Sunday Mornings: Coffee, Reflections and Music

Roger Taylor once sang "Well, you're just seventeen, all you wanna do is disappear/You know what I meant, there's a lot of space between your ears".

Guess what. My son just turned seventeen recently. Hopefully he won't want to "disappear" any time soon but I know he has a lot of  "space between his ears". What goes on there, I've tried to fathom over the years but the reality is that I'm none the wiser. Which is the way it should be sometimes.

As I was looking at him the other night I thought of an old column I wrote about a trip he and I undertook almost eight years ago. It was the first time he and I were going to be on our own. The trip was organised by our local branch of the Woodcraft Folk and... Well, read my account below, first published in September 2007 and then reprinted a couple of years later. And now, almost eight years later I am posting it again before my beautiful almost-man "disappears" into adulthood.

The coach finally got underway a quarter of an hour later than planned. The sun, streaming through the windshield, bifurcated the vehicle in two. I remained in the section kissed by it. I read my book whilst my son talked to his friend J. My son. It was the first time that father and son would be on a holiday together, although only for a weekend. To me it felt like a rite of passage, like a secret fraternity that we both suddenly found ourselves in. Father and son. The phrase, cliche-tainted, had never occurred to me before. After all, we've always been a compact family together and I try to not make distinctions between son and daughter, age gap and gender notwithstanding. As the coach smoothed down the A406 eastbound, I suddenly thought of Steve Biddulp's book 'Raising Boys'. 'Sport offers a boy a chance to get closer to his father, and to other boys and men, through a common interest they might otherwise lack'. Well, this was our chance. Woodcraft Folk had arranged a whole weekend full of activities at Shadwell. These included kayaking and canoeing. I was looking forward to seeing my son interacting in a different medium almost on his own.

We arrived at the centre just after eight and immediately we were shown our sleeping quarters. These consisted of nothing more than a long room where we had to lay our sleepings bags and mats. Boys and men would sleep in this room, whilst women and girls would take over another room opposite to ours. The excitement coursing through our bodies was palpable to all present there. Games were produced, pizzas were cooked and the joie de vivre did not leave us until the small hours when I finally realised that I had to pump both my son and mine sleeping mattress and steer him to bed. The latter was difficult to achieve as he was high on energy but once he fell in the bed brought to life by me, but deficiently, Orpheus cuddled him and fed him the beautiful dreams we all want our offspring to have. I watched him in silence as his tiny curls moved hither and thither and suddenly it dawned on me that I was the happiest father in the world. I was witnessing innocence asleep. I kissed him on his forehead and sneaked into my own sleeping bag on my very deficient and below par mattress.

The morning found me in high spirits. In the absence of curtains in the room where we were sleeping, we were all woken up by a sun curious to know how our night had been. My son was playing cards with his friend J on his bed and upon seeing me awake he jumped onto my mattress and gave me a huge hug. After my morning exercises we both helped make breakfast for everyone in the centre. Later it was time to get in the water and I could not wait to see him donning his wetsuit and manoeuvring his kayak. After an introductory session from his tutor, who turned out to be a very no-nonsense kind of fellow, all the children went into the water. Bar a few mishaps at the beginning, he got the hang of it pretty soon. At some point they formed a circle and watching him laughing and so full of mirth I was compelled to ask myself: 'How am I turning out as a father?' And more pressing, how am I turning out as a father to a boy? Questions that could look lofty and pretentious for some take on a special meaning when you are born in a different country and the colour of your skin seems to be an excuse for abuse rather than mere pigmentation. Black, Afro-Caribbean fathers have long had a stigma attached to them that makes it hard to argue for individual analysis rather than the lump-them-all-under-the-same-umbrella dissection. As my son spun around on his kayak and joked endlessly (without falling in the water once) I wondered what my expectations were when I was his age. True, we look at our childhood through the eyes of nostalgia and melancholy most of the time. Sometimes with rage, sometimes with candour. But we always look back. What we don't do, what we can never do, is look at the present as we're living it. On the one hand we lack the capacity to apply many of the concepts we'll develop in later years to our infantile understanding of the world. On the other hand, even if we were to question the functionality of our surroundings, we would need a catharsis to effect change. My father never played with me, there was never a throw-around with a baseball, or a kick-about with a football. It was piano from the age of five, school homework to be completed by the end of the day and a strict system at home in order to attain academic achievement. In a way my son's own short life so far has mirrored mine, piano from an early age, good reading skills and an avid reader, good sportsman, talkative, confident, shy at times. During that weekend at the Shadwell Centre, two of the three girls there took to playing with his curls and sought him out more often than his mate J. This demonstrated his social skills and his popularity with people. Everyone was amazed at his bilingual abilities. I could see myself in that nine-year-old. Even down to his overbearing Dad. Am I? Yes, it pains me to admit, but yes. I am. But the main reason is that I love him, I love him to bits and when the time came to jump into the water and get soaked, he wouldn't do it at first (who knows, stage-fright maybe?), until I re-assured him that it would be OK, that he could, that he would love it. And he did. He just did. And I was laughing. And so was he.

On the way back we occupied the same seats, with the sun playing shadow play. Its illuminated backdrop was the perfect setting for us opaque moving images. My son was reading a book in Spanish before turning to his mate J to pick up the thread of the conversation they'd left unfinished back at the centre. I listened in whilst pretending to read (I swear I can do both) and the innocent tone of it brought back memories of chats under mango trees in my uncles' and aunties' when I was a teeny weenie prepubescent boy. It brought back the smell of September mornings in Cuba as summer still lingered behind for a little sleep-in but autumn was already announcing its grand entrance. There were not coming-of-age ceremonies over that weekend at Shadwell, no titanic feats to accomplish, but on that late summer afternoon and on the two days that preceded it, my son and I grew to the same height together, hand in hand, together.
 

Copyright 2007

Next Post: "Urban Diary", to be published on Wednesday 21st January at 11:59pm (GMT)

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

In the spirit of contributing to our green cyber-environment I will be uploading (shall we call it 'recycling'?) past posts every now and then. I look at it from the point of view of someone who has become an eco-cyber warrior instead of one of Jack Kerouac's drifters, bereft of rudder or compass. But as usual, you're more than welcome to make up your own minds. :-)

- 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, in addition to 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 that 'funny' was both 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 it 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 (the easy ones, mind), 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 2010

Illustration courtesy of Garrincha

Living in a Bilingual World (The One About the Linguistic Ruse)

- ¡Quiero que mi hermana salga de mi cuarto ahora mismo! I want my sister to leave my room right now!

I was more surprised by Son's correct use of the subjunctive mood of the verb 'salir' (to leave) than by the actual message he was conveying. After all, even though he and Daughter get on very well, they have been known to have the odd squabble now and then. But what was happening now and has been, in fact, occurring in the last couple of years is worth seeing as an exercise in parental control... by the children.

