Living in a Multilingual World (The One About Taking the Plunge)

It is that time of the year when I think of the books, music and movies that made a deep impact on me in the previous twelve months. I usually share this information with you, my dear fellow bloggers and readers, in my last post of December but tonight I would rather use the space where I regularly muse on our multilingual world to promote two books I know some of you might enjoy. One of them I read over the summer just before I got on the plane to France. The other one I have just started and I can’t put down. Both volumes are my must-reads of 2014.

The first book is a novel called Heureux les Heureux. The title is taken after a line in a poem by the late, renowned Argentinian poet, essayist and short-story writer Jorge Luis Borges. What catches the eyes immediately is the way this roman is structured: each chapter is a monologue through which the reader gets acquainted with the characters whilst the plot unravels. Bearing in mind that the author, Yasmina Reza is also a playwright, I found myself at times wondering where the bracketed and italicised stage directions had gone. The second book is called D’Autres Vies que la Mienne and deals with the aftermath of the terrible tsunami that devastated South East Asia ten years ago in 2004. It was an interesting and intriguing interview with the author, Emmanuel Carrère, in The Observer that made me want to investigate his writing further.

It was also the fact that both books were available in French.

I don’t read in French as much as I used to years ago and this has always been a cause for regret in my case. After spending three years learning the language and becoming fluent in it, I lost many of my oral and listening skills when I relocated to the UK. That is the reason why going back to the Gallic lexicon feels usually like travelling to another country, a familiar and friendly land, if only in my mind.

One of my two books of the year

Those of you who speak more than language and are fluent in it/them will probably recognise this phenomenon. It has probably been a while since you dabbled in unusual grammar and syntax constructions, so you get a book in the language in which you want to regain your fluency and you dip your big toe in the water first. No headfirst plunge, mind you, just a shy re-acquaintance. If the water is too cold, you close that first page and go back to your warm comfort zone. I did it a few years ago with a novel in German and I regret it now. My advice is, plough on, and make sure that you understand the reason why the water feels cold. You see, you have not swum in this beach for a long time. So, you must wade in the water first, and then little by little, ensuring you have got a firm footing (i.e., a good dictionary) you carry on, until the water level reaches your waist. It is only then, that you dive headfirst.

That is how reading in a foreign language, especially French and German (and more the former than the latter) feels to me. Like immersing myself in the vastness of a great big ocean. Along the way I am helped by friendly winks and nudges that reassure me I’ll be supported on my journey. In the case of books written in French I feel as if there is always an ellipsis hanging over the pages. Not a clear-cut omission of items in order to avoid repetition, but rather a mark or marks along the lines of  “...” that signify the sentiments and emotions left unexplained. Both Heureux les Heureux and D’Autres Vies que la Mienne are full of examples. In the former there is a character called Paola Suares, who is sleeping with a married man, Luc Condamine. Since his wife is not home, he decides to take Paola to his house. The scene that follows is full of small, descriptive details that render the situation absurd. Whilst he is taking his clothes off, ready to have sex with her, Paola is showing more interest in the house décor: “Luc a défait sa braguette. J’ai attend un peu. Il a libéré son sexe et tout à coup j’ai réalisé que le canapé était turquoise. Un turquoise chatoyant sous la lumière artificielle d’alcôve, et j’ai pensé qu’au milieu de reste était assez surprenant d’avoir choisi cette couleur de canapé. Je me suis demande qui était responsable de la décoration dans ce couple.” There is humour in the scene as well. The man unfastens his trousers but his female companion is more interested in the couch and its colour. The chapter ends on a more serious note, though, with Paola stating the obvious: you will never leave all this, will you? Luc’s elliptical response indicates that there is a suppression of thoughts. Thoughts that will come out in his monologue, pages later, but which, for the time being, will remain under wraps.

Those of us who live in a multilingual world, even if we forsake one of the languages in which we are fluent for a while, always have the opportunity to come back and take the plunge. But do not be afraid to dip your big toe in first. Should the water be cold, plough on, please, do plough on.

