Seeing Things from the Other Side, Part II: On Being a Linguistic Minority

Waterfall at El Parque Nacionál in Uruapan

I have loved the Spanish language, and the culture and people of Latin America, almost since the very first day I walked into Ms. Britton's Spanish classroom on the first day of ninth grade. As little by little I grew in my ability to communicate in Spanish, I marveled at the idea that an entire world--hundreds of millions of paths of communication--were being opened to me. Until that time, there had existed an invisible and seemingly impermeable barrier between myself and the majority of the human race: now, it seemed I had the opportunity to chip away at a slight sliver in that barrier.

I listened carefully; I spoke with native speakers whenever possible; I practiced the language to the point that I'm sure I drove friends and family to the point of exasperation. I learned to place the tip of my tongue ever so slightly between my teeth when pronouncing "t" and "d"; I learned to ever-so-gently bounce the tip of my tongue off the roof of my mouth in pronouncing the single "r", and struggled (as I still do, sometimes,) to properly pronounce the double "r". I studied the grammar, I looked up vocabulary words, I began reading books in Spanish, and listening to Spanish-language radio stations. But I went even further: I learned to love the food of Mexico that was so readily available in my Southern California hometown, built friendships with and learned to love the culture of classmates and fellow Church-members of Latino and Chicano heritage, and I took great joy in the multitude of human connections I saw opening before me.

So it was that when, several years later, I began teaching, I had a special place in my heart for "English language learners," those students for whom English is not their first language--and especially for those students whose native language was Spanish. I did what I felt I could to connect with them, to support them, to help ease the cultural and linguistic transition. I thought that my knowledge of Spanish, and my experience in learning a second language, would help me to relate to them in some small way.

Now, after spending nearly a month in Uruapan, Mexico, I am starting to realize how little I understood (and how little I still understand) the emotional, psychological, and social experience of being a linguistic minority, especially in an academic setting.

The realization first hit me as I was attending a professional development workshop taught by my host on using collaborative games in the classroom. Even though my Spanish comprehension is decent, and I understood most of the main ideas of the workshop, there were still lapses in communication and moments in which I felt isolated because of my language. And, I had a new sympathy for those students who consistently shy away from participating in class when the instructor called on me (without warning) to comment on the activity we had just participated in. I understood what he was saying, I knew what I wanted to say, and I was even relatively sure I could find most of the words I needed to say it in Spanish. Somehow, though, in this room full of people for whom Spanish is not just a means of communication, but an integral part of their cultural and interpersonal identity, I felt like an interloper--somehow unqualified to try to express my thoughts in their language. This was different from speaking to a group of native Spanish speakers in California, or even casual one-on-one conversation with my host or my students; it was a formal, institutional setting in which Spanish was the accepted, expected form of communication. I did the best I could to express myself anyway, and I think I was successful, but I came away with a new understanding of the anxiety that comes with using a language other than one's own in such a setting.

I have also learned how easy it is to make unfounded assumptions about the intelligence of those who speak another language. I've always tried to remember, when working with students who are just learning English, that it isn't necessarily understanding they lack, but the vocabulary to express that understanding in a way I am able to understand. I think of myself as an intelligent, well-educated person, and I am working with some very intelligent, well-educated people here in Mexico--my host, for example, has two Master's Degrees, as well as a Medical Doctorate. While all of the people I have met have been incredibly kind, and have welcomed me with open arms, it is interesting how sometimes certain people seem to assume I lack much understanding of anything other than English--the subject I am teaching while I'm here. Of course it's not surprising--when I ask what must seem to them like an obvious question, I'm sure it is difficult to remember that I understand the underlying concept, it's the linguistic or cultural clothing the concept wears that needs explaining.

For example--recently, I took note, with some puzzlement, that many people here in Uruapan refer to this region as being a part of Central America. Now, while it's true that schools in the United States could probably do better in teaching geography, I definitely remember learning my continents. As I was taught, Canada, The United States, and Mexico comprised the North American Continental Plate, the nations of Central America (from Guatemala to Panama) sit on the Caribbean Plate, and the nations of South America (from Colombia and Venezuela Southward) sit on the South American Continental Plate. Thus, Mexico is the southern-most part of North America, as shown here. When I asked someone why they called this Central America, and what they defined as Central America, I had explained to me the existence of the equator, of latitude and longitude lines, and of the particular latitude lines that constitute the boundaries of the tropics. When I mentioned that we define the boundaries of North, Central, and South America a bit differently, I was told that "you North Americans are wrong, because you don't study geography." Rather than recognizing a linguistic and cultural difference, he assumed that my problem was simply a lack of knowledge or understanding--even attributing that lack of knowledge to an entire nation.

It may sound like a small issue, and it was, but I think it illustrates the larger barrier that still seems to exist as I try to understand and too be understood. The experience gave me pause--made me wonder how often I have unwittingly done the same thing to educated, intelligent individuals who happen to clothe their thoughts and understandings in a language other than my own.

It is frustrating, sometimes, as we struggle to understand each other, and as we wonder if we are really being understood--if the words into which we translate our thoughts really convey the sentiments we want to express. Even between to people who ostensibly speak the same language, such difficulties exist--how much more between those whose native languages separate them from one another. Language is indeed a fascinating phenomenon--so integral to our identities, yet so elusive to our understanding; both a bridge and a barrier; the journey I started in ninth grade continues, as I seek a more authentic connection with a wider portion of humanity.

Also, to be fair, only a few of my interactions here have been of the nature of the above described interchange; rather, for the most part I have been amazed and enthralled at the opportunities I have had, through the medium of the Spanish language, to connect with and understand facets of the human experience otherwise unavailable to me--hearing from a local perspective the struggles of the P'urhépecha--the people indigenous to Michoacán, or the first-hand account of an older gentleman who remembers the eruption of the Volcano of Paricutín in 1943 that destroyed two villages but somehow avoided the crucifix in the local church, not to mention the rich friendships I have already begun to build across linguistic and cultural boundaries. I am continually amazed at the doors language opens, and yet still I long for the time when I will see as I am seen, and know as I am known.

The Forgotten Dialect Of The Heart 

by Jack Gilbert

How astonishing it is that language can almost mean,
and frightening that it does not quite. Love, we say,
God, we say, Rome and Michiko, we write, and the words
get it all wrong. We say bread and it means according
to which nation. French has no word for home,
and we have no word for strict pleasure. A people
in northern India is dying out because their ancient
tongue has no words for endearment. I dream of lost
vocabularies that might express some of what
we no longer can. Maybe the Etruscan texts would
finally explain why the couples on their tombs
are smiling. And maybe not. When the thousands
of mysterious Sumerian tablets were translated,
they seemed to be business records. But what if they
are poems or psalms? My joy is the same as twelve
Ethiopian goats standing silent in the morning light.
O Lord, thou art slabs of salt and ingots of copper,
as grand as ripe barley lithe under the wind's labor.
Her breasts are six white oxen loaded with bolts
of long-fibered Egyptian cotton. My love is a hundred
pitchers of honey. Shiploads of thuya are what
my body wants to say to your body. Giraffes are this
desire in the dark. Perhaps the spiral Minoan script
is not a language but a map. What we feel most has
no name but amber, archers, cinnamon, horses, and birds.

Banana Trees in Patuán, 

My Teaching Space for the Summer