A friend and I spent some time exchanging weekly writing prompts, and this entry is in response to one I received from her. “What is your superpower, real or fictional?”
We had an older couple from church over for dinner recently. I knew bits of their story. The husband’s job title alone told me that he was highly educated, and I knew from hearsay that they had been missionaries in Asia for a number of years. The wife spoke with a thick accent I learned came from her Dutch roots. As they sat around our kitchen table and delighted us with tales of their dating years and early marriage, we inferred that they each spoke multiple languages. Finally, I asked, “How many languages do you actually speak?”
“Nine,” the man answered.
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From my first moment out of the country, surrounded by a symphony of voices I couldn’t understand, but longed to, I’ve wanted to be bilingual. I remember spending several weeks in a foreign country at 18 and dreaming in Spanish for the first time. “Once you start dreaming in another language, you’re on your way to fluency!” they said. And for awhile I really was. Until I got back into the throes of college life – internships, dating, marriage and babies in rapid succession. I spent little time practicing my second language and even less brushing up on the finer points of vocabulary and conjugation.
But NINE languages. Oh to possess that superpower. Just examining the different alphabets in the world makes me think these people who do read and speak multiple languages are truly superhuman. Do I even have mastery over one? I can imagine a life in which I had prowess in many.
I am 16 in the Dominican Republic facing unimaginable poverty for the first time. Barefoot kids surround me, young girls attempting to braid my hair, little boys hanging on my arms and interweaving their fingers in mine. They look at me, their eyes animated and lively and speak excitedly, asking me all about where I traveled from and telling me about themselves and their families. I nod in understanding and respond in fluent Spanish.
I am 22 visiting a place where English is the national language yet a second is widely spoken. It’s apparent all insiders speak in French. I stop at a local bakery breathing in the delicious scents of pain au chocolat, mille-feuille, and mignardises. The line snakes out the door and as I wait, I can feel the prying eyes of locals wondering about the clearly foreign visitor during the off season. My turn in front of the display showcasing the delectables comes, and I place my order in perfect French without a hint of American accent.
I am 26 standing in front of one of the seven wonders of the ancient world. My travel companions learned basic phrases from my sister and our hosts – “shukraan” they say to the young Egyptian boys helping us up on camels. I sit taking in the vast desert with these magnificent structures created by human ingenuity and hard labor. Then I call to the boy guiding my humped animal through the sand. He hears my unadulterated Arabic and smiles knowingly.
I am 30 swaying back and forth as all moms do while they cradle their babies. My baby is almost three, and he won’t stop crying. It’s our first day taking him from the only home he’s known to a church service where he’ll be dedicated. Other than the color of my skin, I look the part of a local in my gomesi. I’ve tried everything to make his wailing cease , but suddenly I whisper in his ear in clear Luganda. Words spoken in his mother tongue instantly soothe him.
I am 36 walking the cobblestone path of the oldest street in Los Angeles. I stop in front of a woman who looks like she’s spent too many days under the harsh SoCal sun. I ask her a question, and I see the blank look in response. Then I gesture and smile, and she reaches out her hand to grab hold of mine. She squeezes, nodding, grinning, complete understanding painted in her eyes. Maybe superpowers are overrated.