So, I Married a Polyglot

               I married a polyglot.  My husband did not.   Ben is fluent in Tagalog (the national language of the Philippines), Cebuano (the dialect from his island) and English. He speaks passable, Arabic and Spanish.  I can speak English, enough American Sign Language to be considered a mildly communicative introvert and Spanish, but only to the extent that I can order food, ask for the bathroom and admire your statues, should you have any.

                I feel I need to learn Tagalog (pronounced Tuh-gah-log, not Tag-a-log Like I thought), if for no other reason than I want to understand my husband’s heritage.  Also, I want to be able to at least carry on a conversation with his family in their native tongue.  To do otherwise is arrogant and I am not trying to be that American, y’all.  

                Ben has been a patient teacher trying to help my Southern mouth wrap around the syllables and pronunciations of this unfamiliar language.  There are nasal tones and a lot of use of the back portion of the tongue on the roof of the mouth, which is difficult.  I’ve been practicing but there are times it feels like I’m making fun of Asian people because the words sound incorrect to my English ears.  At the same time, I am introducing Ben to some of the more relaxed vernacular of America, especially the South.

                There have been times where we’ve discussed the limitations of languages and how difficult it must be to a non-native speaker to learn English as there are so many quirky rules.  He feels Tagalog is a complete language, but I disagree.  There have been a number of times where Tagalog has been found lacking in its ability to translate all the phrases that pop out of my mouth on a frequent basis.  I have decided to share with you the Top Ten Phrases That Cannot be Translated in Tagalog.

1.       “That heifer needs to get somebody to fix this closet door!” Referring to our landlord.

2.       “All right, sister friend, you need to learn how to merge or get out of my way!” Referring to the ridiculous woman in front of us on The 405.  This was said with the window rolled up because I am not about to get shot, y’all.

3.       “That big donkey is 17 kinds of stupid!” Referring to so many people.

4.       “Do what now?”   The way I sometimes ask for clarification.

5.       “Your Mama didn’t raise you right!”  Referring, again, to so many people.

6.       “They are workin’ my last nerve, for real!”  See above.

7.       “My cousin is straight runnin’ crazy!”  You know who you are.

8.       “I’m-a pray for you, heathen!”  Often said with (self) righteous condemnation, like a good Evangelical.

9.       “Today put a whoopin’ on me like I stole money from it!”  Said at the end of a particularly rough day.

10.   “My bad, girl!”  Said more often than I care to admit, referring to both men and women.

You see, there are limits to Tagalog.  To be fair there are limits to English as well, since Redneck is not a recognized language, even though I speak it fluently.  We’ll keep working at it until we get it right.

Lyon lang ang sinasabi ko ngayon, y’all.  For real.

What's Spanish for Annoying Loud Boy?

               As we have previously discussed, I have a passing familiarity with a number of languages, including French, Redneck, Spanish and Sign.  You name a language and odds are I can say ‘chicken’ and ‘bathroom’ with relative ease and accuracy.

                If you didn’t know, my first two years of high school my mother managed a motel called the Nicholson House in Paris, TX.  While it had a storied past, we were told, by 1984 it was a jewel past its prime, like Meg Ryan or a '78 Chrysler Cordoba. 

                Although I was embarrassed to admit we lived there, it was often fun.  We had a pool, Centipede in the game room, a Chinese Buffet in the lobby and I got to work the switchboard, which was something like Lily Tomlin one-ringy-dingying; there were cords that you plugged into the board and then dialed the number for the people.  You could even eavesdrop.  Not that I would ever do that.  I have no interest in secrets, dear reader.  The fact that the Rivercrest High newspaper staff named me “Most Likely to Tell a Secret” is coincidental at best.

                One of the unique traits of this particular establishment was that half of the rooms were kitchenettes that you could rent by the week or month.  This was particularly popular with construction crews that were attempting to gentrify the less fabulous parts of Paris proper.

                My sophomore year at Rivercrest High, I was taking beginner’s Spanish, but due to a car wreck or something our new teacher, Senora Franklin, had been unavailable and for the first couple of months of school we had a substitute teacher.  I got more useable Spanish from Morgan Freeman on The Electric Company, people.  Numbers and colors were mastered, do you hear me?  Verb tenses, not so much.  However, by Homecoming or so, Senora Franklin was no longer ausente (which is Spanish for absent).  Upon her arrival, in gauchos, knee boots and a side ponytail, we dove head first into conjugation which sounded dirty but wasn’t.  The first phrase I learned, unsurprisingly, was ‘calle te!’  That means ‘shut up’ in Spanish.  I learned this the second day of class.  Verbosity is my middle name; my last name is control.