© 2014

Next Post: “Sunday Mornings: Coffee, Reflections and Music”, to be published on Sunday 14^th December at 10am (GMT)

Living in a Multilingual World (The One About Formality and Informality)

One of my favourite poems by the late Uruguayan writer Mario Benedetti is Sery Estar. Although heavily political the piece also has a nice combination of humour and didacticism. The latter is illustrated by the author’s poetic explanation of the difference between the verbs ser and estar (hence the title) in Spanish to an imaginary US marine. This is always confusing for people learning Spanish. In English, there’s only to be. Or not, as Shakespeare put it. In French, there’s être and in German there’s sein. But in Spanish we have two verbs, one of which denotes identity (ser) and another one that infers condition (estar). Confusing, uh? You bet.

Yet, Anglo speakers can occasionally indulge in the pleasure of hanging a sign outside their houses that reads “Schadenfreude” (or epicaricacy, in English) and watch us, speakers of other languages, struggling to come to terms with modern linguistic currents. For instance, when to be formal and when to be informal.

Spanish has a common trait with French and German, the other two languages I speak (although not as fluently as I used to). They all have formal ways of addressing someone according to age or social status. For instance, if I were in Spain or any other country from the Diaspora, it would never occur to me to use the “tú” with a new acquaintance unless he or she was my age or younger. Anyone over fifty would be given the “usted” treatment straight away. Same with French and “vous” and the German “Sie”. Besides, in the case of German, one of the reasons why I usually stay with the formal is that it makes it easier for me to conjugate verbs. They usually keep the infinitive form – with the exception of “sein”, methinks. Even when my interlocutor assures me that "Wir sagen doch du, ja?", I still sometimes use the "Sie". Which is just as rude as "Du-ing" someone without his or her consent.

I can hear Anglophones laughing their heads off now. But we only have “you” for both singular and plural, they’re probably shouting out. And they’re right. What makes matters more confusing is that nowadays the distinction between “tú/usted”, “tu/vous” and “du/Sie” is fading away rapidly. Part of it is technology. There are five letters in “usted” and 140 characters to contend with in Twitter. Guess which of the two addresses is handier? Well done for figuring that one out. Another reason for this linguistic shift might be the drive to turn less dynamic languages (Spanish and French come to mind) into lexica more attuned to the times we’re living, like English has done for the past few decades. Readers of this blog know that I’ve neither time nor patience, for the Real Academia Española, the body tasked with looking after the correct use of our grammar and syntax. The overhaul of the “tú/usted” division might be a way of reacting against centuries-old, traditional dogma which made even relatives observe formality when addressing each other. In fact, I know that in some countries in South America (Ecuador and Peru, for instance) children still address their parents as “usted”.

There is a third reason why the confusion about when “se tutoyer” and when “se vouvoyer”, or when to “du” or “Sie” someone, has come to the surface in recent years. There are countries, mainly in Europe, that are still resistant to the Americanisation of their culture. They see US influence as detrimental to their heritage. I’ve no truck with this attitude, but it was interesting to see a few years ago the short shrift the British ex-Prime Minister Tony Blair was given when he was presumably addressed as “Yo, Blair!” by ex-White House dweller, George W. Bush. Never mind the lack of a formal second person singular in English, this chumminess was a step too far. Especially on the back of the ill-fated invasion of Iraq a few years before and the too-close-for-comfort relationship between Downing Street and Washington during that period. In these circumstances, maybe keeping our “tú/usted”, “tu/vous” and “du/Sie” dichotomy is a sign of showing respect to people we meet for the first time. It also creates a space between individuals to get to know each other progressively. In the same way I wouldn’t dream of calling my former line-manager (a headteacher) “mate” in public, I wouldn’t “du” anyone just because it’s cool to do so. Surely a question for the marine boy of Benedetti’s poem to ask the Uruguayan master. After all, the poet uses “tú” al the way through.

