Multilinguals Are...? (Review)

I'm sure that in years to come people all over the world will come to appreciate the efforts made by the likes of Madalena Cruz-Ferreira to raise awareness of multilingualism. And I know that I am not alone in thinking that as the global population becomes savvier in linguistic matters (alas, less so in cultural ones sometimes), this will have been made possible thanks to books such as 'Multilinguals Are...?' (Battlebridge Publications).

I must, however, declare, in the interest of fairness, that this review is impartial and unbiased. The reason for this clarification is that my blog was referenced in the illustration credits on account of one of the images Madalena used in her book. It was a cartoon drawn by my fellow Cuban blogger and long-time collaborator, Garrincha and you can read the original post here.

As readers and followers of this blog know, I have been an advocate of multilingualism for a long time, both from a professional perspective (I studied linguistics in university, in Havana) and from a personal point of view since my two children and my wife are all fluent in Spanish and English. In that respect Madalena's book provided answers to many of the questions I had asked myself many times.

'Multilinguals Are...?' is a fun, practical and unpretentious dissertation on the benefits, myths and misconceptions of multilinguals. The first element that caught my attention was Madalena's writing style: not confrontational, yet adamant and firm. Very early on in the book, she turns the tables on those who criticise multilingualism by asking a series of questions normally posed to people who use more than one lingo: 'Can monolingualism affect language development? Can monolingual development affect the development of a child's single language? Is monolingualism an advantage or disadvantage? What are the reasons to nurture monolingualism? How do people become monolingual?'

I confess that I'd never asked myself these questions because I had always assumed that monolinguals outnumbered multilinguals. This is not the case, as Madalena correctly states, and the truth becomes more obvious when you take into account that a person born in India, Kenya or Norway will be exposed to a myriad languages both in their immediate surroundings and in school from a very early age. When I worked in the travel sector, the company was owned by two brothers born in Kenya and fluent in Gujarati, Urdu, Swahili and, of course, English. They could switch from one language to the other effortlessly. Far from them being the exception to the rule, they were rather the norm. Most Scandinavians I've met can converse in English (learnt at school when they're very young), French, Spanish or German. Or in all of them. However, even in what Madalena considers to be a standard linguistic setting, the effect of acquiring a new language is seen as a miracle and the author is well aware of the danger this laudatory attitude poses. In her own words, 'Multilinguals should be wary of taking these kinds of comments as flattering because the problem here is of course that what is awe-inspiring cannot be normal'.

The book is divided in thirteen chapters with thought-provoking titles such as 'Multilinguals have no mother tongue, because they are not native speakers of any language', 'Multilinguals don't have many languages, they have many half-languages' and 'Multilingualism should be encouraged, but only in languages that matter'. The purpose of these eye-catching captions, in my opinion, is to shift the responsibility from the multilingual person, who has to put up with plenty of misconceptions about his or her 'gift', to the monolingual one.

Take Chapter 10, for instance: 'In order to raise multilingual children, you must speak to them in only one language'. It brought to mind the time when my son was born and my wife began to speak to him in Spanish, despite the fact that she herself had been born in the UK. We were under the - wrong - impression that if the two of us did not talk to him in my mother tongue he would never learn it. This approach, however, did the opposite. My wife is British, she learnt Spanish whilst doing her degree in university (although her dad comes from Gibraltar and his family from southern Spain), so therefore many of the phrases that I used with my son, expressions with which I had grown up, were beyond her reach. A few months after our son was born, my consort decided to switch to English and I agreed with her, and also thanked her for making the effort. Madalena puts this situation in context in the book. Here's an excerpt:

'We may start by asking ourselves why no monolingual family worries about the best way of raising their child monolingually. The issue doesn't arise in monolingual families because their use of language will, expectedly, be natural: the parents will speak to their child the (one) language that comes naturally to them, and the child will naturally learn it. In contrast, families, who decide to raise their children multilingually are bound to start at once seeking information and advice about what exactly should be done to achieve this purpose successfully. We may go on wondering why is it that multilingual should worry about this at all. In other words, what is it that makes multilingual hesitate to resort to what must come naturally to them to, as far as uses of language are concerned?'

Such a short book (my copy is eighty-six pages long) will not be able to cover everything related to linguistics. I would like, then, to add two more factors to the whole monolingual/multilingual entente (or discord, your choice). One is culture. It's not strange that monolingualism usually translates as monoculturalism, although many monolinguals are well-versed in multicultural matters. However, in my opinion, they are in the minority. Based on my personal experience, the more an individual retreats into his/her own - sole - language without attempting to reach out, the more his or her cultural perspective narrows. There's mention of this phenomenon in the book, but it is very brief.

The second factor is the relationship between parents/carers and their offspring. My wife's and mine biggest achievement in the linguistic area has been to raise two children who can speak fluently two of the most popular languages in the world: English and Spanish (number two and three, respectively, behind Mandarin at number one). For me this accomplishment is even more rewarding when one takes into account that in a foreign land the sound of one's children speaking one's native tongue and discussing their personal problems (grammatical and syntactical gaffes notwithstanding, and who cares about them, really?) in a frank and open way beats any academic feat they might carry through in school. It's one of the essential rungs on the ladder of respect, trust and friendship that lies at the heart of any parent/children relationship. Again, there's very little of that in the book.