Whereas both Daughter and Son's Spanish accents are as neutral as they can be due to the lack of surrounding Hispanic speech patterns, that has never affected their fluency. Grammar is still wanting sometimes but overall their linguistic skills are excellent. A plus, or drawback - whichever way you choose to see it - is that they are not exposed to insults in my mother tongue. And I mean the benign ones, the equivalent to 'Damn!' in English. This brings a mix of comfort and displeasure at the same time as, on the one hand I will be very unlikely to ever become the object of their adolescent linguistic wrath (I will leave that to Wife), but on the other hand I will probably miss a '¡Coño!' or '¡Carajo!' said with vim (by the way there's a bar called 'Carajo' in Vitoria, in the Basque Country, needless to say it cracked me up the first time I heard of it). I know that those parents who already have problems with their teenage children will tell me that I will come to rue that fantasy but when you live in a foreign land even the sound of a 'palabra fea' ('ugly word', as my late Gran used to called them) in your native tongue coming out of your children's mouths is enough to make your day.

There are promising signs on the horizon, though, that this situation will change soon. As I explained at the beginning of this post I have noticed a tendency in the last two years, especially in Son, to tailor his Spanish in a way that it will attract my attention. His arguments with his sister still take place in English, but when I step in to calm down the storm, and demand both versions of the story, his replies are grammatically correct and semantically sound. This has led to his younger sibling raising her game and now Daughter has the most amazing rows with me using language that I'm sure she has been discovering on her own (visions of her with a torch on in her bedrooom at 2am raiding her English-Spanish dictionary for 'unusual' terms she could bring up in an altercation with me look very plausible).

When we go to Cuba or Spain both Son and Daughter speak in English to each other. But the other day I was downstairs sorting out the clothes to iron when I heard Son utter a word in Spanish to his sister. I stopped what I was doing and yes, they were having a conversation, if somewhat basic (something to do with school) in Spanish. And would you believe it? Neither a squabble, nor an 'ugly word' in sight. Marvellous.

Copyright 2009

Next Post: 'Sunday Mornings: Coffee, Reflections and Music', to be published on Sunday 13th December at 10am (GMT)

Living in a Bilingual World (The One About the Linguistic Entente)

Daughter (arms crossed, neck stretching out and eyes wide open): ¿Puedes dejar de hablar y oírme, por favor? (Can you stop talking and listen to me, please?) Estoy tratando de explicarte por qué me estoy demorando con la... con la... con la... (I am trying to explain to you why I'm taking so long with the... with the... with the...) (turning to Son) How do you say 'wart' in Spanish?

Son: Verruca.

Me: Verruga.

Son: OK, gracias.

Me: Sí, pero de todas formas no me has dicho todavía por que te has demorado más de diez minutos con la verruga cuando tú sabes que vamos a leer en un rato (Yes, but still you have not said why it's taken you more than ten minutes to deal with your wart when you know that it's our reading time).

Daughter (raising her voice): Sí, pero no me estás dejando hablar. La razón porque... (yes, but you have not let me finish. The reason for why...)

Me (serious): Por la que... (why)

Daughter: ... por la que me estoy demorando es que primero tengo que... que... que... (the reason why I have been taking so long is that first I have to... to... to...) (turning to Son), how do you say 'soften' in Spanish?

Son (frowning): 'Soften'? Ahhh... 'suave', no, no thats 'soft'. Let me look it up in the dictionary.

One part of the Linguistic Entente dashes off to his room. An awkard silence ensues between the other part and Me.

Daughter (looking at me): Tú nunca escuchas a nadie (you never listen to anyone)

Me (looking away so that she canot see the smile that is about to become laughter): Sí, yo te escucho, pero hoy te has demorado demasiado (yes, I do listen to you, but tonight you've taken too long).

Son (shouting from his bedroom): ¡¡¡'Ablandar'!!! (Soften!!!)

Daughter (picking up thread of conversation): La razón por la que me estoy demorando tanto es que primero tengo que ablandar la verruca... (the reason why I'm taking so long is that first I have to soften the vart...)

Me: Verruga (wart)

Daughter: Verruga (wart). Y después tengo que limarla y después es que tú puedes poner la medicina en el dedo. ¿Entiendes? (And then I have to file it, and then you can put the cream on my toe. Right?)

Me: Sí, entiendo, diez minutos más y ya (yes, I understand, ten more minutes and that's it).

I go down the stairs and when I open the kitchen door I see Wife doubled up with laughter. I join in, too.

Copyright 2009

Next Post: 'Song for a Summer Sunday Morning' to be published on Sunday 21st June at 10am

From Father to Son

I was rummaging through my older posts the other day (yes, I sometimes do that, I don't like repeating myself unless I intend to) when I came across a column I penned in September 2007 about the first trip my son and I undertook together on our own. And on the eve of his birthday I have dusted this post off and presented it to him, that is, if he ever gets to read my blog.

The coach finally got underway a quarter of an hour later than planned. The sun, streaming through the windshield, bifurcated the vehicle in two. I remained in the section kissed by it. I read my book whilst my son talked to his friend J. My son. It was the first time that father and son would be on a holiday together, although only for a weekend. To me it felt like a rite of passage, like a secret fraternity that we both suddenly found ourselves in. Father and son. The phrase, cliche-tainted, had never occurred to me before. After all, we've always been a compact family together and I try to not make distinctions between son and daughter, age gap and gender notwithstanding. As the coach smoothed down the A406 eastbound, I suddenly thought of Steve Biddulp's book 'Raising Boys'. 'Sport offers a boy a chance to get closer to his father, and to other boys and men, through a common interest they might otherwise lack'. Well, this was our chance. Woodcraft Folk had arranged a whole weekend full of activities at Shadwell. These included kayaking and canoeing. I was looking forward to seeing my son interacting in a different medium almost on his own.

We arrived at the centre just after eight and immediately we were shown our sleeping quarters. These consisted of nothing more than a long room where we had to lay our sleepings bags and mats. Boys and men would sleep in this room, whilst women and girls would take over another room opposite to ours. The excitement coursing through our bodies was palpable to all present there. Games were produced, pizzas were cooked and the joie de vivre did not leave us until the small hours when I finally realised that I had to pump both my son and mine sleeping mattress and steer him to bed. The latter was difficult to achieve as he was high on energy but once he fell in the bed brought to life by me, but deficiently, Orpheus cuddled him and fed him the beautiful dreams we all want our offspring to have. I watched him in silence as his tiny curls moved hither and thither and suddenly it dawned on me that I was the happiest father in the world. I was witnessing innocence asleep. I kissed him on his forehead and sneaked into my own sleeping bag on my very deficient and below par mattress.