© 2013

Next Post: “Sunday Mornings: “Coffee, Music and Reflections”, to be published on Sunday 24^th February at 10am (GMT)

Sunday Mornings: Coffee, Linguistic Reflections and Music

I once met a woman who was trilingual: she was born in Switzerland, in the French part, and lived there the first few years of her life, thus, she spoke the Gallic language fluently. Her family then moved to Spain, where she was raised, therefore she had an excellent command of the Iberian lexicon. As an adult she settled in the UK with her Canadian partner - later husband -, picking up English in the process. What was curious about this person was how she deployed her linguistic arsenal. She used French for basic conversations, the what, who, where, when, how, so to speak; Spanish for deep talks, from the state of the economy to politics. English, then, was left for chats about children and education (especially home education, as none of her three children went to school). You could say then that this woman was a 'natural' for languages; she was 'hardwired' to become fluent in any lingo.

Nonsense.

This is a different post today, in that issues to do with language are usually addressed in my 'Living in a Bilingual World' columns. But today I will use linguistics as an excuse to discuss with you, fellow bloggers and readers, a hot topic, one that has caused many a controversy for a long time and which will continue to polarise people all over the world. Are men really from Mars and women from Venus?


The reason why I'm using this woman as an example for my post today is that the response she often got to her excellent linguistic skills was similar to the feedback women (and men) get when they are involved in activities that are outside their alleged gender remit. Many people oohed and aahed at how this woman was able to switch from French to Spanish to English. But why did she elicit such a strong response? Because her audience was seldom multilingual themselves. Same with the people who claim that females are better at communicating and males better at playing the Action Man role. What a lot of horlicks (as former home secretary Jack Straw would put it. There, another example of male articulacy). Look at a group photo of the latest G20 meeting and tell me how many men and women there are in the line-up. And what do you think they do all day in this once-a-year meetings? Play cops and robbers? Hmmm... I just realised that I might have inserted an (unintentional) pun in that question. To clarify, any similarity to real actions or events is pure coincidence

But you know what I mean. When the G20 meet, they normally talk. A lot. For a long time. Usually behind closed doors. And as this group is male-dominated, we can safely assume that not a lot of 'it' or 'tag' games are being executed (the image of Berlusconi chasing after Merkel is enough to put me off my breakfast, although apparently he hasn't got any problems giving chase to seventeen-year-old girls).

Then, how is it that we still allow our - obvious - biological differences to rule our social interaction and our contribution to modern society? Why is it still OK to ascribe certain rigid mores to each gender without double checking first that, hey! they are interchangeable and don't you know that women can drive buses and men change nappies?

The 'Martian Man vs Venusian Woman' is a far too rich industry to execute a U-turn like Pope Benedict has done in relation to the use of condoms. And even the Pontiff's statement was not very radical. Anyone expecting to see a headline reading: "Pope Benedict: Jesus did not die on the cross, he died of a severe case of micturition, hence his crossed legs", will have to wait. The Pontifex Maximus has merely accepted what everyone else has been saying all these years: that the use of condoms reduces the risk of infection from Aids. Still, can you hear the gritting of teeth? Likewise, anyone expecting the advocates of biological determinism to come out and say that, actually, the differences between men and women are more often than not caused by social conditioning than innate distinctions, should sit down and wait patiently... and wait patiently... and wait patiently...

That's why I am opening up my blog for another debate (I've already done it once. Remember the discussion about feminism? Click here, here and here so that you have an idea about how it works). On this occasion we will be talking about the issue of nature vs nurture from a gender point of view. If you want to be part of this debate, e-mail me at my address (it's in my profile). I have drafted up three questions for the first three bloggers who contact me. Once I have received the confirmation from the three contributors that they want to take part in this discussion, I will then respond to all of you at the same time. I will be using the Bcc field to avoid disclosing your e-mail addresses. All replies will be unabridged. What you write is what I will post. I would really appreciate it if you could forward a very short bio, maybe just a couple of lines. Pics are optional, as I know some bloggers prefer to remain anonymous. If you do send a photo, please, do it in jpeg, tiff, giff or bitmap format, blogger doesn't accept pdfs. Your blogs will be linked at the beginning of each biography. If you want to reproduce the content of my piece in your own blogs, please, feel free to do so.

The follow-up to this column should come out next week, as long as I get the replies in time. I do have an alternative post to publish, just in case (always have a plan B), but I would really love it if we could segue from today's column to next week's instalment smoothly.

So, get writing! I'm already looking forward to your contributions.