But such observations are mere droplets in the vast ocean of wisdom and common sense Madalena navigates. I laughed out loud when I read her views on people who compare the human brain with a computer. Yes, Your Honour, I used to be one such culprit. Cruz-Ferreira states that: 'If you assume that the brain works like a hard disk, its contents get stored in more or less neat compartments. There must therefore be physical brain space dedicated to language too. You then assume, with the mainstream, that the "normal" language compartment fills to capacity with just one single language (...) And if you further assume, to complete the analogy, that the disk/brain needs some free space to be able to go about its housekeeping tasks properly, we have the ideal conditions that explain the havoc that multilingualism is said to wreak "normal" brains. Symptoms of "Warning: disk full!" crop up through, say, a child's refusal to use one language, adults' difficulties with learning new languages or language mixes from speakers of any age. Whichever the case may be, the error message is ascribed to glitches in language warehousing, where the little grey cells struggle about and waste precious brain energy to defend the territorial rights of their one brain-one language.'

Thorough thinking as demonstrated in the excerpt above is one of the reasons why 'Multilinguals Are...?' deserves more attention. I will be e-mailing publishers and editors in the UK, who, I gather, might be interested in promoting such an impressive book. For the record, I will be doing this without pursuing any financial interest whatsoever. If you're an editor or a publisher and receive an e-missive from me, please, do contact the author directly. As for you, dear fellow bloggers and followers, it doesn't matter whether you're monolingual or multilingual, go and buy this book. It will give you a powerful insight into a fascinating world, one of which you might already be part, or are thinking of joining: multilingualism.

Note: At the author's request, I have included the following links, a couple of which have already made it into the post.

The Publisher: Battle Bridge

Amazon

Multilingual Living

Multilingual Mania

In addition, all profits from the sale of the book go to Yuti (meaning 'unity'), a trilingual children's magazine in Sinhala, Tamil and English. This publication is distributed, free of charge, to Sri Lankan children, ages eight to fourteen, three times a year. For more information, click here.

©2010

Next Post: 'Waltz with Bashir (Review)', to be published on Thursday 10th June at 11:59pm (GMT)

Living in a Bilingual World (Allegro Moderato)

Christmas has always posed a major problem for the bilingual in me. Until ten years ago most of the phrases I use in English now related to this particular December festivity were unknown to me even in my native Spanish.

Christmas in Cuba was always a hush-hush subject. The reasons were plain for everyone to see. Religion was taken out of the equation shortly after the incumbent government took control of the country. But as an ex-colony of the Spanish empire the main celebration before 1959 was always Christmas Eve or Noche Buena as we call it in our mother tongue. A big supper at 12 midnight marked the birth of one of the most controversial figures ever.

In my house my late Grandma did maintain the Christmas Eve big supper tradition and despite my cousin's links to the Youth Communist League and my late auntie's membership of the Communist Party's a shindig was held every 24th December with most of my relatives coming from far away in the countryside to eat the roast pork laid on the table.

When I arrived in Britain one of the first tasks I had to face was how to learn the new words that involved the Christmas festivities and translate them into Spanish for my offspring. No easy feat this, as many of these terms were not used in Cuba at all since they were clearly rooted in Castillian Spanish.

The gamble has paid off, though, Im glad to say, as my own children recognise that sometimes I'm lost for the meaning of a certain word in Spanish and we all strive to look up the more apposite translation in the dictionary.

In 2007, however, our Christmas celebration reached its zenith. The surprise arrived after devouring the tasty 'guanajo' (turkey) that Wife had cooked that day.

Wife had arranged a special 'Desert Island Discs' with Children, Mother-in-Law and Mother-in-Law's Boyf. We were to pick three tracks that had made a special impact on us in our childhood, younger years and adulthood. Of course, because Children have not been out of nappies for that long yet their choice was limited. However, as I mentioned before the songs they chose showed me how important the union of two cultures under the banner of respect and acceptance was. Amongst the tunes Son selected was Los Prisioneros' 'Estrechez de Corazon', featured already on this blog whereas Daughter went Brazilian and chose Tribalistas' 'Passe Em Casa', also included amongst my favourite Autumn Songs.

At some point during the velada (soiree) I could not help thinking what a marvellous phenomenon multiculturalism was. Here we were: Wife, born and bred in Britain, but of British and Gibraltarian ancestry, Mother-in-Law, born and brought up in Blighty but with some Irish blood in her veins and a whole career playing flamenco music behind her (her playing the guitar whilst accompanying Wife's Father was one of the songs we enjoyed that evening). Me, Cuban-born, of Chinese, African and Spanish ascendance and Son and Daughter with all this mix running through their young bodies.

And on the stereo amongst other types of music, rhythms from Spain and Latin America reminding us that we were just tiny particles in the immensity of this global multilingual universe.

Merry Christmas to you all.