The morning found me in high spirits. In the absence of curtains in the room where we were sleeping, we were all woken up by a sun curious to know how our night had been. My son was playing cards with his friend J on his bed and upon seeing me awake he jumped onto my mattress and gave me a huge hug. After my morning exercises we both helped make breakfast for everyone in the centre. Later it was time to get in the water and I could not wait to see him donning his wetsuit and manoeuvring his kayak. After an introductory session from his tutor, who turned out to be a very no-nonsense kind of fellow, all the children went into the water. Bar a few mishaps at the beginning, he got the hang of it pretty soon. At some point they formed a circle and watching him laughing and so full of mirth I was compelled to ask myself: 'How am I turning out as a father?' And more pressing, how am I turning out as a father to a boy? Questions that could look lofty and pretentious for some take on a special meaning when you are born in a different country and the colour of your skin seems to be an excuse for abuse rather than mere pigmentation. Black, Afro-Caribbean fathers have long had a stigma attached to them that makes it hard to argue for individual analysis rather than the lump-them-all-under-the-same-umbrella dissection. As my son spun around on his kayak and joked endlessly (without falling in the water once) I wondered what my expectations were when I was his age. True, we look at our childhood through the eyes of nostalgia and melancholy most of the time. Sometimes with rage, sometimes with candour. But we always look back. What we don't do, what we can never do, is look at the present as we're living it. On the one hand we lack the capacity to apply many of the concepts we'll develop in later years to our infantile understanding of the world. On the other hand, even if we were to question the functionality of our surroundings, we would need a catharsis to effect change. My father never played with me, there was never a throw-around with a baseball, or a kick-about with a football. It was piano from the age of five, school homework to be completed by the end of the day and a strict system at home in order to attain academic achievement. In a way my son's own short life so far has mirrored mine, piano from an early age, good reading skills and an avid reader, good sportsman, talkative, confident, shy at times. During that weekend at the Shadwell Centre, two of the three girls there took to playing with his curls and sought him out more often than his mate J. This demonstrated his social skills and his popularity with people. Everyone was amazed at his bilingual abilities. I could see myself in that nine-year-old. Even down to his overbearing Dad. Am I? Yes, it pains me to admit, but yes. I am. But the main reason is that I love him, I love him to bits and when the time came to jump into the water and get soaked, he wouldn't do it at first (who knows, stage-fright maybe?), until I re-assured him that it would be OK, that he could, that he would love it. And he did. He just did. And I was laughing. And so was he.

On the way back we occupied the same seats, with the sun playing shadow play. Its illuminated backdrop was the perfect setting for us opaque moving images. My son was reading a book in Spanish before turning to his mate J to pick up the thread of the conversation they'd left unfinished back at the centre. I listened in whilst pretending to read (I swear I can do both) and the innocent tone of it brought back memories of chats under mango trees in my uncles' and aunties' when I was a teeny weenie prepubescent boy. It brought back the smell of September mornings in Cuba as summer still lingered behind for a little sleep-in but autumn was already announcing its grand entrance. There were not coming-of-age ceremonies over that weekend at Shadwell, no titanic feats to accomplish, but on that late summer afternoon and on the two days that preceded it, my son and I grew to the same height together, hand in hand, together.

Copyright 2007

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 (Prestissimo)

- Why can't I have a mobile phone like my cousin?

- Because you're only ten. That's why.

- But with a mobile, you will always know where I am and if something happens, I can call you. And also my cousin's mobile can play videos and take pictures.

- I will always know where you are, you're ten, remember? And as for videos and pictures, how do they compare to a real video or photo camera?

- But...

- Enough! I've had it! We're not going to buy a mobile phone, and that's that!

That was Son, Wife and Me in the car recently. One of my biggest fears had arrived home and turned into the monster featured in Salman Rushdie's novel 'Shame' (review to follow soon). We had just been to his cousins' and whilst there he had come across the latest technology in mobile phones. The one function this little gadget was not capable of performing yet was taking your shoes off and ushering you to your seat in the lounge.

As modern, forward-thinking parents, Wife and I try to give Son and Daughter as much freedom as possible. We have set up family meetings on Sundays where serious issues are discussed without any fear of backlash (are you listening 'you know who'?). But this particular topic unnerves me no end.

It's not just the act of possessing an unnecessary accesory for his age, it's the fact that Son is a very articulate young child for a ten-year-old. And the biggest threat I see looming on the horizon is a linguistic debacle.

Back in 2003 there was a media scare about an exam essay that had been allegedly written in textspeak (txt spk). Within days, it had been picked up by both the tabloids and the broadsheets, and commentators and analysts alike were heard bemoaning how academic standards had slipped further down. The future of language, and specifically the English language was doomed.

The story turned out to be a hoax, but that fact still did not deter most people, including John Humphrys on BBC Radio Four, from arriving at the conclusion that the kids had really taken over the asylum.

And so, as a defender of language, not just the ability to speak it well, but the freedom to do so, I found myself in an interesting quagmire. Is text speak the new Esperanto, or is it a paltry excuse for the poor use of our rich vocabulary (I'm talking mainly from a Spanish- and English-speaking person's point of view)? Hv the kdz rlly tkn ovr the asylum? Is txtspk the ftr?

Well, according to David Crystal, one of the UK's leading linguistic academics, the debate (or should that be db8?) is far more complex than what it appears. In an interview with The Guardian he states that "almost every basic principle that people hold about texting turns out to be misconceived. Misspelling isn't universal: analysis shows that only 10% of words used in texts are misspelt. Nor are most texts sent by kids: 80% are sent by businesses and adults. Likewise, there is no evidence that texting teaches people to spell badly: rather, research shows that those kids who text frequently are more likely to be the most literate and the best spellers, because you have to know how to manipulate language,".

Fine, David, thanks, but sorry, mate, that still leaves out the fact that when you're texting you're compressing language, a process that occurs in the English lexicon every nanosecond, leaving us latecomers with the disadvantage that what we learnt back in Uni (and spent an awful lot of time wrecking our brains to figure out) is not applicable anymore due to a more laissez-faire linguistic attitude.

Don't get me wrong. I'm in principle with David that technology need not be a four-eyed green monster that spews yellow saliva everytime it utters a word in text speak, but I think that the long-term effects will be more damaging as the next generation will have very little or almost no contact with the beauty and vagaries of language as such.

As an example I bring to the fore the case of a young student who contacted me once in regards to a work experience opportunity we had at the company I used to work for until recently. His e-mail was peppered with text speak words which left me confounded and befuddled. As a consequence his correspondence went to the bottom of the pile, not without first (cruelly, I admit, but what can I do, I'm a Scorpio!) summoning my work colleagues to laugh our heads off at the content of the message, which, I am sad to say, we all struggled to understand.