In other news, the Theatre Royal Stratford East was the perfect setting for an amazing concert by the Creole Choir of Cuba last Thursday 18th November. Desandann (meaning 'descendents'), as the vocal troupe is more widely known, blew the audience away with their passionate songs, passed down by their parents and grandparents. The melodies, sung in Creole and supported occasionally by drums, highlighted the influence that Haitians have had on Cuban culture for centuries. I would like to thank Joe, Rebecca and Lucinda from Serious for giving me the opportunity to attend and review this concert. The choir will be on tour next year. For full details of their upcoming performances, click here. And for you readers/fellow bloggers, here's a taste of what my beautiful Cuba has to offer.

© 2010

Next Post: 'Sunday Mornings: Coffee, Reflections and Music', to be published on Sunday 5th December at 10am (GMT)

Living in a Bilingual World (The One About Daughter and Prepositions)

- ¿Qué es esto para?

That was Daughter.

- ¿Qué es esto para?

- Pardon?
- ¿Qué es esto para?
- Hmmm... I don't understand, nena.

- ¿Qué. Es. Esto. Para?

- I. Do. Not. Understand.

I did understand, mind, but I was playing dumb. Because the mistake Daughter was making was the same slip-up I had often borne witness to whenever I was in the presence of British children speaking either Spanish or French.

To be honest with you, my dear fellow bloggers and readers, Daughter's error was a baby blunder. Daughter was placing the preposition 'para' at the end of the sentence rather than at the beginning. Whereas that would be common practice for an Anglo-Saxon speaker, in romance languages we keep to a strict structure whereby prepositions are usually placed before nouns, pronouns and other substantives to form phrases functioning as modifiers of verbs, nouns, or adjectives.

In English, as well as German, prepositions can be used at the beginning of a sentence (For whom are we waiting?) or at the end (Who are we waiting for?). Note the difference of 'whom' and 'who'. That's another post. In Spanish the question Daughter was asking me made no sense whatsoever because that 'para' must be placed at the beginning of the sentence. That's why I did not translate the phrase; it would have made sense to an English-speaker. I know for a fact that there are some exceptions in French (any Francophone reading this post, please do get in touch) but I cannot vouch for either Italian or Portuguese; I think it's the same structure as in Spanish.

However Daughter was not totally wrong.

Apparently this habit of ending sentences with a preposition in English is not very old. Schoolchildren used to be told by their teachers (probably influenced by Latin) that finishing their phrases with a preposition was a no-no. This was famoulsy satirised by Winston Churchill who said: 'this is the sort of English up with which I will not put'.

And if we analyse the etymology of this word, preposition, we see that in Latin (praepositiōn) the term meant 'a putting before'. What happened, in my humble opinion, was that English syntax, lax as it's always been, allowed for final placement of the preposition, as in 'We have much to be thankful for' or 'I asked her which course she had signed up for'. A little Teutonic influence should not be ignored as in German 'split verbs' are very common and they tend to place the preposition at the end: 'Wen wartest du auf?' (Who are you waiting for?)

So, yes, Daughter was not totally incorrect. She just chose the wrong language.

Image taken from Bogglesworld.

Copyright 2009

Living in a Bilingual World (Serenade)

I am still trudging through Simone de Beauvoir's feminist masterpiece 'The Second Sex' (see navigation bar on the right handside of the blog) and it's funny how I have fallen hook, line and sinker in the linguistic traps that the French writer has unintentionally placed on my path.

In Part 3, 'Myths', Chapter 1, 'Dreams, Fears and Idols', de Beauvoir addresses the feminine attributes that one usually sees cities, nations and abstract entities attired with. Obviously this bold approach set my linguistic pulse racing and with two dictionaries in hand (French and German) I ventured forth, attempting to understand the examples she numbers in her book.

Simone's exegesis includes the words: Church, Synagogue, Republic, Humanity, Peace, War, Liberty, Revolution and Victory. In her own words, 'Man feminizes the ideal he sets up before him as the essential Other, because woman is the material representation of alterity; that is why almost all allegories, in language as in pictorial representation, are women'. In short, the fact that man places these lofty ideals on a pedestal makes woman unreachable and unattainable, a perfect excuse to deny her her right to be a human being. What cannot be touched, cannot be experienced, other than through quasi-religious contact.

