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illustration by Penny Van Horn |
I myself have dabbled in the art of foreign communication. The first such encounter came when I was 11 years old, due to the evil minds behind Britain’s schooling curriculum. It is, or at least was, compulsory for every student to take three years of foreign language study, the chosen language being either French of German. The idea, I believe, was to create “well-rounded” students but, due to the fact that after you had served your three years you could drop it and undertake something much more practical like art, it created an ideal opportunity to, instead, create farmyard noises and paper aeroplanes. After my sentence had been served I chose motor mechanics which, thankfully, was taught in English. The three carefree years of tomfoolery, however, were not in vain. When in France I can, with consummate aplomb, inform any native that my name is Stuart and I am 11 years old. I am, however, unfortunately unable to express to the bemused bystander that, yes, I do look old for my age.
My second encounter came by proxy while assisting my wife for her looming Spanish exam. My job was to give her an English word and she was to give me its Spanish equivalent. I will readily admit that 90% of what my wife learned I have long since forgotten, but the incongruity of learning how to relay human emotions while simultaneously learning the Spanish names for various animals tattooed itself into my memory. As a result I am able to convey to any passing Spanish-speaking person the present emotional condition of my various pets, and if there is ever the need for a curator in a Mexican zoo for disturbed animals then I’m your man.
None of these experiences, however, could ever prepare me for the shock of having to re-learn my native English. On entering these shores I thought I had the Americanization of the English language fully engraved in the forefront of my mind. My teacher of such subtleties had been the huge numbers of U.S. films and television programmes that England, and the rest of the world for that matter, has beamed into its homes.
I knew, for instance, that Americans walked on sidewalks and not paths, drove on freeways and not motorways, ate French fries and not chips, but did, in fact, eat chips but not crisps. My confidence, however, was misplaced, and I was soon to become very aware of the other, rather more embarrassing, differences between our two modes of the English vernacular. I was also shocked to discover that an English accent is paramount to a disability, and it, and my unknown lack of knowledge of American slang, would conspire to render me almost dumb.
The first inkling I had that something was amiss occurred in New York City during an innocuous exchange between myself and three elderly women. Unlike the majority of men I know, I am a shop-aholic, so wished to experience the opulence of Trump Tower. Being “directionally challenged” and unfamiliar with New York, I decided to ask the aforementioned women for directions.
“Excuse me,” I asked, “Could you direct me to Trump Tower please?”
“Why yes,” came the response. “It’s half past three!”
This was my first experience with the unique, almost ineffable, frustration that can only arise with the construction of a language barrier between two people who speak a common language. At that point I should have cut my losses and moved on, but much to my chagrin, I persevered.
“No,” I continued, “Do you know where Trump Tower is, please?”
This plea was greeted, not by words, but with an expression only witnessed on the faces of those unfortunate enough to be the target of a public park flasher. Unperturbed, I noticed that one of the puzzled women was carrying a Tower Records bag, so I resorted to the tried and tested method used by all Englishmen abroad when trying to communicate with the locals. Pointing to the bag I raised my voice and shouted over and over the word “shop.” Probably thinking that this was some sort of bizarre mugging procedure of the insane, the mortified woman quickly furnished me with the information I required. Trump Tower was 50 yards up the road.
Months passed and the language barrier, like the Berlin Wall, seemed to be crumbling. Conversations were held in which both parties could comprehend one another and raised voices were the result of differing opinions and not sheer frustration. I was walking upon the safe ground of understanding but was, once again, soon to fall headfirst into an embarrassing sea of confusion.
It happened in a small shop in a small town in the Catskill region of New York and would centre around the British slang for cigarettes. My friend had inadvertently forgotten her cash so asked me to purchase a packet of nicotine sticks for her ever-present addiction. I, of course, agreed and after selecting a few toiletries for myself approached the cash register to pay for said items, but was concerned that I may not have enough money on me to buy both my items and my friend’s cigarettes.
To avoid the possible embarrassment that scrambling around in the bottom of my wallet for every possible penny in a vain attempt to produce the necessary funds would have created, I decided to ask the woman behind the counter the price of the cigarettes.
“Excuse me,” I started, “could you please tell me how much 20 fags cost?”
Every possible indicator suggested that I had inquired of something far more sinister than the cost of cigarettes. From the deathly silence with which this question was initially greeted, to the look of disgusted confusion which erupted over the countenance of the woman retailer. Indeed if, in fact, she had had a fag in her mouth at the time it would have fallen to the floor. I have since learned the other meaning of the word “fag” but have yet to discover just how much 20 cost.
This disability, however, does have its benefits. I can, with little fear of retribution, curse at people with a newfound freedom, and, when in the mood, torment food retailers with orders for aubergines, courgettes, and gerkins. Also, during the odd game of Scrabble, my wife is constantly amazed at how many words the British use that contain no vowels and a “Q,” becoming particularly suspicious when such a word earns 40 points on a triple word score. The communication breakdowns are becoming a thing of the past, but there is still some way to go before I can claim to have mastered the American-English language to the same degree that I mastered French and Spanish. Until that day I will remain one shy from becoming a bona fide, almost fluent, polyglot.
Oxford, England native Stuart Prestidge now lives happily in Austin, Texas.
This article appears in December 18 • 1998 and December 18 • 1998 (Cover).