Being married to a foreigner has its advantages: frequent trips to Europe to visit family, an easy conversation starter with new friends (no, there are no kangaroos in Austria) as well as introductions to diabetic coma-inducing native delicacies sprinkled with a fine dusting of powdered sugar.
But there are disadvantages as well: while Peter’s English is flawless, my German, his native tongue, is decidedly flawed. In fact, it's practically nonexistent.
When Peter and I first met, we had no difficulty communicating. He’s lived in the US for several years, and he has a remarkable understanding of the colloquialistic subtleties that beleaguer the English language. As we shared our pasts with one other, he talked about living in Santa Monica where gang members regularly walked their “pooches” on the boardwalk. I was amazed Peter not only knew synonyms for the word “dog” but also chose a synonym that was a funny juxtaposition to the dominant image of gang members on the boardwalk.
In graduate school, I worked as a literacy volunteer, helping non-native speakers of English practice their conversational skills. Talking with women from Brazil, South Korea, and Afghanistan humbled me. They each spoke several languages in addition to English, and I marveled at their ability to understand the English language’s insistence on word order and article usage.
But I’m no novice at language learning myself. I took five years of Latin during junior high and high school and two years of Spanish in college. I passed exams at the graduate level to show that I could read in both of these languages.
Neither of those exams tested what I need to know today: how to respond orally in German. I can recognize many of the words when I see them (thanks to a year of Anglo-Saxon in grad school), but my listening comprehension is terrible and my ability to respond is worse.
With a few Rosetta Stone lessons under my belt, I can understand a few key words and phrases when I hear them spoken, but I can in no way respond meaningfully. Peter and I Skype regularly with his parents, and I generally sit there, nodding and smiling. They could be talking about various ways to sell my organs on the black market, and I would probably smile and make yummy noises.
The first time I visited Peter’s family in Vienna two years ago, I hid away in our bedroom until meal times. Peter, the ever-dutiful son, helped his mother carry dishes into the dining room, leaving me to make conversation with his father, who speaks about as much English as I do German. We found common ground over beer, but we finally did away with meal-time niceties and started bringing our dictionaries to the table. We looked up words for the items in the dining room as well as the food on our plates. Thanks to Peter’s dad, I know many words for place settings and various kinds of salt (Austrians add either salt or powdered sugar to ALL their dishes).
Other than Peter’s immediate family, I didn’t interact substantially with other German speakers during that trip. Peter limited our schedule to visiting tourist spots where English translations were offered in written form, and he took care to order for me at restaurants.
I enjoyed my visit immensely, and when I learned we were to return to Vienna this past Christmas, I fired up the Rosetta Stone lessons with a renewed vigor that lasted about a month. Life, as always, intervened with its barrage of job responsibilities, and German lessons got put on the back burner, so I returned to Vienna this past month, two years after my initial visit, with still only a tiny bit of German in my repertoire.
This time, Peter decided I should be thrown into the deep end, and he scheduled visits with some of his old friends and extended family. At first, I feared the awkwardness of these events, but I learned two things:
First, I realized Ich spreche Baby (I speak baby). Children (especially those under five) don’t care that I can’t speak; they just wanted me to play dolls or cars or whatever with them. Though five-year-old Gretchen was frustrated at having to repeat her instructions for the proper construction of her Lego castle, we still managed to shore up the building site with fences and an alligator on top of the turret.
With each visit, I found myself gravitating toward the children so that I wouldn’t feel pressured to make conversation with their parents. In turn, the kids showed off their toys (which are EXACTLY the same as American toys), and enjoyed the numerous sound effects I was able to produce. The parents liked that I was spending time with their children, and Peter was happy to get a word in edge-wise.
This leads to the second thing I learned. I discovered a lot when I focused on understanding what other people were saying, knowing that I could in no way respond. Anyone who’s spent time with me knows that I can dominate a conversation (it’s a really bad habit), especially when my husband and I are together at an event. When the language was German, I could only listen attentively and let my husband guide the conversation (which he did quite expertly when I’d shut my pie hole).
Not learning my husband’s language has put me at a disadvantage in many ways, especially with regard to getting to know his family, but my ignorance has shown me the importance of listening. In my overly articulated life as a professor, I spend a lot of time talking but not nearly enough time listening.
So the next time I visit Austria, Peter’s family may ask, “Spechen sie Deutsch?” to which I will shrug, “Nein. Ich sprech Baby.” And amid the puzzled looks, I’ll produce a rubber ducky and perhaps My Little Pony, and I’ll show them how baby drool is a universal language.
So long as I can provide a bib or an obliging sleeve to eliminate puddles, I’m gold.