And is it any wonder that, in de Beauvoir's own words, this is a phenomenon encouraged mainly by the Christian world? No, it shouldn't be surprising because in Christian imagery 'Woman is the Soul and Idea, but she also is a mediatrix between them: she is the divine Grace, leading the Christian towards God, she is Beatrice guiding Dante in the beyond, Laura summoning Petrarch to the lofty summits of poetry' (op. cit.).

The curious element here, though, is that out of the four languages I analysed, three proved de Beauvoir's theory with a couple of exceptions.

The Church - La Iglesia (Spa) - L'Église (Fr) - Die Kirche (Ger)

The Synagogue - La Sinagoga - La Synagogue - Die Synanoge

The Republic - La República - La République - Die Republik

The Humanity - La Humanidad - L’Humanité - Die Menschlichkeit
The Peace - La Paz - La Paix - Die Friede

The War - La Guerra - La Guerre - Der Krieg (masculine, one of two exceptions to the rule)

The Liberty - La Libertad - La Liberté - Die Freiheit

The Revolution - La Revolución - La Révolution - Die Revolution

The Victory - La Victoria - La Victoire - Der Sieg (the other exception)

As you can see there's only one language that escapes this categorisation. And yes, my dear readers, you guessed it right. English.

This linguistic hybrid, the result of Anglo-Saxon-Jute migration from Denmark and northern Germany plus some French and Latin thrown in for good measure, is the only lexicon of the six more popular modern languages (Spanish, French, Portuguese, German, Italian and English) to have a neutral definite pronoun regardless of gender and number. A cause for celebration? Or a reason to despair? As a non-native speaker I find this fact comforting. It is a soft cushion aimed at protecting me against the grammatical rigour imposed by the other five.

And yet... yet... yet, as I continued to read 'The Second Sex' I could not help wondering whether despite this linguistic peculiarity English speakers still saw the nouns listed above in a feminine way rather than in their neutral natural form.

So, this is your homework for this week, my dear English speakers (and the rest, too, of course). When you think of 'Peace' and 'Liberty', just to use two of the examples above, do you see the female of the species or do you see neutrality?

Copyright 2008

Living in a Bilingual World (Moderato)

Well, well, well, now it's the French's turn to drape themselves in linguistic smugness. I have already discussed here how Spain is in turmoil over the decision by some of its regions to attempt to eliminate the teaching of Spanish in schools and for it to be replaced by the learning of the autonomous tongue. It seems that their Gallic cousins have similar problems of their own.

For years France's regional languages have been seen by Paris as a threat against national unity. The fact that children were punished for speaking Breton, or Occitan or the Alsatian dialect in the playground or inside school should not be overlooked or addressed glibly. But now, just as the French parliament has decided to recognise minority languages in the constitution, a new war of words has broken out.

L'Académie Française, the institution that defends the purity of French, recently issued a furious warning that recognising regional languages in the constitution would be "an attack on French national identity". It goes without saying that the reaction from the regional quarters was swift and to the point. They criticised the academy for being such a ridiculous relic of outdated nationalism.

Which poses the following question: Just what is it with regional languages and dialects that gets up people's noses so much?

The French example is very different from the Spanish one. In the former, people want their local lexicons to be recognised as an essential part of the French language, and culture I suppose. In the latter, local authorities want to do away with Spanish altogether.

To me the French experience is the one that would reap the better results. The Breton, Occitan and Alsatian languages and dialects feed into the French language, thus making it richer. The fact that they could be recognised in the constitution would render them more valid, an aspect that I am sure their many speakers would appreciate.

Yet, once again, the busybodies from the French Academy, like those interlopers from the Academy of the Spanish Language, find fault with what is no business of theirs. I say, get rid of these two meddling institutions and allow both Spanish and French to soar away to the heights we know they are capable of! English is always my favourite case study. No central linguistic body to report to and look at how it's become the lingua franca par excellence. A lesson for both academies to learn.

Copyright 2008

Living in a Bilingual World (Vivace)

I found this story in The Guardian on Tuesday and it made my day. To think that there are so many ways in which to stimulate the minds of young people who are keen to learn a language. That's why I am still trying to get my head around the fact that the government decided to drop foreign languages as a compulsory subject at GCSE level a few years ago.