Copyright 2008

Living in a Bilingual World (Aria)

To sound, or not to sound--that is the question:
Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer
The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune
Or to take arms against a sea of letters

And by opposing end them. To die, to sleep--
No more--and by a sleep to say we end
The heartache, and the thousand natural shocks
That non-sound is heir to. 'Tis a consummation
Devoutly to be wished. To die, to sleep--
To sleep--perchance to dream: ay, there's the rub,
For in that sleep of death what dreams may come
When we have shuffled off this mortal coil,
Must give us pause. There's the respect
That makes calamity of so long life.
For who would bear the whips and scorns of time,
Th' oppressor's wrong, the proud letter's contumely
The pangs of despised love, the law's delay,
The insolence of office, and the spurns
That patient merit of th' unworthy takes,
When it itself might its quietus make
With a bare bodkin? Who would fardels bear,
To grunt and sweat under a weary life,
But that the dread of something after death,
The undiscovered country, from whose bourn
No traveller returns, puzzles the will,
And makes us rather bear those non-sounds we have
Than fly to others that we know not of?
Thus muteness does make cowards of us all,
And thus the native hue of resolution
Is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought,
And enterprise of great pitch and moment
With this regard their currents turn awry
And lose the name of action. -- Soft you now,
The fair Spanish 'h'! -- Nymph, in thy orisons
Be all my sins remembered.

Copyright 2008

Living in a Bilingual World (Allegretto Grazioso)

- Is there a war in Spain?

I chuckled. It was Daughter who had asked the question. And she could have been forgiven for thinking that a conflict had just broken out in the European nation. I was talking to Son, Wife and Daughter about the recent rivalry between activist groups in support of the Spanish language and a minuscule bevy of regionalists bent on using la lengua as a political weapon.

The issue seems to come from the promotion of autonomous tongues since Franco's death in 1975. Now it appears that what at first looked like a good idea, the proliferation of Spain's other 'official' languages, will end up being a case of Brutus (autonomous lingoes) to Spanish language Caesar, the default lingua franca of roughly 330 million speakers worldwide.

Son was amused at the idea that one day we might go to Spain and not understand what is being said to us (Spanishless Spain anyone?). We usually travel to Granada, Andalucía, and many people there speak Catalán as they travel down from nearby Barcelona. That would not be the first time, though. In 1998 Wife, Son and I (Daughter had not been born yet) went to the Basque Country. We had a lovely stay in a friend's house and I found Basque people ever so warm and friendly (especially on learning I was Cuban) but when it came to some of the street signs, conversations I overheard onthe street and some television channels, I must admit I was floored. The Basque language looks and sounds like no other. And after the repression led by Franco that all but annihilated autonomous tongues in Spain, I guess some people feel it's payback time. The question is, who benefits from the disappearance of Spanish as the language we, Spanish speakers the world over, recognise and communicate in? And will the language evolve to include words from Spanish into these three 'official' languages and viceversa?

In principle I ought to be in agreement with the existence of bilingual schools in the Basque Country, for instance. I insist on speaking Spanish at home, I support bilingualism (or multilingualism), no matter whether the second lengua is a modern language or not, I disagreed vehemently with the elimination of compulsory teaching of foreign languages at secondary level in schools in Britain. Yet, what makes me a little wary of this whole brouhaha is the fact that one or two, or even three languages could attempt to wrest linguistic control from the Spanish education system, thus, alienating not only the natives in the madre patria, but also the Spanish-speaking community abroad.

I hope that neither Son, nor Daughter, nor Wife, nor I have to attend a crash-course on Euskeda or Catalán before we head off to the mountains of Sierra Nevada next time we travel to Spain.

So, a lo cortico, Spanishless Spain anyone?

Copyright 2008

Living in a Bilingual World (Allegro)

Just after 7pm, Daughter's room.

Me: Can you translate this bit here, then? 'Al oír esto, a la Sirenita se le cayó el alma a los pies.'

Daughter: Upon hearing this, the Little Mermaid dropped her... her... her... how do you say 'alma' in English?

Me: Soul.

Daughter: The Little Mermaid dropped her soul to her feet.

Me (giggling): No, try again.

Daughter: Upon hearing this, the Little Mermaid kicked her soul with her feet.

Me (laughing): Nooo! Try again!

Daughter: Upon hearing this, the feet dropped the Little Mermaid's soul.

Me (doubled up and collapsing on the floor with laughter): Nooo! 'se le...', the key words are 'se le...'

It was pointless, really. Other versions included, Little Mermaid's feet kicking her soul, Little Mermaid's soul dropping her feet, Little Mermaid's soul's feet dropping Little Mermaid. Anything except for 'Little Mermaid felt despondent', or 'Little Mermaid felt like it was the end of the world'.

But you know what, we did not care. We had fun.

Copyright 2008

Living in a Bilingual World (Allegro)

Saturday 29th March, The Round Chapel, Hackney, London, evening.

Daughter: ¡Papi, papi, mira! (Daddy, Daddy, look!)

Me: ¿Mmm... qué es? ¡Ah, una rosa! ¡Qué linda! (Hmmm... what is it? Uh, a rose! How pretty!)

Daughter: Sí, y es de 'fábrica'. (Yes, and it's made of 'factory')

Me: ¿De qué? (Made of what?)

Daughter (puzzled): ¿De... 'fábrica'...? (Made of... 'factory'...?)

Me: ¡Ah, de tela! Muy bien. (Ah, it's made of fabric, OK!)

Daughter: Sí, de tela, por supuesto. Chao. (Yes, fabric, of course. Bye)

And off she goes.

Bilingual world. I love it.

Copyright 2008

Living in a Bilingual World (Grave)

Havana, Cuba, September 1997. OSPAAAL and the Tricontinental Magazine, for which I work, have organised an event called 'Che's Legacy in the Threshold of the 21st Century' (or so I think it is called). As the official translator and interpreter of the organisation my main job is to liaise with the various delegates to the convention and talk about the work the magazine and the OSPAAAL do. Although I have long stopped being so naïve and gullible regarding the political and economic reality of mid 90s Cuba, I undertake my tasks with the professionalism required of a polyglot who has to communicate in English, French, German and Spanish with people from Austria, France, the UK, the US, Canada and various islands in the Caribbean, mainly French-speaking.