That's why my biggest fear is not just that Son will become a zombie, walking around the streets of London texting left, right and centre, withouth paying any attention to the traffic (always perilous!) or without interacting with his fellow human beings; but it's also the apprehension that his well- and hard-earned linguistic skills will evaporate like molecules escaping in a mist of kinetic energy.

In the meantime, no mobile phone. And that's that.

Copyright 2008

Living in a Bilingual World (Sostenuto)

Son (a few months ago): Es que hay muchas cosas que yo no puedo decir... (It's just, there are so many things I don't know how to say...)

Daughter (a few months ago, too): Hay algo que quiero decir... (There's something I want to say...)

Daughter ( a couple of weeks ago): Es la cosita que va dentro... (It's that thingy that goes inside...)

Have you noticed anything strange in the comments above? No? Then, brace yourselves, for you have already fallen prey to a devastating linguistic disease, somethingism and thingism.

THING AND SOMETHING

Dictionary.com defines the word thing as:

1. a material object without life or consciousness; an inanimate object.

2. some entity, object, or creature that is not or cannot be specifically designated or precisely described.

3. anything that is or may become an object of thought.

whereas something is:

1. some thing; a certain undetermined or unspecified thing.

2. an additional amount, as of cents or minutes, that is unknown, unspecified, or forgotten

However, what neither definition addresses is the condition that affects most of us at some point in our lives: the overuse of 'thing' and 'something'.

When I was in year 12 in college we learnt the name of this particular linguistic malaise: 'cosismo' in Spanish ('thingism', I made that word up in English) and 'alguismo' ('somethingism', yup, I made that one up, too). The cause is poor vocabulary, the consequences are far worse as this phenomenon will leave you with an even a poorer lexicon than the one you had (or did not have) before.

I am as guilty as anyone else of having indulged in this little linguistic peccadillo every so often. When one's mind is tired, the last thing (you see?) you want to struggle with is a word that will fit into your speech pattern ever so perfectly and cleverly at the right time and in the right situation. That's why we have 'thing' and 'something'. They are cushions for linguistic comfort. But I do remember that as a seventeen-year-old I was impressed by how many words we obliterate from our vocabulary so that 'thing' and 'something' could have their right of way.

And it's not just my children who bask in this linguistic extravagance, but as the examples below aver, national newspapers columnists revel in their 'thingisms' and 'somethingisms' just as, or rather, more than anyone else.

'Still time for President Bush to achieve something positive (...) Bush also needs to say something soon about whether, if taxpayers’ money is used to bail out banks (...) Bush’s instinct to do little is not the worst one around, in the chorus of calls to do something dramatic.... (Bronwen Maddox, The Times, 28th March)'

'The real elephant in the room, the massive thing we don't talk about (Jude Rogers, The Guardian, Fri 19th Sep)'

'Boris Johnson has publicised 'cost-cutting' since becoming Mayor of London. Now I'm told he's invited tenders for 'well-being workshops' to support staff in dealing with the cuts he's making. Isn't this the sort of thing he's supposed to find ridiculous? (Oliver Marre, The Observer, 21st Sep)'

Nor is this phenomenon confined to just English and Spanish. In French they have 'chose' and 'quelquechose' and in German it is 'etwas'.

something, thing, thingy (this last term is one of my pet hates). Is this the future of language? You might think that I am behaving like an old, grumpy linguist whose attire includes a tweed jacket and a pair of corduroy trousers, but no, my concern, primarily, is about the beauty of language, whether it be English, French or Spanish. Whilst we talk we are prone to repeating words for emphasis, leaving blanks in sentences for the other person to fill in, and using our hands and heads as substitutes for spoken phrases. That's fine. But, how about when we sit down to write letters, articles or posts on our blogs? How many of us have a thesaurus on hand to give us some help in order to embellish our columns? It's not about being bookish, it's about not throwing the book away. And if you don't believe me, I will use the examples I've given so far, including Son and Daughter's, to illustrate how there's no excuse for linguistic laziness.

It's just, there are so many things I don't know how to say... (change things for phrases/words/terms)

There's something I want to say... (How about: I would like to make a comment? Or: there's an issue I would like to discuss)

It's that thingy that goes inside... (Change thingy for tool, piece, or whatever it is that applies to the part that is being described)

In the case of the newspapers articles, my suggestions run thus:

The Times: In the case of the first 'something' I would write 'to achieve a positive arrangement/to have a positive outcome'. The second one I would change to 'Bush needs to come clear...' The third one is slightly more difficult to change, I think that 'something' does play an important role in this case because it emphasises the urgency of the issue discussed, so, I shall leave it the way it is.

The Guardian: I would change 'thing' for 'issue' or 'topic', 'problem', 'dilemma'.

The Observer: The minute I read it today two were words flashed up in my brain, 'situation and 'scenario'.

So, there you have it, easy peasy, lemon squeezy. Not a hard thing to do, eh? Beg your pardon! Not a hard... hard... hard... task to accomplish, eh?

Copyright 2008

Living in a Bilingual World (Vivace)

For the first and second parts of this series, click here, and here.

Wednesday 6th August, afternoon, summer camp, Dorset.

A group of people holding hands together in a circle.

Middle-aged Man: ‘Link your hands together
Middle-aged Woman: A circle we will make
Dark-haired Girl: This bond of our friendship
Blond Girl: No power can break
Son: We’ll all join together
Daughter: In one mighty throng
Wife: Should any be weary
Me: We’ll help them along
Middle-aged couple: Should any be weary
Everybody in unison: We’ll help them along!’

The circle breaks and a group photo is taken. Out of the corner of my eye I see a diminutive figure scurrying away, getting smaller and smaller as he dashes off. His tail (yes, tail!) is tucked in between his legs and his face is flustered.

I know I will come across Little Englander again, but for this one time he has been defeated.

Living in a Bilingual World 2 – Little Englander 0 (goal forfeited for ugliness)

Copyright 2008

Living in a Bilingual World (Lachrymosa)

Monday 4th August, morning, summer camp in Dorset.

Daughter: Dieciocho! (Eighteen)
Son: Diecinueve! (Nineteen)
Blonde Girl: Can we count in English, please?
Black-haired Girl: Yes, can we count in English? It’s getting very confusing.
Middle-aged Couple: Yes, English, English!

The counting began again and when it to got to Son and Daughter…

Daughter: Dieciocho!
Son: Diecinueve!
Blonde Girl: English, please!
Black-haired Girl: Yes, English!
Middle-aged Couple: English, English!

So, one more time the counting began and this time both Son and Daughter complied with the request (or order, whichever way you want to look at it).

As for me, I stood there, mouth open and ears refusing to believe what had just happened. What should have been an innocent activity had turned out to be an ugly display of linguistic intolerance. Counting was done for a purpose. To make sure that we had the right numbers in the camp and that no one was missing. After all, there were children whose parents were not present and we all had to watch over them. During counting some adults used Roman numbers, whereas others used German or French. But it was supposed to be fun. So, where had this prejudice come from?

