Without My Words
A tounge-tied chica learns to translate her world in Madrid.
This article was awarded first place in Abroad View's 2009 Writing Contest for the Crossing Borders category. It was published in Abroad View's fall 2009 magazine.
By Jamie C. Hennick
I was lost from the very beginning. My connecting flight in Madrid was delayed, and I didn’t know how to ask where the new gate was. I panicked. Then I had to go to the bathroom, but I couldn’t remember how to ask where the bathrooms were. I was useless, and for the first time in my life, I couldn’t use my words. Everyone around me spoke Spanish. They wouldn’t understand my sarcastic comments about the pilots’ strike, and I wouldn’t understand theirs. I felt stripped and misunderstood. Without my words I had nothing to do, and so I just sat watching these Spanish-speaking people with the wide-open eyes of a baby watching his mobile spin above his head.
The first few weeks were cold, even in the south of Spain. I learned that Spaniards don’t have central heating. Me, the eternally cold chiquita, voiced numerous concerns about this difference, although my friends had convinced me that the cold wouldn’t be a problem. But it was. My fingers couldn’t type properly. My nail beds were constantly purple. I remained in the same uncomfortably tense fetal position for all hours of slumber. I slept in all the clothes I brought, but I hadn’t brought enough socks to warm my feet back to a normal color. It was freezing. In addition to the discomfort of the cold house and the cold water, I became a colder sort of person.
I wasn’t mean or standoffish, I was just unable to talk to the people who I met like I usually would. I didn’t have the words. Sure, I was learning as I went, but without the language, I felt like I was on the outside of the city I was living in. But the language was seeping in; I could feel it.
After the first few weeks, I started dreaming in Spanish. I started thinking in Spanish and translating my English thoughts into Spanish. I started talking to the dogs in Spanish, and I started writing all my instant messages in Spanish. It was a great sign that I was learning. I was learning to interpret my world in another language, another mode of expression.
At first, my Spanish self really scared me. I don’t think I had ever been so quiet before in my life. On the first day of classes with my program, we all signed a piece of paper saying that we wouldn’t speak English the entire time we were in Spain. Scare tactic? I think so. Needless to say, giving up my native language completely for an entire semester was impossible. But in the presence of our professors, we transformed into strictly Spanish-speaking students.
I couldn’t be myself. I barely knew how to string together a verb and its subject. I couldn’t comment on things as I would in English; my sarcasm didn’t translate and I didn’t know how to express any of the thoughts that were racing through my mind as we toured the Spanish cities of Málaga, Ronda, and Antequerra. Everything was new to me, but I couldn’t say much more than, “Wow! This is beautiful!” or, “Wow! I really like the colors!” I felt incompetent every time I tried to talk. My personality was stuck in the English language. I didn’t know how to represent myself in Spanish. I managed to sputter full sentences every once in a while, but the group dynamic were overwhelming to someone who should have had intense one-on-one lessons before being released into the real Spanish-speaking world. I found myself easily frustrated. I couldn’t say what I meant, and most of the time, I didn’t mean what I finally managed to say.
Learning the language was exhausting. At my home university in the United States, Spanish class lasted 50 minutes and only took place three days a week. Spanish was contained to the classroom, and I could forget about it everywhere else. That’s probably why I never actually learned anything useful. In Spain, though, the country was my classroom. Skype and Facebook were the only ways to escape, and I am not the kind of girl to stay glued to her computer.
Though sometimes I wanted to hide from the language and remain silent, I found that the best way to learn was to jump right in. I talked to my host mom for hours, and we plowed through conversations, even if we had to use charades to figure out what we were each saying. My host brother and I found that we could talk about our shared passion of American music, even though it is difficult to translate names like Akon and Usher into sounds that a Spaniard will understand. I realized that sometimes learning a language can make you feel like an idiot, but that taking risks to connect with people is really the only way to learn.
I joined a gym so that I could take spinning classes. The process of figuring out what kind of membership I wanted was horrifying. But the Spaniards I encountered were all very friendly and interested to hear my story, even if I used the lexicon of a third-grader. And in spinning class, I had my most profound moments of realization. The techno music would be blasting, and we would all be climbing that imaginary hill. We were all the same. Sometimes I would forget that I was in Spain until I looked up and saw my instructor trying to sing along to Rihanna. This is how we learn—by singing out loud even if the sounds are nothing like what we intend to say.
Today, my Spanish is maybe halfway to the third-grade level, but I have learned much more than just grammar and vocabulary. At first, I felt like I had lost myself because I lost my language. But after a while, as cliché as it sounds, I realized that sometimes in order to learn how to speak, you have to learn how to listen. And not just listening to people’s words, but listening to the rhythm of their lives: the kindness Spaniards show elders on the bus, the bold statements they make with their brightly colored get-ups, their perpetual chattiness and engagement with others. I’m talking about their fiestas that last until the sun comes up, cherished meals with family, and two besos, or kisses, for friends, families, and new acquaintances.
In the beginning, I wanted to escape. I wanted out of an unfamiliar world. But by the end, I got antsy in the classroom thinking about all the new faces and experiences that were waiting for me in the streets below.
Jamie C. Hennick is a senior English major at Dickinson College. She studied abroad at the Universidad de Málaga in spring 2009. After college she plans to see as much as the world as possible and attend graduate school abroad.