The main event is held at the the Journalists' Centre on the corner of 23rd Avenue and O St. I am familiar with the building having attended many painting and photo exhibitions in the foyer before. It is already 10am and the launch is about to take place. The people from ESTI (Empresa de Servicios de Traducción e Interpretación) are in their places and ready to go. I feel slightly jealous. There was a time when I wanted to belong to ESTI. But life sent me to a language school just after graduation and there I stayed for almost two years after which I became a free-lance interpreter, translator and Spanish teacher.

The chairman of OSPAAAL comes over to say hello. He is a likeable man, ex-consul of the Cuban embassy in Turkey and someone I shared my anecdotes about eating kebabs in the UK with. He found them amusing because that used to be one of his favourite foods when he lived in that eastern European nation.

All of a sudden the lights dim and the first speaker comes on stage. It's Aleida Guevara, one of Che's daughters. She talks about how nice it is for everyone to gather under the same room together to honour his father's memory, how he would have loved to see this dream come true, people from many countries uniting against the mighty Yankee imperialism. After her a succession of speakers come and go. Lunchtime arrives. We are asked to cross the road and make our way to the restaurant on the opposite corner downstairs (the name escapes me now). Together with the throng of delegates, speakers and interpreters I plod along. Out of the blue I feel a hand pulling on my arm. I turn around and find the chairman of OSPAAAL standing right in front of me flanked by Aleida Guevara on one side and the Turkish consul on the other. The chairman is grinning.

- This is the man to help you out, Aleida, he speaks many languages!

- Oh, thanks, well, I am Aleida Guevara...

The conversation starts and I, sneakily, check my watch. Hmmm... I still have time to have lunch, probably forty minutes or so. The consul can't speak English very well, so we resort to German, whereas Aleida can speak neither German nor English. The crowd thins out until we are the only ones in the building.

We make our way upstairs, talking all the time. The consul turns out to be a great talker and Aleida relates to him many anecdotes to do with her almost fatherless upbringing.

Twenty minutes elapse.

Upstairs both the consul and Aleida are interested in a painting exhibition that has been up for a long time now and which I have seen a couple of times. The conversation continues. I keep checking my watch. I have possibly five minutes left maximum to catch some food.

Finally the consul shakes my hand and Aleida's and says goodbye. He thanks me profusely for being so helpful. Aleida turns to me and looking at one of my ears exclaims:

- You know what? My father used to say that men should not wear earrings. He was dead against men who wore any type of jewellery, except for watches.

And with that she leaves.

Note: One of my work colleagues, the editor-in-chief's PA, saved me some lunch, which needless to say was lavish as befitted an event organised to acknowledge Che's legacy. So there was a happy ending, at least for my poor stomach.

Living in a Bilingual World (Allegro)

When I was still in Uni many years ago I had to deal with 'History of the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland' in third year. The name of the subject sounded ominous and the teacher maintained a po-faced attitude throughout the lessons. What always confused me was the Big Ben. You see, the message that we were getting in class, although not explicitly, was that at 4 o'clock the whole of Great Britain sat down to have a cup of tea. Yes, together, at the same time. Yes, including Wales and Scotland. And Northern Ireland. All of them, simultaneously, resting their behinds on seats, couches and chairs. To-have-a-cuppa.

And that was the problem. I was always wrecking my poor brain trying to figure out how the inhabitants of the Hebrides were capable of hearing the bells chiming from the majestic Big Ben.

I guess that's a mystery for Sherlock Holmes and his sidekick Watson to solve.

Copyright 2008

Photo courtesy of Eufrates del Valle @ http://eufratesdelvalle.blogspot.com/

Living in a Bilingual World (Andante)

- Papi, when I grow up and have children can they have your second surname as their first one?

- ???!!! Well, I don't know... I suppose they can... I don't know, we'll have to find out.

- But, is it OK to do that?

- I guess so, nene. I guess so.

It had never occurred to me that both Son and Daughter would want to carry down my maternal surname to the next generation. In Cuba we are all resigned to the fact that with my cousins and me the famous symbol of our Basque ancestry will disappear.

My second surname is a puzzle for the dwellers of these islands. Shorn of one important letter that was probably dropped in the Atlantic Ocean when my great-grandfather was crossing it from Canary Islands, it is an appellation that the sons and daughters of Albion still struggle with. The inclusion of a surrogate vowel in lieu of the missing one did not nothing to assuage the nerves of people who come across it and feel wary of making a fatal mistake in saying it. Especially in these times of PC culture. And there have been many instances in the last ten years when I have been asked to spell out and pronounce my nom de famille very clearly.

Before my son was born I toyed with the idea of using Mother's surname as his. That would guarantee continuation and it was the least I could do for the woman who has given up so many things in her life in order to improve mine. But I resisted the temptation and if you ask me now ten years later if I would have liked to do it then, my reply would be yes.

Of course, that that would have brought about complications, as those with Celtic and Slavic names and surnames will attest to. People from the subcontinent do not lag behind and when it comes to Poles, their consonant alliteration is enough to drive this passionate linguist up the wall. Yet, throughout this all, the beautiful element that stands out is the cultural legacy of these peoples.