Suddenly, out of the corner of my right eye I saw a shadow moving furtively around the circle we had formed earlier. He (for it was a man) was crouching behind the crowd of campers, drifting stealthily from one side of the circle to the other. What was strange about this scenario was that none of the other people seemed to have noticed the intruder.

Little Englander had made a chameo appearance at summer camp. And at least for me it was a most unnecessary and distasteful one.



A brief explanation must be given now. Little Englander is a creature that dwells in the realm of Middle England. Its natural habitat is the suburbs of big metropolis like London, Manchester and Cardiff and the British countryside. Little Englander (usually male, although women can be found in its ranks, too) stands for everything modern Britain wants to move away from. His anti-multiculturalism, jingoistic attitude and xenophobic points of view should make Little Englander a figure of mockery and parody in this time and age. However, he is still alive, very well alive and kicking. And the fact is that he has not changed much throughout the years.

Little Englander usually reads The Daily Mail and The Daily Telegraph, loathes the BBC, detests leftwing, sandal-wearing and muesli-eating people who read The Guardian, The Observer and The Independent and cannot withstand difference, especially linguistic ones. He is pro-royal, pro-hunting and anti-establishment (in the broadest sense of the word, as in opposed to whoever is in government and doesn’t follow his politics). Little Englander is by nature, rightwing and bigoted. Above all, Little Englander hates foreigners, unless they are the type who parade around the West End in London, as they all go back home after their stay in the British capital. Other than those, Little Englander has little patience for those of us who have relocated to this country and have become law-abiding citizens who have enriched the social make-up of Great Britain.

So, the issue for me was, what was this unwelcome character doing here at summer camp? After all, this was a week-long event coordinated by a local group that swears by a greener and fairer world as was shown a couple of years ago when they took part in a huge Peace Summer Camp in Essex. One of the lines of the various creeds they have states that they have the intention of ‘spanning the world with friendship’, which is a huge claim, however, for the last five years I have seen them acting on that pledge. So, why was this insignificant, throw-back-to-another-era, pathetic excuse of a human being allowed to come into our camp and roam around unchallenged? Especially when Black-haired Girl had just told me a few weeks before that she had done her work experience with Johann Hari, the maverick columnist at the Independent who had put her in touch with Tony Benn, of who she was a fan? Well, what would she have made of Tony’s opinion on war and militarism: ‘"if we are serious about wanting peace we have got to eliminate the causes of war, and to do that we shall have to study our history a bit more carefully". And our culture, I should add. And language, like it or not, is part of that culture.

Afterwards, both Son and Daughter’s faces said it all. They felt defeated. They could not understand what had happened. I had to tell them both later that nobody, NOBODY had any authority to tell them not to speak in their language, because Spanish is their language, too. It’s part of their social and cultural make-up. It’s part of their half Cubanness.

However I could not help feeling that Little Englander had scored a precious goal. So, it was game on boy, and you know what, I‘m coming for you!

Little Englander 1 – Living in a Bilingual World 0

(To be continued)

Copyright 2008

Living in a Bilingual World (Aria)

- ‘Había una vez dos hermanitos: Juanito y Pedrito’. (Once upon a time there two brothers: Little Johnny and Little Peter), Daughter said.
- No, no, nena, the intonation is: HaBÍa una VEZ dos hermaNItos: JuaNIto y PeDRIto. (Once upon a Time, there were two BROthers: LIttle Johnny and LIttle Peter)

And so Daughter repeated the sentence accordingly with a clear and accentuated pitch.

One of the most overlooked aspects of teaching and learning a foreign language is the different intonation patterns people have. Please, note that I am referring to intonation, the melody of pitch changes in connected speech, namely, what distinguishes speakers from dissimilar linguistic cultures. Not stress, which is the emphasis in the form of prominent relative loudness of a syllable or word as a result of special effort in utterance (that will be the subject of a future column). Intonation and stress are sometimes mixed up, hence my explanation.



Both Son and Daughter have British accents and therefore their intonation owes a lot to that nasal twang so characteristic of north Londoners. Coupled with this is the influence of US and Australian cultures and the patterns that govern their speech and at times both Son and Daughter's voices reach that rising inflection so typical of the aforementioned countries (especially northeast United States where people seem to be asking questions the whole time when they are actually making statements). It has been a lovely battle to wage, though, teaching them the correct intonation patterns of Cuban Spanish, since when I explain this to them they pay attention closely.

Last year when we were all in Cuba, Son adopted a distinctive, melodic speech rhythm. Because he played and talked a lot with his Cuban cousin who is the same age he is (only a couple of weeks younger) he came back to the UK with a twang that resembled the Havana accent but with a ‘cantaito’ (singsong intonation) leaning heavily towards eastern Cuba, the so-called ‘Oriental’ patois. I teased him a bit about it, but not in a negative or derogatory way, just to show him the various forms in which people speak Spanish in the Ibero-Latin Diaspora.

For instance, Andalusians and Canarians have a closer accent to Cubans than the rest of Spain. Cubans, on the other hand, share a more similar speech pattern with Dominicans (as in Dominican Republic), Puerto Ricans, Venezuelans and Colombians. Travel southwards and you will find Ecuadorians, Peruvians and Bolivians gravitating towards a similar standard of oral melodies. Argentinians, Uruguayans and Paraguayans, no matter what they say, have the Italian influence to thank for their musical speech. The only country that does not factor into this equal distribution communication standards is the Chilean speech pattern. The first time I heard a Chilean person speaking I was bamboozled. Their intonation, in my humble opinion, resembles more the northeast US and Australian accents already mentioned in this column than the more usual Spanish accents I come across and it’s a beautiful example of how misleading Spanish can be to the untrained ear (I must remark at this point that I am a sucker for accents and for me not one comes above another, whether I am speaking in English, Spanish, German or French). It’s a similar case in Central America with Mexico the nation standing out amongst countries like El Salvador, Nicaragua and Honduras where the variation of tone shares more commonalities.

With Daughter and the story of ‘El Osito Boribón’ (Little Bear Boribón) it was not just a question of intonation but also of narration. Further down the page we were on, she read:

- Tenían una suiza… y la rompieron, les regalaron un trencito… y también lo rompieron, les regalaron una pelota… y la reventaron (they had a skipping rope… and they broke it, they were given a train set… and they also broke it, they were given a ball… and they burst it)
- No, no, nena. Try to give the audience a sense of anticipation so that they are left craving for more and desperate to know what the ending is, like this: they had a SKIPPING ROPE… and they BROKE it, they were given a TRAIN SET… and they ALSO broke it, they were given a BALL… and they BURST it.