However, I gather that if I was faced with the prospect of learning a language that was not one of the modern ones, that is Portuguese, German, Italian, English and Spanish, I would probably get cold feet and backtrack. This teacher's experience showed me that sometimes all you need is a little bit of adrenaline at the right time.

He also addresses other topics like the eternal dilemma of having to speak in a foreign language in front of a group of strangers. And yet, my experience, at least with English and German, is that natives are rather considerate and most of the time go out of their way to help out if they can.

French was a different matter when I was at the Alliance. Whether I am now merely playing by stereotypes or not is a moot point but I remember when I was learning French how I enjoyed my lessons, but less the environment I was in. There was a lot of snobbery and an anti-Anglo-Saxon attitude, understandable as there has always been bad blood between the UK and France. But this was Cuba! They should have called it quits! Playing music in English during breaks was frowned upon and when I went back to Havana after spending a month in Britain in 1997, except for my classmates, the staff was just not interested, nor impressed, and no, they were not French... they were... Cuban.

Luckily, I persevered and adapted to the school, thus, making it to intermediate level. When the author of The Guardian's article, Rick Jones, mentions his embarrassment of having to speak out loud as a teenager, I was instantly reminded of the time when I learnt that there were three types of 'e' in French and they were, of course, pronounced differently. After long periods going through the motions of learning how to pronounce each 'e' correctly I managed to achieve such high level of expertise that I am pretty sure that even the recently deceased Marcel Marceau would have been proud of me.

Copyright 2008

Illustration courtesy of Garrincha

Living in a Bilingual World (1st Mov Vivace/ 2nd Mov Grave)

French arrived in my life in the autumn of 1994. I know that the title of this column deals only with the Spanish-English daily goings-on of my existence as an immigrant in the UK but please bear with me on this one. French and German have been two faithful companions for many years and although lately they have fallen by the wayside on account of me living in Blighty now, the truth is that when I recently picked up a novel in the Gallic language the rapport was immediate and it felt as if that lexicon had still been with me all these years.

Pierre et Jean had been given to me as a gift aeons ago by a Frenchman I had to translate for when he visited the Havana University Folkloric Ensemble in 1994. By then I had already done four months of an intensive course on French and my teacher had turned out to be so good that already I could hold a conversation in that difficult European language. For some reason or other the book lay unopened for a long time until I came to live in Britain. And all these years I was completely oblivious to this little gem that was tucked away in my bookshelf.

This is a novel that could very well fall into the psychological genre. Two brothers, Pierre and Jean live with their parents in L'Havre, Normandy. One day they receive a piece of news that will alter their lives forever and put a chain of events in motion that will test their loyalty towards one another. One of his father's friends has died leaving Jean, the younger sibling, as the sole heir to his fortune. Pierre, on hearing this news, is taken aback, for he was also acquainted with the late fellow and cannot understand why he has been left out. Little by little the plot unveils surprises for the reader that Maupassant, very expertly, distributes evenly throughout the book.

When I was still at the French Alliance in Havana I got into the habit of reading in French. It could be magazines like Cahiers du Cinema or books like 'L'Etranger' by Albert Camus. The truth is that I developed a taste for reading in this language that is so close to my native Spanish.

And therein lies the fun: the language. Take this example. Pierre has just paid a visit to a young woman who works in a cafe and who is very keen on him. On learning that Jean has inherited such a vast fortune whilst Pierre has been ignored, she, very innocently, mentions en passant that that could be the reason why the two brothers do not look alike, Pierre is dark-skinned whilst Jean is blond. Pierre's reaction is to confront the woman trying to find out what she means but her explanation does not yield a deeper response. Here is what Pierre thinks as he leaves the cafe (apologies for the lack of French accents. My keyboard cannot produce them).

'Qu'avait-elle pense? Qu'avait-elle sous-entendu dans ces mots! Certes il y avait la une malice, une mechancete, une infamie. Oui, cette fille avait du croire que Jean etait le fils de Marechal(his father's late friend).