My Basque surname is entwined with the immigrant's dreams of making it big in Cuba. My great-grandfather, as I understand it, arrrived in the Havana countryside like many 'isleños' (islanders) before him, trying to hit the jackpot at a time when the economic conditions were favourable for newcomers. It was in the same period that many Chinese people migrated to the Caribbean nation, too. The surname survived a couple of generations but looked doomed when my grandmother gave birth to three girls: my mother and my two aunties. From there onwards it was just a matter of watching it slowly fade away.

In the UK, things function differently, which is why if Son and Daughter have their way, especially Son, my second surname will once again metamorphose, this time into the British social fabric and adopt a new identity. But one that is rooted in a Caribbean island where Basque, African and Chinese bloods contributed to the formation of a Cuban In London.

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 (Vivo)

Last week I received an e-mail from a dance student of mine regarding a couple of comments I made in this column a few days ago. Because I did not ask him for permission to reveal his name nor his correspondence I will keep his identity a secret. Yet, he is someone whose opinion I value a lot because his views come from a position of respect and understanding. The points he raised were all valid and I made it clear in my response to him that I agreed with pretty much he had written.

This put me to think about how Spanish is viewed by non-natives. So far this space has been concerned more with bringing up two British-born children (mine) as bilingual. I have also touched upon the difficulties that some foreigners in the UK face when trying to speak to their offspring in their language, and I have also discussed my experience as a translator and interpreter, mainly back in Cuba. What has been absent so far is the other side of the coin. English-speaking people and their approach to Spanish.

My student not only has a good command of this romance language but also spent some time in Spain, specifically in Madrid. And this also led me down another road. Imagine, if you wish, a river flowing downwards towards the sea. The river represents a particular language, whereas the sea is the amalgamation of the different lexicons in the world. However as we all know rivers have a tendency of begetting small brooks that branch out in various directions, some of them taking short cuts to make it to the same sea the river is bound for. These little streams are the different norms that exist in both modern and ancient languages. Please, note that I use the word ‘norm’ and not ‘dialect’. They differ. Norm is the standard that governs the rules and structures of a given language in a specific nation. Hence British English is different from American English, a fact that threw me into despair when I first arrived in this country as I had studied the North American version in uni. A dialect is a provincial, rural, or socially distinct variety of a language that differs from the standard language. Can you now imagine this English-speaking person dealing with the 'vos' from Argentina, the 'cuate' from Mexico, the 'chévere from Cuba and Columbia and the myriad diminutives used in Peru and Bolivia for instance? No, neither can I.

With these ideas in mind I understood a bit better what my student was referring to. I began to see my linguistic world, that is, the Spanish one, from his perspective and that is why I would like to thank him for it.

Spanish is a heck of a language to learn and speak and sometimes we, natives, take for granted grammatical constructions and syntactic structures that others take years to understand. So, thanks to my student and I hope to see you on the 1st March when I will be teaching a master class at the Bar Andalucia in the West End.

And if you have a similar experience, why not share it? That is what this space is for. Para conversar.

Copyright 2008

Living in a Bilingual World (Moderato)

Son: La maestra se dio a nosotros una tarea difícil (The teacher gave 'herself' a difficult homework to us)

Me: Don't say 'se', just say 'nos dio' and drop the 'nosotros'.

Reflexive verbs are a delicate subject for Spanish speakers, so I can only imagine what a nightmare they are for learners of Cervantes' language. There are countless situations where we say: 'Díceselo' (tell him/her) rather than 'Dícelo'. My favourite one is 'Me comí toda la comida' (I ate all my food) where the reflexive pronoun overwrites the transitive character of the verb 'to eat' in Spanish.

This bad use of grammar, of which I am also a culprit, can only be attributed to an oral language that more and more relies on shortcuts, speed and abbreviations. In the case of the Spanish language, the only analogy I can find is the use of the famous 'Partikeln' in German.

Partikeln are words that do not have a proper function in the same way as a verb or adjective, yet render the speech richer and give the text a more nuanced make-up. You can find anything between five and fourteen Partikeln in a given sentence in German and this is devastating for those of us who have found ourselves dealing with the Teutonic language as we blindly believe that there must be a hidden meaning in these words, otherwise why would anyone go to the trouble of lining them up in a sentence?

In English, although the situation is not as dire as in the two aforementioned languages, there are complications with the use of 'self'. These arise from a desire to sound at times a bit more cultured and learned than usual and the consequences are risible as in 'Myself and two others friends went to the cinema last night. From my grammar lessons in Uni I always thought that the correct way was 'Two friends and I...'.

It is amazing that Son and Daughter have not encountered as many difficulties dealing with the terrifying subjunctive mood as with reflexive verbs. This would probably go some way to explain why Wife and I have such a terrible time reminding Son to wash himself in the mornings...

Copyright 2008

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 (Agitated)

Summer 1997. I had been at Tricontinental Magazine for a couple of months as the official translator and interpreter or as the cleaner used to call me as 'el tradultol'. My daily tasks included overseeing the translation of the different contributions sent by the magazine's columnists into Spanish and work alongside an American woman called Karen and resident in the island for many years on the translation from Spanish to English. This proved to be more difficult obviously.