You see, it is not just the intonation, but also the acting that goes with it.


Copyright 2008

Living in a Bilingual World (Prestissimo)

- Papi, what's this word?

Son’s voice snapped me out of my reverie. His index finger was pointing at a word in italics bang in the middle of a long sentence. All the other words were in English, but this one in particular stood out amongst the others. The reason? It was in Spanish.

The dreaded 'c' word had arrived in Son’s world.

Living in a Bilingual World has very limited patience for pretentious newspapers columnists with lofty linguistic ambitions, but my eye has been caught recently by certain articles I have read both in print and on the internet where the ‘c’ word has been included gratuitously.

Of course, there is a chance you are already familiar with the ‘c’ word. If you speak Spanish, that is. And if you hail from Latin America as I do, you will find it as offensive as I do. I can’t even bring myself to write it so I will have to do the same they do sometimes in written publications; to place asterisks strategically; do not fret, though, you will recognise it immediately.

C stands for c******. Got it? Seven letters. Seven gratuitously offensive letters (Spaniards do not count as I know that they love cursing left, right and centre).

So, why? Why has it become a habit to band this four-letter word about (admittedly, it is actually seven letters, but let’s not get too picky about it, shall we?) as if it was Angelina Jolie’s latest adopted Third World orphan?

I think the reason stems from the desire to sound cool in another language. Given the shortcomings in the learning and teaching of foreign languages in the UK and to which I have referred before here in this space, there’s a zeal to prove that at least when it comes to swear words, British journalists are up to scratch. Timothy Garton Ash, one of my favourite columnists in The Guardian, has used it (sin asteriscos, mind). Catherine Bennett, from The Observer and another features writer I worship, can’t let go of it (or them, and no, no pun intended). Over at the holier-than-thou Daily Telegraph, Andrew Grimson reminds readers that even Liberal Democratic leaders must remember where they have theirs. In case they lose them, maybe. Even The Times is at it with them. And it is not only the Brits; their German counterparts are guilty of the same crime, too.

It is a sad situation when you have to explain to a ten-year-old (Son), that no, this is not a nice word, that a man’s private parts are usually asterisked in the British media (except in The Guardian and The Observer where they delight in using all kinds of expletives without covering them up) and that some words sound very strong to certain cultures.

And what about Son? Well, what about Son?

- How do you pronounce this word, then, papi?

- Well, as you know, the ‘j’ sounds like the English ‘h’. But I bet they don’t know that.

N.B.: For non-Spanish speakers, just in case it has not been obvious to you, either by the tone of the column or by the photo included in it, the 'c' word I alluded to in the above post is a swear word for 'testicles' in Spanish.

© 2008

Living in a Bilingual World (Symphony for Tenor and Orchestra)

- Papi, why is it that not many people in our school speak another language? (this was Daughter) - What do you mean?
- Well, like we speak Spanish but the other children go to Spain for holidays and all they can say is 'Hola'.
- I am sure that they learn other words but they forget them as soon as they step off the plane after they arrive in the UK.
- Other children in my class always ask me what we are talking about when you drop me off at school and we are having a conversation. (this was Son)
- And what do you say?
- I just translate what we've been discussing because it is not like it is a secret or anything, is it?

This is a constant topic of conversation around the table with Wife contributing as much as I do. Many times whilst in Spain I have entered a bar only to find a handful of British expats leaning on the counter and bellowing out:

“Dos cervezas por favor.” (Two beers, please)

You could be forgiven for thinking that those are the only words a British tourist will manage to utter whilst on holiday in Spain or any other Spanish-speaking country. And you could be right.

The UK lies at the bottom of the league of European nations whose citizens can master two or even three other languages. A typical Scandinavian will speak English and French besides Swedish or Norwegian for instance. Go to Germany and most people will speak English as a second language, sometimes as fluent as their own mother tongue. Move over to Spain , and you will find many locals conversing in French effortlessly.

So, are British bad at languages? Al contrario. In defence of my adopted land, I have to mention some factors that have conspired against their taking up the learning of foreign languages more seriously.

The first one is that English is the recognised international lingua franca and this has created a sense of linguistic complacency amongst Anglophones. Travel to Nepal or Brazil and the chances are that you will come across someone who can muster a few words in Shakespeare’s language.

The second reason was the ill-fated decision in 2002 to make the learning of foreign languages optional after age 14.

The third and final explanation could have something to do with Britain ’s national sport: self-deprecation and self-effacement. Speaking a foreign language demands a type of mettle and exposure that could very easily be undermined by self-disparagement.

Still, there is room for hope. Following a study by the National Foundation for Educational Research, which showed that 84% of primary schools now teach children another language, the government is planning to encourage the take-up of languages overall. And as the proud father of two bilingual children I cannot vouch enough for the benefit the learning of a foreign lingo brings to a little one.

And who knows, maybe you will be able to take that conversation further than just two beers.

Copyright 2008

Illustration courtesy of Garrincha

Living in a Bilingual World (Lento)

- Papi, can you give me 'that'?

- Pardon?

- Can you give me 'that'?

- Can I give you 'what' exactly?

- Can you give me 'that' to put it inside 'this'?

- I don't understand, nena.

- Hmmm... Can you give me that jumper to put it inside this basket?

- Ahhh, that I DO understand!

It is a problem, really. It is not just Daughter who indulges in this practice. Son is also keen to use demonstrative pronouns when he should be using proper nouns instead. And they do it both in English and Spanish, so really I should not feel too hard done by.

Well, actually, I do. I don't like linguistic laziness and it is a fact that once you go down the road of economising language it is very likely that you will drive through all the stop signs that come your way without paying hardly any attention to them at all. I understand that sometimes Son and Daughter are physically knackered, their energies completely spent after countless hours engaging both brawn and brains, but even so, simple words like 'jumper' and 'basket' should never go AWOL in a person's conversation.

Because they're both learning Spanish and it will be obviously a lifetime process (I am still getting to grips with English after all these years), I do give them some leeway occasionally, especially with words they don't know. But when I am in my Cruella de Vil mood, I make them both go up to Son's room where the two Spanish dictionaries are kept, in order to look up the word or words they want to use.

But then again, Daughter always knew what 'jumper' and 'basket' were.

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 (Andante)

Me: 'Bueno, ya tú sabes...' (Well, you know...)

Son: ...???

Me: 'Tú sabes como es eso...' (You know how it goes...)

Son: ...???

Me: 'Nene, que la cosa es...' (Baby, the thing is...)

Son: ...???

Well, I can't blame him, can I? Son had just been the victim of Cuban prolepsis.