                One evening, my mother and I were sitting in our apartment either reading or watching Knight Rider, when we heard a commotion in the parking lot.  My father had redesigned 6 motel rooms into a semblance of an apartment.  The best part was 5 bathrooms; the worst was my parent’s closet as well as mine, were turned into a hallway to access the other bedrooms.  Off the living room, there was a large balcony that overlooked the property, so my mother and I decided to investigate.  My Uncle Bill (my father’s sister’s husband) was the night watchman but he was hard of hearing and usually asleep. 

                The sight that greeted us was a large tenant of Hispanic origin who was being accosted by one of our more senior residents, Miss Lucille.  Her 92 ½ year-old, bottle-of-wine-a-day vision had led her to believe her fellow resident, wearing only khaki shorts and himself inebriated, was nude and she felt compelled to use her umbrella as the device to drive home her stance that this was, in fact, unacceptable.

                My mother, ever the problem solver, decided to intervene and I wanted to watch, but like Bette Midler, only from a distance.  My siblings were more entranced by David Hasslehoff.  In retrospect anything was better than Knight Rider.  In context, most things paled in comparison.  And don’t act like you didn’t watch, too.  My family did not singlehandedly keep that show in the Top 10.

                My mother, upon rebuffing Miss Lucille and redirecting her to her room with the promise of a free egg roll the next day at lunch, attempted to ask the gentleman if he was part of the road crew, managed by a man named Juan. 

                My mother said, “Do you work with Juan?”

                The Man said , “Que?”

                I interrupted “Moootherrrrr.  He is oooobviously Hispanic and of course I will have to interpret.”

                My mother, “I need someone who knows more than colors and numbers, sweetie, but thank you.”

                Me, “Mooootherrrr.  You know I am almost semi-fluent, right?  Riiiight?”

                My mother, “Okay, honey.  How do I ask him if he works for Juan?”

                Me (out loud), “Hmmm.  Well trabajar means ‘ to work’ so yo trabajo would be I work so tu trabaja would be you work so it’s a question so say (suddenly very loudly) TU TRABAJA CON JUAN.” Which if shown phonetically and I was being honest probably sounded more like TEW TRAYBAHO COWAN WAWUN. 

                She looks at me with that look (you know that look) but turns to him and attempts to repeat the phrase and I interrupt her to remind her to trill her Rs, so it’s more authentic.  Then I try to demonstrate how to trill one’s Rs.  From the balcony.  At top volume.  It’s a testament to her good nature that I was allowed to reach puberty.

                Of course, the entire time The Man was swaying gently and repeating “Que?  Que?”

                Realizing that neither of us had a knack for languages, my mother decided to mime “work”.  All the while I am screaming TEW TRAYBAHO COWAN WAWUN.  My mother starts to mime a shoveling motion and he stops swaying to watch her.  She keeps repeating, very loudly (it must be genetic) DO YOU WORK WITH JUAN followed by air-shoveling.  At one point she pats the ground and, misunderstanding, the man lay down in the parking lot and smiled a triumphant smile.

                Fortunately my screaming quasi-Spanish phrases had roused the aforementioned Juan who came out to collect his employee.  Feeling quite proud of my bilinguality, I said, “See?  I toooold you I could speak Spanish, moootherrrrr.”  She replied, “Yes you did, sweetie.  Good job.”

                And I always blamed my father for her looking tired all the time. 

               

Como se dice, "Who ate my sandwich?"