L'emotion qu'il ressentit a l'idee de ce soupcon jete sur sa mere fut si violent qu'il s'arreta et qu'il chercha de l'oeil un endroit pour s'asseoir.'

Thus begins a mental process that torments Pierre for the next two quarters of the book. As the tension rises, the language acquires a colourful and mournful tone. Here is another example after he sets off for the harbour and watches the people coming and going:

'Mais tout a coup, comme s'il s'eveillait, il les apercut distinctement; et une haine surgit en lui contre eux, car ils semblaient heureux et contents'.

The very confession Pierre makes to himself about feeling hateful towards people he runs into in the harbour acts as a preamble for the last scene where he confronts his own brother with what now looks like the truth. His mother slept with Marechal behind his father's back and begot a son by him. His fury and despondency send him off on a cruise to The United States of America

Linguistically, Pierre et Jean is a long collage of adjectives and metaphores that describe the Normandy of mid-19th century in great detail. Possibly influenced by the impressionist movement that was already making waves in these years, the novel is a long brushstroke with undefined contours. Each character is nuanced and the language serves to reinforce this.

All in all, my experience of going back to French was like bumping into an old friend. After the initial euphoria, the long-lasting embrace and the warm words, you realise that their essence is the same, and the core is the same core that attracted you to them all those many years ago. And then you smile.

Copyright 2008

Living in a Bilingual World (1st Mov 'Grave') (2nd Mov Allegro)

- Do not interrupt me when I'm talking, and DO NOT CORRECT ME!!!

Thus spoke Daughter recently, or rather shouted at me. And yes, my dear reader/poster/fellow blogger, I hold up my hand in shame. I suffer from severe linguistic obsession.

You see, it's difficult for me to let grammatical errors slide by and glide aimlessly into the void generated by half-said phrases, onomatopoeias and grunts which are actually words, only that they sound like grunts. I'm obsessed about my children learning good Spanish and on occasions I've been known even to correct Wife, who's a fluent speaker of the language I grew up with. I was aware that something was wrong when in a normal conversation I would be more attentive to her use of the subjunctive mood than the real content of the message she was trying to convey to me. And now, the problem has been compounded by my children's involvement in my condition. To their chagrin, I'd dare say. So, mea culpa. That's me.

How did it all start? And when? Well, the when I can point out. Uni. Yep, that's when all hell broke loose and I suddenly found myself immersed in this competitive environment from which I could not escape, nor did I want to. Because although it pains me to admit it, I loved linguistic competitiveness back in my Uni years. Over the years, and when I added German and French in that order to the cluster of languages I spoke fluently I developed a strong attraction towards both the minute details and the more noticeable aspects that made those two languages, plus Spanish and English so different from each other and yet so alike. I learnt that 'water' in English probably came from 'Wasser' in German, as the former is a Germanic language, too. Same with 'eau' (French) and 'agua' (Spanish), both romance languages. But when it came to in-laws, well, the situation got funny and both funny, ha-ha and weird. In German father-in-law is 'Schwiegervater', in French it's 'beau-père' and in Spanish 'suegro' or 'padre político'. So whilst in French they praise you and compliment you on your physical beauty, in Spanish they're thinking of snap elections.

The how is harder to explain. I guess that I was sucked into this linguistic vortex because of my natural inclination to question my surroundings, an attitude that as long as you restrict to languages in Cuba keeps you on the safe and sane side. And now I'm paying the price, because whereas Son is capable of translating entire books (posts passim) Daughter is beginning to go through the same motions he went through a few years ago. And we're clashing. Big time. I guess, I'll have to bide my time and be more patient because she's equally intelligent and capable as Son is. I am the one who have the problem. On the same note, living in a bilingual world in the UK makes me anxious. British culture is a very strong force with a strong identity (despite the alleged crisis) and language is one of the ways in which children with parents from different backgrounds, especially as in my case, with one of them born in Britain, can assert their individuality and build upon both sets of identities. The way we speak Spanish in Cuba is very peculiar and carries with it myriad cultural references that I'm positively sure will enrich my children's lives. And for that I'm prepared to change and be more patient.

Now, about that shouting...

Copyright 2007

Illustration courtesy of Garrincha