He is ten, has been speaking in Spanish practically since he was in his Mum's womb (I used to play and sing to him Bola de Nieve's version of 'Drume Negrita' changing 'ita' for 'ito'. Yes, I know it doesn't rhyme, but what can you do? It's such a lovely lullaby and the Guanabacoense's voice is so soothing and mellow. I took good care not to drown the sound of his voice, but you can never be too careful, can you? Oops, I just realised that I am still in brackets), anyway, as I mentioned before, he has been speaking in Spanish for many years, but that doesn't mean that he can speak Cubanish. That's a different monster. And what a monster.

The natives of the largest island of the Antilles, that's us, Cubans, have the habit of stopping short of a word that the sentence seems to be leading to - as in "Well, you know ..." without specifying "it's difficult" or "it couldn't be any easier, mate". This phenomenon is called prolepsis and occurs in all languages. However, I have noticed that we, Cubans, do seem to enjoy this quasi-elliptical, linguistic, fortuitous occurrence more.

In German, in my experience, most people tend to finish their sentences, they don't expect others to do the donkey work for them. That's not what we do in Spanish. But whilst it's not a problem for us, dwellers of the Key to the Gulf, it's a nightmare for others. I am thinking of Wife now. I have lost count of the number of times when she has stood there in the middle of the kitchen, mouth wide open waiting for me to finish the phrase I had just started. Sometimes she even prompts me with: '... know... what exactly?' Now, she is well aware of this phenomenon, so I suspect she's playing me at my own linguistic game, but I have noticed that both Son and Daughter's faces remain blank and expressionless and I am afraid I might be laying the foundations for a future linguistic trauma that will unfold in years to come.

In French, and in English, too, especially in Britain, people tend to stutter (I've noticed these bouts of sudden stammer more amongst the chattering classes in both nations than in working class folk who usually tell it like it is, then again in Britain's case it could be a case of Hugh Grantinitis; he created a template against which most foreigners judge white, middle-class British men by. Oopsie daisy, I went over the top again whilst writing in brackets, sorry!); this stuttering might be conducive to prolepsis, but as in German, the idea being expressed is completed, the other person is satisfied with the reply and everybody goes home happy and with a spring in their step. In Cuba, on the other hand, the omission of parts of a standard syntactical construction is pretty customary and nobody bats an eyelid over it.

Son, then, has a steep, linguistic hill to climb, but one where culture, once again, plays an important role. I know he will appreciate it. In the meantime, I will do my best to finish my sentences off, close them, lock them up and keep the key in my pocket.

Because you know...

Copyright 2008

Illustration courtesy of Garrincha

Living in a Bilingual World (Cantata)

Muggle or muguel? Quaffle or cuafel? Bludger or...? Oh, well, I owe you that one.

For the last couple of months I have been reading the Spanish translation of 'Harry Potter and the Philosopher's Stone' (Harry Potter y la Piedra Filosofal) with Son and the experience has been both rewarding and bonding.

However, the linguistic pedant that dwells inside me has noticed how certain words have been allowed to remain unchanged from the original text in English. And this conundrum has caused a nice debate between Wife and me.

I am of the opinion that when converting the words and phrases of a particular language into another one, one must observe the golden rule of translation: 'Translate ideas, not words'. And although it's close to two decades now since I first came across it, I have tried to follow that maxim to the letter. Yet, this rule does not explain what to do when one encounters made-up words in the language we translate from. Shall we leave them the way they are? Or shall we at least attempt to bring them into our own language spelling them in a way suggesting that that was the way the author would have done it had he/she written in our language?

I am pretty sure that opinions on the matter are divided. However, occasionally I lean towards the latter case. And 'Harry Potter...' is a good case to illustrate my point.

Since the book takes place in London and we all know that English is the official language spoken by the denizens of the British capital, it would be really silly to try to translate street names and main characters' monikers (I am sure some of them could do with a Spanish translation, but let's not get too pedantic, shall we?). The issue is when we enter the realm of fantasy. A muggle (a person with no magical powers) could well be a muguel in Spanish. The spelling is similar and the word's semantics would not suffer. Likewise, the quaffle (the ball used to play quidditch with), could perfectly become a cuafel. Even the pronunciation is similar, let alone the spelling. So, why not?

I reckon that one of the reasons why this approach is not taken into account is reverence towards success. If the Harry Potter series had not become the financially rewarding franchise it has turned out to be, it would have been far easier (or less difficult, for it's never easy for a translator to stick their hands in the fire without getting burned) for Alicia Dellepiane, the person credited with bringing the British hero to Spanish-speaking peoples, to 'improvise' with elements of her own volition. But because the series has done remarkably well, there's a sense of genuflection towards and awe of both the author and the novels that probably (I am speculating here) deters translators from 'mucking about' too much with the original text.

The second reason derives from the first one in that Harry Potter, like many other franchises before it, creates a universal language that both children and teenagers (and adults!) default to. And whether you speak French, German or Portuguese, you will know what a bludger is (yes, I haven't forgotten, I still owe you that one!). And who wants to break up this harmony? Moi?

The third reason is our 'beloved' Royal Academy of the Spanish Language. Note the quotation marks, please. With close to 320 million Spanish speakers worldwide, is it not time to do away with such an archaic institution? English, my second language and the one I majored in at university, owes much of its international domination to a fluid and modern system. Namely the absence of a central body dictating all the different Anglophone nations how to use their lexicon. It is not surprise that the two languages that have suffered the most since the end of the World War II have been French and Spanish. The former through the loss of its colonies and the demise of its empire, the latter through holding to an ancient system that requires proof of use for new words to be accepted officially. The truth of the matter is that many of these words have been used for years, if not decades, or sometimes even centuries. The most vivid example I have is with 'fortísimo' (strongest), the 'correct' way according to the Academy and 'fuertísimo', more widely used since it comes from 'fuerte' (strong). It took centuries for the latter to be accepted into the mainstream, but surprise, surprise! The mainstream, i.e., the people who speak the language, had already been using it. True, not on television, radio or any other type of official media, but it was out there and it made sense. So, why deny it?

And that's probably why many translators leave certain terms the way they are in the original language, rather than trying to convert them into a version that resembles more the words in the language being translated to. Wife insisted that this was important to maintain a sense of continuity and not destroy the intention of the original text. But my point is that it doesn't destroy it, it enriches it. Besides, I very much doubt that the same reader who digests the Harry Potter books in English will be doing the same in German, French or Arabic. So, no harm done. Wife's other argument is that certain names should not be changed at all, ever. I knew what she meant because on some occasions she has brought my attention to the fact that I say Támesis instead of Thames . But that's the same for English-speakers who say Havana instead of Habana. And since we're there, why the 'j' sound in the English version? 'J' as in 'jugo'? The Spanish 'h' has not sound, a phenomenon I remarked upon in a recent column and for which I used Hamlet's soliloquy (talk about globalised world, this is globalised theatre and language). In the end we both agreed that neither was I going to change Alicia's mind (the title's translation suggests that the stone is the philosopher and not that the philosopher owns the stone, rather different meanings, I would say), nor would my way of calling the famous river that divides London into north and south change.