That day we were expecting a delegation from South Africa. I was fascinated and enthralled at being able to meet someone from a country I had heard so much about but knew so little about, too. Mandela's release from prison a few years before had taken over the only two television channels we had in Cuba at the time and the image I had of him was that of someone who had withstood a lot of pain and distress in order to make his country a better place. I was looking forward to meeting this party from the African nation.

At around 11am the South Africans turned up and the chairman of OSPAAAL, the NGO that produced Tricontinental Magazine, came to greet them. I was there by his side and I noticed a sigh of relief from the lady in charge of the group when she noticed that both of us were black. However that small comfort was to change in no time.

They were invited in and led upstairs to one of the meeting rooms. Once inside, we all sat down and started discussing ideas, plans, projects. I was feeling nervous and restless. The reason? I could not understand a word of what the party from the African nation was saying.

I had been to university, performed in an improvisational theatre outfit in English, done free-lance translation and interpreting a for a couple of years, taught at a language school, and yet nothing prepared me for the shame that overcame me in that small room. I was mumbling, stammering (quite badly) and on two occasions had to be helped out by one of the other OSPAAAL's members. The woman in charge of the delegation, who, a few minutes before had greeted me so warmly, was throwing icy stares in my direction now. How to explain to her that the English I had learnt in uni was from the USA? How to put that to her in a way that she could understand that I was not pretending not to comprehend what she was saying, that I just COULD NOT GET IT?

And then, the bomb.

She used the phrase 'PC culture' and I, like a striker who just carries on dribbling the ball he has just been passed without stopping, took it in my stride and tried to put it in the back of the net; I spat the words out:"La cultura de la computadora personal". I should have realised that something was wrong. Even the rest of the South African delegation, men and women, who could not understand one word of Spanish could see that my gaffe had been too big. It was the same colleague from before who interceded for me and helped clear the situation once again.

Once outside the South African woman heading the party reprimanded me, unfairly, for not understanding her. I tried to explain to her in the best way I could that it was nothing to do with her but with the type of English I was used to. It did not help that at the time I still had a strong northeast American accent, mainly from Boston, where many of my post-graduate teachers hailed from. In the end she calmed down a bit and realised that it was not my fault.

It was only years later and whilst living in the UK that I came across the same expression, but by then I was ready and was able to translate it properly or give it my own variation: 'PC-culture'="Actitud politica correcta". If only that lady had been there.

Copyright 2007

Living in a Bilingual World (Grave)

'Right! Five minutes for both of you to leave your bedrooms tidied up!' Two pairs of eyes gazed at me astonishedly. 'Don't look at me like that, your rooms are not that messy, so five minutes should be enough.

Son went off to get the job done straight away, yet, Daughter hesitated a little bit and with a pleading voice said: 'Five minutes are not enough, Papi! You know that!'. 'Well, if you keep talking and standing there without getting on with it, of course you won't have time to get it all done! I'm going to put this timer on and in five minutes I'll be back upstairs to check that everything is organised.

In between doing the washing up and listening to Astor Piazzolla's superb live recording 'Libertango' I lost track of the time. However, I was sure that the five minutes that I had allocated to the children had already elapsed. I checked the microwave clock and it was almost 7.10pm, therefore they had been engaged in the tidying-up chore for almost twice the time I gave them. Yet, I was sure the timer had not gone off. I mounted up the stairs silently and on entering Daughter's bedroom she jumped up as if she'd just seen a ghost. 'Time's up'. 'No, it's not', came her reply, 'the timer's not gone off yet.' I strode to the bathroom and there were still a couple of minutes left. I went back to Daughter's room, but this time with an inkling as to what had happened.

- Did you touch the timer?
- No, I did not.
- Are you sure?
- Yes, I am.
- So, how come I set it for five minutes and it is still going, despite the clock downstairs displaying the correct time, that is ten minutes past seven?
- I don't know. Her eyes were fixed on the floor now.
- Are you telling the truth?
- Yes.
- So, you did not alter the time on the timer?
- Hmmm... A puzzled look crossed her tiny face.
- How many minutes did you alter the timer by?
- How do you say 'minutes' in Spanish?
- Oh, c'mon, you know that, I'm using the word now.
- Cinco minutes.
- Minutos.
- Minutos.
- OK, thanks for telling the truth. Don't do it again, please.
- No, I won't. How do you say 'minutes' again in Spanish?
- Minutos.
- And 'hours'?
- You know that, too. Horas.
- And 'days'?
- C'mon, you're pulling my leg now, darling, off to bed, c'mon.

And as I descended the stairs I could still hear her talking to herself: 'minutes, no, minutos, horas, días...'

Copyright 2007

Living in a Bilingual World (Vivo)

There she stood in the bathroom, hands on hips, head held high, eyes coquettishly defiant. Her mouth was closed. Mouth closed. I repeat, m-o-u-t-h c-l-o-s-e-d.

Suddenly I remembered.

- Oh yes! León (Lion)! She opened her mouth wide.

- Tigre (Tiger)! Her teeth were clenched now.

- Jirafa (Giraffe)! It was her tongue's turn to come out.

We had finished our little routine.







For the last two or three months Daughter has developed a system whereby everytime it is my turn to brush her teeth (after she has done it herself) she asks me to use the name of these three animals so that she can perform their actions. Thus, León, means opening her mouth wide so that I can reach into and brush the smaller crevices where remains of food are more likely to lodge and settle down to live happily ever after. Tigre means to clamp her teeth together whilst the toothbrush gladly slides down her molars and canines. The last call-out is Jirafa and in tandem with that mammal, she sticks out her tongue so that I can give it a brush.

