Really?

I just read a rather ridiculous appeal to an advice columnist for—advice.  It seems this frazzled woman married someone from a different country, and his relatives and their young, nursery-school-age children were going to visit for the holidays.  She was “angered” because she wouldn’t be able to speak with the children and thought it was only right for the visitors to teach their children English before they arrived.

Does one call that lingo-centric?  I have no idea.  English imperialism?

I’ve had experience being married to a man from another country, whose English was sometimes vastly amusing when we married.  I can still remember the first trip we took to his country to visit his family—a family where his parents and siblings—bar one—didn’t speak English.  Did I freak out?

My solution, when we first met, was to smile pleasantly the entire evening—until—all of a sudden everyone was screaming at one another; and I was in shock.

This was a cultural thing.  My family was known for deadly silences.  My husband’s was known for combustible explosions.

So I was rattled and started to cry.  Immediately, the screaming stopped and they all came over to me and said—in their language—“poor one.”

I did a lot of smiling on that first visit.  Did I regret not being part of the conversation?  Good god, no.  It seemed the father had snuck off and remarried without telling his daughters.  And, oh, so much juicy gossip, which my husband revealed every night after our visits.  I was absolutely fascinated.

That was a short visit.  Then we came to live in his country, and I studied the language. Also, the sisters began to pick up some English.  So we were able to “communicate.”  That language I speak is what I call grocery store lingo.  I can manage in the public sphere and also gossip with the sisters, but I can’t say anything deep or meaningful.  Nor can I understand most of the news and tv shows, except occasionally.

I relish my relationships with that family because what we say effusively to one another, even with many fumbles, is much more loving than the deadly silences I face in my own family.

With my husband aging and in assisted living and really only one of his siblings left, I doubt whether I shall ever return to that glorious fumble/stumble over language.  But I rejoice in the experience.

That woman who needed advice should realize that the whole world doesn’t speak English, that there’s value in learning another language, even if it’s only a few words.  The whole world will flower before you if you take off your shutters and see what’s on offer.