain
hunting for Moulin Rouge albums, building a library of chansons
by such songsters as Jacqueline Francois, Edith Piaf, Henri Decker,
and Juliette Greco. When they became available, I bought complete
sets of songs done in Spanish, German, Italian, Japanese and
French.
What a pleasure it was to dream of sitting at a sidewalk table
alongside the Champs-Elysees, sipping a bit of wine while
doing my homework as the phonograph played Edith Piaf. Was it
the voice of this lovely chanteuse singing mournful songs
that did it? Or was it my atmospheric Left Bank room whose walls
were covered with gorgeous posters of the Eiffel Tower, Montmartre,
and Arc de Triomphe?
Voila! When this environmental setting enabled me to conquer
French, I used the same ideas to tackle German, turning my study
into a Munich beer hall at Oktoberfest.
I’m amazed at how easily people from foreign lands learn
our language. Yet the trick must be the same for all. It’s
what the French say about women, “Vive la difference!”
When you immerse deeply into something and welcome different
sounds and sights into your life you’ll soon start to “get
it.” It’s what strangers do when they come to our country.
Shopping one time in a San Jose department store and noticing that the young sales woman spoke to me with a German accent, I politely asked her to tell me how she learned English.
“Oh, I knew a little English when
I first came to America,” she said. “But then I began
watching television every day and by paying attention to what
people were saying in the commercials I began learning. Simple
idea, don’t you think? Nicht whar?”
My success embolded me to begin thinking big. By learning to
love foreign languages, I not only had breezed through my exams
in German and French but also realized this accomplishment came
from taking an imaginary “trip to Europe.” It’s
no wonder my wife, Darlene. and I came up with the idea to go
to where the languages actually were spoken.
As a teen-ager my interest had been whetted
by the Golden Gate International Exhibition, where various foreign
nations welcomed you to small versions of themselves. Exhibit
books advertised: “Be our guests at Cafe Brazil, where you
may sip Brazilian coffee amid restful tropical surroundings.”
Nations from around the world opened the eyes of Americans to
the delights of Australia, China, Dutch East Indies, El Salvador,
France, Guatemala, Indochina, Italy, Japan, New Zealand, and
Norway. That was in l939. Twenty years later we elected to fly
to Europe on a propeller driven DC7B which began an odyssey that’s
never stopped.
Our first challenge was to understand the French–the people,
not necessarily the language. It’s a story that demands
to be told before any other adventure, such as being lost in
China, because in France we were given the raspberry from the
moment we landed at Orly airfield and got into a taxi bound for
the Opera Quarter of Paris.
From the moment we stepped into a cab and told the driver where
to take us--“The Hotel of the United States (l’hotel
Les Etat Unis, s’il vous plais)” --his response
was a grunt. Then he made a sour face, pursed his lips and gave
out a loud raspberry
Thinking he misunderstood my words, I repeated them slowly and
got the same unflattering insult. He took off, gave us a wild
and bumpy ride, and finally stopped at the hotel. He turned around
and held out his hand for payment. The meter said one thing and
the cabbie another. When I counted out the correct number of
French francs, he shook his head and held up his fingers demanding
more. Darlene whispered “Don’t argue” So I paid
what he asked, feeling glad he hadn’t driven off with our
luggage.
At the desk, we got another disappointment. The clerk ignored
the fact our travel agent had made reservations and directed
us to a much smaller abode a few blocks down the street. Thus
it went. Rude service, unfriendly receptions, and signs on walls:
“Yankees, Go Home.” No wonder a few days later we gladly
said farewell and took our next plane to Zurich, Switzerland.
Nowhere in Paris on this five-day visit did we find a “welcome
mat” out for visiting Americans. Because we experienced
much of the same on repeated visits to Paris, we vowed never
to go to that unfriendly city ever again.
What broke our resolve and changed our minds was that some friends
wanted us to visit them in Spain. Since the cheapest way to get
there would be to take a coach tour out of London, we chose an
itinerary taking us by ferry across the English channel, through
several old cities in France we hadn’t seen before, and
delivering us for a week at a Mediterranean holiday hotel near
where they lived. The only glitch was we had to return by way
of Paris. The price being right, we decided to grin and bear
it.
Our Thompson tour guide, who met us inside Victoria station early
in the morning, directed us to the train. As we settled into
the British Rail car for our journey to Dover, we noticed we
were the only Americans. Everyone seemed British and knowledgeable
about what to do next. Friendly old ladies were opening little
containers for sandwiches and drink, while their husbands sank
comfortably in their seats to enjoy a newspaper, The Times,
Guardian, or Sun. We had to be content to look out
the window at cows in the meadow, distant trees on a hill, and
lofty clouds in the sky.
When our train arrived there was more hurly burly. The British
already were out the door with their suitcases, bags and goods
in hand and running pall mall toward the passenger ferry sitting
at the dock. By the time we found the proper deck, all the good
seats had been taken by quick-witted Brits who knew the routine.
Those not seated were lined up at the canteen to buy more food
and drink. And with everyone rushing around and the loudspeaker
barking away, the ship lifted anchor and loud motors told we
were under way.
Approaching Calais and wanting to be among the first to disembark,
my wife and I made an early move and were happily among those
going ashore first. Hurrying down the ramp to the long corridor
leading to the Customs Office, I looked up and caught sight in
the distance of two overhead signs which read: “Those with
Landing Cards Go to the Right” and “All Others Go Left.”
“Hey! What’s this?" I asked one of the English
matrons briskly walking along with me. “I don’t have
a Landing Card. Where do you get it?”
“Oh, too bad for you and too late now,” she sniffed
knowingly. “You were supposed to get that card aboard ship.
Didn’t you hear the announcement on the public address system?”
Now coming to the division point, Darlene and I dreaded turning
left and facing our doom. We felt stupid, helpless and utterly
embarrassed. There were the English with their proper credentials
moving swiftly along and here were we two ignorant Yanks walking
the dead man’s plank straight into the arms of French authorities
with only our U. S. Passport to float on.
Ahead we saw in the window one poor man
being interrogated by a tall uniformed customs officer and hanging
his head in shame. Mon Dieu! Now the French were going
to give me the raspberry one more time!
Humiliated beyond belief, I walked sheepishly up to the surly
looking, dark-suited gendarme, knowing in my imagination what
he was going to say: “No one is admitted to La Belle
France without proper authorization. Where is your official
Landing Card, Mr. Yankee Doodle? Why don’t you have one?”
Pulling myself together and collecting all the dignity a condemned
man can possess, I looked this stern man in the eye and confessed
that neither I nor my dear wife had in our possession the required
Landing Card, saying, “Je suis American imbecile
(I am a completely stupid American).”
This French guard looked stunned. His expression slowly changed,
took on a face of someone surprised, and then broke into a wide
grin. Addressing me in perfect English, he said, “Don’t
worry, madam and monsieur. Your passport and your honesty are
enough. Welcome to France. Come on in.”
With thanks Darlene and I picked up our luggage and glanced back
to see British tourists jammed up before the right hand entrance,
stretched out in a long line. By speaking to the customs officer
in his own language–even though it was my “fractured
French”– I, the dumb Yankee, got into France first.
From that time forward–no matter how little we knew--my
wife and I have decided to speak the language of every country
we visit. We tried it again on that trip to Paris; people laughed,
became friendly and made an effort to help us learn more. The
dumb thing is not to try.
©2008 by Gordon Greb. The caricature
of the author is by the author. The cartoon is from IMSI's Master
Clips Collection, 1895 Francisco Blvd. E., San Rafael, CA, 94901-5506,
USA. This
column first posted Feb. 4, 2008.
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