Language is a weird thing. If I think too much about words and their origin it sends me into a dizzying spiral.
Communication is everything. As a writer–and, naturally, a reader–words captivate me. The infinite combinations of letters into words and words into phrases is an example to me of things not experienced. There is so much to learn from other people.
In my limited experience traveling, I have had mixed emotions surrounding communication. In Costa Rica, my amateur Spanish actually served me well. Though my responses were slow and carefully contrived, I understood what people were saying to me. I could read street signs and menus and not feel like a complete idiot.
In Italy, people were extremely accommodating. With the amount of tourism in cities like Venice, Rome, and Florence, the locals easily navigate conversations, discerning the wants and needs of their customers. I recognized some cognates, but overall, I was just another ignorant American tourist eager to take some cool pictures and appear "worldly." I was embarrassed that I came from a country that didn't emphasize the importance of being multilingual. I feel like there's this mindset that if you know English, you're set; if someone doesn't know English it's their fault. But this is such a close-minded point of view.
Switzerland was a completely different experience in terms of communication. I learned that many people speak a dialect of German called Swiss German–similar to German, but not really. I wasn't aware of this tongue at all and if it hadn't been for my Swiss friend and his family, I would have been utterly helpless. There were no similarities to English, Spanish, or even Italian that I could pick up. In this unfamiliar place with a lifestyle and language so different from my own, I was the one who felt foreign–as I should have. I remained wide-eyed and observant and accepting of the fact that differences exist and that is a good thing.
One of the most important things I've learned from being a writing consultant–that was further reinforced by my experiences abroad–is that there is not one right way of doing things. So, when a student's writing isn't phrased exactly the way I would say it, I think about what the words are actually saying: does the phrasing take away from the meaning? What makes me a successful writer, reader, and listener is my ability to analyze meaning. What is being said and how it's being said may not always be what we expect, but I see the value in looking at both of these elements as individual parts and as a connected whole.
My Spanish is still limited, but as I travel to the Dominican Republic this coming February I hope to keep my eyes, ears, and mind wide open to absorb as much as I possibly can.
The following is an exercise I did in high school Spanish (I found this buried in a folder while cleaning out my desk drawers if you were wondering what sent me on this whole tangent in the first place). We were given a poem written in Spanish and tasked with transcribing it in a way that sought to capture the original poem's meaning–not just a word for word translation. "Conchas" is the original poem, "Shells" is my version.
Conchas
Conchas vacías de la arena
que dejó el mar cuando se fue,
cuando se fue el mar a viajar,
a viajar por los otros mares.
Dejó las conchas marineras
pulidas por su maestría,
blancas de tanto ser besadas
por el mar que se fue de viaje.
Shells
Empty shells of the sand
that left the sea as it was
and it was the sea by which they traveled.
It left the ocean shells,
polished for your art,
blank, both to be kissed
by the next place they go.
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