              I should have known turning into the drive thru of the Jack-in-the-Box would lead to ruin.  I fastidiously avoid fast food as it is (1) not very tasty and (2) egregiously fattening and I would like to retain my newly trim “figger” as my Daddy would say.  But the greasy siren call beckoned me and as I am embarrassingly susceptible to advertising I had decided that I wanted, nay needed one of their value menu chicken sandwiches, with bacon. 
                As I was turning into the parking lot I noticed a small gathering of Hispanic men.  Now, I know that most of you are familiar with the undocumented workers who congregate at busy intersections waiting to be offered money to do all sorts of manual labor somewhat like a prostitute, if Home Depot of Lowe’s were involved in that sort of thing.
                Never having engaged one of these “workers” lest I ruin any future chances of becoming a Supreme Court Justice, I usually pay them no heed and go about my merry way doing all manner of glamorous activities like buying potatoes and sugar-free popsicles in bulk.  As I turned into the lot, one of the men signaled me with his finger and looked at me with a questioning eye and hopeful look on his face.  Although I was flattered that he thought that I might be of the stature to procure his services (I’m not wealthy but I have more money than, well, HIM) I was immediately caught off guard wondering how to respond.  I didn’t want to ignore him; it’s not his fault he’s an undocumented worker in our country.  Well, I suppose it is his fault, seeing as how he came here illegally. But are we to assess fault for someone trying to make a better life?  I don’t want to get all liberal sounding, but, are they all here illegally or is the economy so bad that even legitimate immigrants are out of work and desperate to provide for their families?  Even if I didn’t have any work for could I just hand him money? Would that be offensive?  Would he care?  Do I? 
                You must understand I pride myself in being a very compassionate and generous person, unless I am behind you in traffic or the express lane at Target.  No, old man in front of me last Tuesday, 27 cans of tuna do not count as 1 item just because they are identical.  On the other hand, if it were an old lady, I’d think, “Bless her heart” and simply wait my turn.  A gentleman is always a gentleman after all, when it comes to a lady.  Other dudes, regardless of age, are on their own.
                Unsure of how to respond without giving him any reason to think I needed his services, regardless of what they were, I tried to smile without any erroneous signaling lest I inadvertently request something through an incorrect nod of the head or too lengthy eye contact and end up with an unwanted employee, bag of drugs or live chicken.  Is there some sort of code?  Shouldn't there be an information sheet?  Where do I get one?  I felt a little like a spy.  Like Jason Bourne from all those books and movies.  I feel sure I could be mistaken for a suave, intelligent CIA agent.  At the very least I feel I could be mistaken for someone named Jason. 
                I guess it’s a good thing I’m not in the CIA.  For one, the CIA has secrets, people.  And if you know me, you know I can’t hold water.  I’d be on the phone with my sister saying, “Ooh, let me tell you who we tried to assassinate today.  You will NEVER guess, but his name rhymes with ‘Dennis Quaid’s brother’.”  Plus, I can’t beat up an assassin with a rolled up newspaper.  I can barely kill a bug with a rolled up newspaper.  I usually resort to stomping it with my shoe and that doesn’t seem to be an effective method for saving America from the terrorists, I think we can all agree.
                In my zeal to non-offensively, non-signal this man who may have simply been trying to scratch his nose as far as I know, I somehow ended up leaving the parking lot through the ‘enter only’ lane and almost turned the wrong way down a one-way street.  Trying to maneuver my car in the right direction while hiding my shame and ignoring the honking from the other customers who were in fact not attempting to scratch their noses (I am quite familiar with THAT particular gesture), I was able to head back down the road to the Target from whence I came, as I had forgotten to purchase get breath spray for our dog Lulu.  I’m not sure exactly when she began dining on dirty diapers filled with athlete’s-foot-flavored bilge water, but something’s making her breath reek.  And how am I supposed to convincingly say, “Who’s a good girl, yes you are” if I’m trying to breathe through my mouth?
         I’m not quite sure where I was going with this entry, but suffice it to say, I made it home in one piece sans illegal alien but with some basics for the pantry, you know stuff like a $5 DVD of “Fletch”, an awesome movie starring the guy my sister thinks is Bill Murray, a Big Grab ® of Doritos®, two 9-volt batteries and 3 packs of spearmint Extra. I told you I was susceptible to advertisement.
             Once I got home I immediately regretted not stopping to get a worker or two, undocumented or not.  You see, today was housecleaning day and I was not in the mood, do you hear me?  I have no problem with cleaning up after myself and when I lived alone, my house looked like it was unoccupied most of the time as I am very particular and very neat.  However, while living in a house with multiple bedrooms means you can have houseguests and roommates, it also means you have to clean it all, even the rooms you don't ever use.  Yes, sun porch, I'm talking to you.  And the maid duties have increased far more than the occupants as there is a swirling vortex of disorganization that is my father residing with me.  Things on shelves move out of their proper alignment simply by him walking through the living room.  When he sits at the dining table, food leaps from his plate onto the placemat and table.  And don't even get me started on the delicate maneuvering required to sweep around more yarn than a nursing home craft room or a Brownie troop trying to earn their "Knitting" badge.
            Although, now that I think about it, how would I have communicated with this gentleman of the parking lot what I needed from him anyway?  Do the men from Mexico clean, seeing as how Mexico doesn't seem to be a hot bed of women's lib, based on what I read on the news.  And how do you say clean in Spanish? I only know how to say "Where's the party?" (Donde esta la fiesta), "I want two chickens" (Yo quiero dos pollos) and "that statue is Greek" (esa estatua es griega).  This, I feel sure, is not going to get me clean bathrooms or a fully dusted living room, although it might get me a cooked meal, an invitation to a party or a look of confusion as to the statue in question.
            Ah, well, at least I have my chicken sandwich from Jack-in-the-Box to sustain me through this cleaning binge.  But now I can't find it.  I'll bet Daddy ate it. Como se dice, "Big ol' hog?"