The Native Language

I know a bit of Spanish. Un poquito. So when I volunteered to tutor a young Mexican lady in English a couple decades ago, I wasn’t sure how well that was going to go.

But it did go well – mainly because Blanca was bright and motivated. For our second lesson, we met at a grocery store. With a notebook in hand, she pointed at things, and I named each item in English. She learned far more on her own than she did from me; I was merely an available person for intentional conversation.

And for the answering of questions . . . like this question that she asked me one day: “What means, ‘Ado tiso?’”

Ado tiso . . . hmm . . .

I asked her to give me a situation where she heard this phrase. She described a couple scenarios and repeated the phrase with a strong lilt, trying to mimic the people she heard. “Ah-doh TEE-so!” I was genuinely puzzled for quite a while. But then it hit me. She was trying to say, “I don’t think so.”

That became an inside joke in my home for quite a while. “Can I have another cookie?” “Ah-doh TEE-so!”

And it goes to show you how our native language colors what we hear. Our ears are attuned to the familiar. For example, the flipped R’s in Spanish can sound like D’s to me. In German class in high school, I had a hard time distinguishing the ü and the ö sounds . . . because they simply don’t exist in English; my ear turned them both into the standard bland oo. If you’re used to bright vowels, like in Spanish, I would imagine the Americans schwas are as annoying as all get out and make most verbal English almost incomprehensible. 

This goes a little deeper than simple pronunciation, you know.

I have a friend who apparently grew up with constant criticism, direct and indirect, explicit and implied. We have found that I have to be careful how I question her about things or offer suggestions because her native language is condemnation; my inquisitive R’s sound like disapproving D’s to her ear.

A New Jersey neighbor from decades ago grew up in a loud, expressive Italian family and struggled all the time with understanding her midwestern husband and what he was thinking and feeling. From her perspective, it was like he lived in a sea of schwas. Always the same. Is he happy? Is he angry? How do I know what’s going on in his head when he’s always so . . . calm?

When I teach new vocabulary words, I make a point of discussing synonyms with my students and pointing out the distinctions . . . because they are often not aware of the distinctions. Not just in the words, but in the ideas. Yes, “precarious” can mean “dangerous”, but it’s a particular kind of dangerous . . . there are different kinds of danger, you know (just like there’s ü and ö and oo). Similar, but different. And the differences are important to communicating accurately and facing the dangers effectively. If your native language doesn’t distinguish between them, it may be hard to navigate a world of such varied threats.

So much division in our country these days -- most of it instigated by WORDS. And I wonder how much could be allayed with some humble awareness, the help of a translator, and a genuine desire to understand each other.