Where Daughter came up with this routine from, I haven't the slightest clue, but the truth is I love it. It takes me right back to a time when I was still in Uni and being the inquisitive student I was, the search for new words was of paramount importance to me.

Names of animals and plants in English always eluded me throughout my language degree. There were certain myths around at ISPLE when I was still a pupil there and one of them concerned one of my favourite teachers, Nivaldo. It was said that he could name every single dog breed there was out there in English, besides various species of animals and plants. Impressive, I said at the time, and good luck to you, mate. As for me, all I need to know is how to say German Shepherd, chihuahua, cocker spaniel and pit bull and I'll be fine. Alas, I was caught out recently.

Son was given a new animal toy by Wife. So was Daughter. But Son's was a meerkat. And as I expected it he asked me what the translation was into Spanish. I hesitated for a moment and told him that it was probably some kind of animal related to the lemur, not realising that this tiny creature belongs rather to the primates. He looked at me quizzically as he really knows his animals. I kept quiet about and changed the topic. Later, surreptitiously I went upstairs and fetched his dictionary, which is really Wife's, but we let him have it. Damn! The word 'meerkat' was nowhere to be found. Stealthily I came back downstairs and switched the computer on. Wikipedia provided me with a helpful hint, meerkats are part of the mongoose family. And they live in marshes. So that solved it. Triumphantly I strolled into the kitchen and announced to all and sundry 'Meerkat can be translated as "gato del cenagal o pantano" and it comes from Afrikaans.' I still don't know whether I am right or wrong, all I know is that in between Daughter and her Lion/Tiger/Giraffe teeth-brushing routine and my Son's new exotic animals, I will end up going back to Uni, but this time instead of languages I will do Zoology.

Copyright 2007

Living in a Bilingual World (Vivace)

- Hay un woquillo en mi bolsillo! (There's a wocket in my pocket!).

- ¿Alguna vez has tenido la sensación de que hay una zámpara en la lámpara? (Did you ever have the feeling there's a zamp in the lamp?)

- Los yepsaños/en los peldaños/nos traen mucha risa/y una buena compañía (The yeps/on the steps/are always fun/to have around)

That was me reading to Son when he was a couple of years old. And that was, too, my introduction to the zany world of Dr Seuss.

Getting books in Spanish in Britain is difficult which explains why I spent most of Son's early years translating his books from English to Spanish as I put him to bed in the evenings. Dr Seuss, in particular, posed a big challenge. Here was someone who came up with the unlikeliest, most ridiculous and preposterous names ever, and yet the funniest ones. I accepted the dare and Son was the winner, as usual.

First of all there was the small but rather conspicuous fact that there was no equivalent in English of the terms he came up with. Of course, they were all invented. Thus, I said to myself: 'Well, if that is the hurdle, I gues I'll have to find a way round it.' And find it I did. Wocket and Zamp proved a doddle, more difficult was nink that was meant to rhyme with sink. For some reason ninquero which rhymed with fregadero just didn't sound the same. But in the eternal battlefield that bilingualism can sometimes become pyrrhic victories like this, are the more savoured when the victor is your offspring. Besides, I don't think that it was totally similar to the fate that befell King Pyrrhus of Epirus. Unlike him the result favoured me more since the percentage of words that 'clicked' with Son and made him laugh far outnumbered the rest of the terms that went over his head.

I would recommed Dr Seuss' mundo loco, loco, loco (crazy, crazy, crazy world) to any parent immersed in the bilingual education of their progeny as I am, above all, for his fine sense of humour. He does not patronise children, which is why little ones love him so much.

I shall, however, spare you the details of my encounter with 'Green Eggs and Ham', another strong offering from the Dr Seuss' catalogue. Let us just say for the sake of argument that King Pyrrhus would be laughing his head off in his grave.

Copyright 2007

Living in a Bilingual World (Vivo)

- Papi, tengo dos piezas de noticias que darte: una buena y una mala. (Dad, I have two pieces of news to give you: a good one and a bad one)

I just could not help it and burst out laughing incontrollably (caveat for parents who are teaching their children a second language, NEVER laugh AT the little cherubs, but WITH them!). Son looked at me puzzled and with eyes wide open. What had he said that had caused my giggle? Did I know beforehand what he was about to communicate to me? Was I able to read his mind?

After sitting down, having a drink of water and reassuring Son that I was laughing with him and not AT him, I finally let him know the cause of my sudden mirth.

- In Spanish we don't say 'dos piezas de noticias', I would say 'Tengo dos noticias, una buena y una mala'.


It's a common mistake that I will keep returning to in future posts. English and Spanish do cross roads sometimes. Words, phrases and grammatical constructions do sometimes meet in the middle. The other night as I was reading them another short story from that essential children's book called 'La Edad de Oro' we came across an expression that made the children feel relieved that sometimes a common ground can be found between their two linguistic worlds. It was 'terca como una mula' and it appears in the tale 'El Camarón Encantado' (The Enchanted Shrimp). Son was the first one to translate it and he was glad to find a direct conversion into one of his mother tongues, 'as stubborn as a mule'.

But when these two very different languages lock horns the results can be very confusing. I've referred in the past to false cognate words. These are words that although spelled similarly they have different meanings. Take 'exit'. A Spanish speaker will think that it means 'éxito' (success), not realising that even the word 'success' is a false cognate as such, because a Spanish speaker will think it means 'suceso' (happening, event). Confusing? Yes. Amusing? You bet.