As for Harry Potter and the translation of certain words from English to Spanish, maybe I should not beat myself up about it too much. Given the current legal climate in the JK Rowling's camp, hush-hush is a better policy than trying to come up with alternatives for the words she has already made up. A lawsuit is the last thing I need, believe me.

However I cannot resist imagining what bladyer would read and sound like au lieu de 'bludger'. Just don't tell anyone at the Royal Academy of the Spanish Language, please.

Copyright 2008

Living in a Bilingual World (Malaysian symphony)

Tandas. The word snapped me out of my reverie in front of the restrooms Wife and Daughter had just walked into. Tandas. Toilets. But it was more than that. Tandas was a word that had a deeper meaning in my mother tongue, Spanish. Tandas. As in 'tandas infantiles' (children's shows) and with that my memory let out a torrent of images, sounds and smells.

Malaysia had welcomed me with a word in my own language.

After Brother-In-Law picked us up from the airport, my eyes began to devour the greenery that stood up to greet us on either side of the wide motorway. Already from the air when our plane was about to land I started to witness the dominant colour of this Asian nation, a deep, dark, raw green that was almost inviting me to dive in headfirst into its shrubs, bushes and forests. In the meantime, Brother-In-Law explained to us some basic facts about the history, economy and culture of the country we were about to stay in for a fortnight. Son decided to make the trip with me while Wife, Daughter and Brother-In-Law's Wife journeyed in another car. The air-conditioner in the car and the soothing scenery combined together to rock me softly and gently from side to side as if I'd been on a hammock.

So, my first day in Malaysia was full of peace, quiet and calm. And linguistically welcoming.

Over the following the days I was able to glimpse several more 'coincidences' like the one with 'tandas'. At the same time I enjoyed a hospitality that was all the more appreciated because it arrived unbidden. Street vendors, waiters and waitresses, shop attendants and security staff smiled at us, openly. Their features reminded me of that poem by our National Poet, Nicolas Guillen that calls to our Cuban identity so well: Yoruba soy, soy lucumí/mandinga, congo, carabalí/Atiendan, amigos, mi son, que sigue así/Estamos juntos desde muy lejos/jóvenes, viejos,negros y blancos/todo mezclado/uno mandando y otro mandado/todo mezclado/San Berenito y otro mandado/todo mezclado/negros y blancos desde muy lejos/todo mezclado/Santa María y uno mandado/todo mezclado/todo mezclado, Santa María/San Berenito, todo mezclado. They were Chinese, Malay, Indian. They came and went, unconcerned and untroubled. They drove wildly, cutting in at the last moment without signalling and without so much as giving you the international sign of apology (palm of right or left hand facing forward and raised at shoulder level). They stared at me like staring at an oddity, the tropical Caribbean man recently arrived in the tropical Asian land. My five feet, nine inches that normally makes me puny in London, dwarfed most denizens here. My single twists moving hither and thither in blithe abandon elicited compliments from all quartiers. Son was praised on more than one occasion for his lovely curly hair. Daughter was told many times that her hazel eyes were beautiful. Wife was equally appreciated, her long blonde hair leaving behind jealous looks. Apparently most rituals remained the same. A lady failed to make the most of me purchasing one of her kites because it was the time for her to go to pray. Calls from a nearby mosque drew little musical notes in the early evening breeze. Shopping malls erupted here and there and underneath their high ceilings the old and the new mixed in harmony.


A visit to a butterfly garden coloured our jaunt both in soft and strong hues at the same time. These lepidopteran insects fluttered their wings at ease, resting for a few moments, and sometimes for a few hours, allowing visitors to photograph them and thus to make up their own postcards. Inside the main building a myriad scary-looking creatures awaited us to remind us that the jungle is more beautiful seen from above than once you're in it. Another park, this time for birds, gave us the same coloured rainbow that we all were getting used to by now. Flamencos with their majestic long necks seemed to dance in the distance whilst cockatoos, parakeets and parrots formed a welcome committee at the entrance to the park to usher us in. Nearby and whilst sitting down to eat some ice cream, a few peacocks tried to make our acquaintance, though we all divined their real intentions.

The subsequent days were full of more sightseeing trips. To get to an elephants' sanctuary we drove down a motorway wherefrom we took a detour through a real country lane. Small houses with thatched roofs and on stilts sprung on both sides of the road. Suddenly we came across a small lake that was surrounded by the same type of dwellings, only that these ones seemed to be on the water. Brother-in-law explained to us that these were the real indigenous people, the Malays, and though some of them were getting used to modernity, the majority was still using traditional methods to obtain food. That meant agriculture and fishing.

At the end of this journey the sanctuary awaited us with open doors and countless shoes at the threshold. Both Son and Daughter enjoyed caressing these majestic pachyderms and we all donated some money towards the preservation of the building.

Tandas. On account of the stifling heat, toilets were always a prominent feature in our itinerary. The amount of water drunk had to be dispatched somehow and our sweat could hardly cope with the litres we downed in the house and whilst being out and about. A few days later after we arrived we found ourselves inside a tiny four-engine plane bound for Redang island and its four-star hotel the Berjaya Resort. The exuberant vegetation that greeted us from the air was all the more attractive once we landed. A sea, draped in turquoise colour, waved at us from a distance. The sun was at its zenith which meant for Son, Daughter and Wife to avoid the outdoors and to remain in our room. The hotel staff were courteous, polite and gracious. They always smiled and at the sight of my single twists the nickname 'Ronaldinho' was coined by one of the members of the reception team. We all, Son, Daughter, Wife and I practised our bilingual skills with the locals and the appreciation in their eyes said more than a hundred words could express. Excursions to the jungle, turtle-watching and an encounter with a cute little squirrel, whose daily cleaning routine included polishing its gigantic penis and testicles with its tongue, brought a much-deserved rest from the hustle-bustle of modern life. Mornings usually found me standing in the balcony with the rising sun in front of me ignoring the imaginary 'No Tresspassing' sign on the door and strolling into the room. El Yoyo's book 'Havana Graffiti' lay behind me. At that moment I felt like a conduit bridging the greenery in front of my very eyes with the description of eastern Cuba that Carmelo gives in 'Havana Graffiti'. This was not linguistic bilingualism, but geographical.

Back to Kuala Lumpur on the same plane and our last few days were spent in a frenzy of shopping, more sightseeing and chilling out in the evening by Brother-In-Law's swimming pool.

The departure date arrived and as we boarded the Air Malaysia flight that would take us back to London I looked around and from a distance was able to make out the sign that had greeted me a fortnight before: Tandas. And without a second thought I said in a low voice: Terima kasih, Malaysia! Thanks.


Copyright 2008

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 (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