Son and Daughter do tend to force English constructions into Spanish sentences to my chagrin. But by now, they know my reply like the refrain to a very annoying song: 'Please, don't speak English in Spanish'.

Ah, and about those 'two pieces of news'. The good one was that they'd decided to watch the X Factor final another day after having recorded it last Saturday, thus not disturbing my Sunday evening newspaper-reading arrangements. The bad one was that they would be watching it on Monday evening in the lounge, which is normally the time when I come back from jogging and finish my work out and stretches. Oh, well, at least Son learnt a valuable Spanish lesson!

Copyright 2007

Living in a Bilingual World (Vivace)

- 'Explode'.
- E-equis (chuckle)-pe-ele (chuckle again)-o-de-e.

- ???

- The next one, please?

- 'Implode'.

- I-eme (chuckle)-pe-ele (chuckle again)...

Daughter was having me on. It was my turn to test her on her spellings and I was in reminiscence mode. When I used to teach at ISPLE back in the early 90s as an assistant teacher (still a student, though), this used to be one of my tasks. Dictation. And now I was replicating it with my younger one. But I was not prepared for what Daughter had in store for me. She spelled each and every single word I told her using the spanish ABC. And she was having fun.

This is an activitiy that both Son and Daughter are used to, though. Whenever Son is in a tangle with his Maths homework I come to the rescue but he knows what the caveat is: only Spanish, mate. Thus, he now knows what a square is (cuadrado), a rectangle (rectángulo) and a circle (círculo). We're now building up towards the hypotenuse (hipotenusa) bit.

Daughter, especially, sees the whole language shebang as a game, which is good. At least she's not afraid of bringing up the fact that 'my Dad is Cuban, he speaks Spanish and so do I'. Sometimes she reminds me of Sophie, the main character of the popular series by author Dick King-Smith, whose wisecrack makes her the delight of little ones and older ones alike.

Daughter carried on spelling out English words with the Spanish ABC. When I asked her if she was going to do that the next day at school, she looked at me very sternly and said: 'But of course, papi, of course!' I just hope her teacher has a bilingual dictionary nearby.

Copyright 2007

Living in a Bilingual World (Moderato)

To swear or not to swear? Esa es la pregunta (That's the question)

And what a question! Especially for someone like me brought up in a family where cursing was frowned upon and my limited childhood vocabulary included the two notions 'palabras feas' (ugly words) and 'malas palabras' (swear words). At age five or six I experienced my late Nana's wrath when I dared say the word 'jodi'ó' as in 'la bicicleta se jodi'ó' (the bike broke down). I cannot remember whether it was a clip round the ear or a 'tapaboca' (a slap in my mouth) but I got smacked pretty hard.

So, with these thoughts in my mind I ventured into unknown waters recently when I explained to Son the meaning behind a particular track he'd been humming to lately. It was 'Ciudad de Pobres Corazones' by the Rosarino musician Fito Páez. Son was already familiar with the Argentinian's music as I play his hits regularly at home, but this particular track has an intoxicating melody and beat that make it stand out from the rest of the songs that appear in the album.

- Do you know what he says in the song? I asked him whilst I was driving.

- No, what is it?

- I think he's talking about Buenos Aires, and the times when the military was in power. He's feeling despondent and angry.

- Uhhh...

- And he's using a word that is actually a four-letter word in that context.

- What do you mean?

- Well, the word 'puta' is used to convey the level of disatisfaction he feels towards the incumbent government.

- What's the equivalent in English?

- The f-word.

- (Gasps).

Did I do right or wrong? My intention was not to become 'Papi Cool', but merely illustrate to him how some of the songs in Spanish he listens to contain 'bad words' (a caveat, though, the Latin pop, rock and salsa I play at home is heavily sanitised). However, Wife and I have yet to have that important 'talk' about the use of certain words, especially as Son is fast moving forward to adolescence. He was nonchalant about the whole 'p' word but I was left restless. Have I opened a can of worms? Have I brought upon myself Claudius curse 'When sorrows come, they come not single spies, but in battalions' by opening this Pandora's box? As a Cuban I admit that swearing still stuns me, especially when it is done gratuitously. Some Spanish-speaking cultures are more expletives-prone, not least, the Spanish culture. Many years ago, Juan Echanove, a popular Spanish actor, went on the now defunct live television show 'Contacto' with the then presenter Hilda Rabilero. This was a programme which thousands, if not hundreds of thousands of people tuned into at 6pm every Saturday evening. Imagine people's reaction when Echanove innocently uttered the 'c' word (that's 'cojones' by the way and I apologise profusely to anyone who feels offended by the epithet, just writing it makes me squirm) and Hilda went silent. Ten seconds elapsed. And then Juan, realising his error, asked the now famous question: 'Oh, is it because I said 'c...'? Cue embarrassment, shame and Hilda's nervous smile. Other cultures in Latin America are more cautious about their cursing. In Cuba, words even like 'carajo' are scorned and the person uttering them admonished.

Yet, there is another side of me that would like to see Son, and Daughter, too, use these words constructively. I guess it is to do with pride and amor propio. Or just with the desire to see them using words that, although high in the cringe factor, are part of their own linguistic DNA.

And I hope they learn when, where and with whom to use them, too.

Copyright 2007