Like many Americans, I am fluent in only one language: Amurikan. Despite the growing international belief that Americans are as dumb as a stick, our own unique language is no picnic to master. It has sophisticated and subtle nuances. For example, the use of the words "like" and "totally" and "yaknow" can be baffling to the non-native speaker. The sentence, "Bush like so totally like doesn't get it, yaknow?" would confound someone not fluent in Amurikan but I immediately recognize it as an astute commentary on our president's lamentable lack of comprehension, and I can only respond by saying what all of Amurika is thinking: "totally."
There is a deep poetic beauty to Amurikan, expressed most vividly in its songs. Show me an Italian opera or Irish lullaby with the same ability to bring a tear to the eye and a lump to the throat as, "I've been to the desert on a horse with no name, it felt good to get out of the rain, in the desert they can't remember your name, cuz there ain't no one for to give you no pain." HAH, I say to Euro songsmiths, which in Amurikan means, as if.
But I do feel badly that I am mono-linguistic in a world of
increasingly duo-, trio-, or even four-o language speakers. A lack of
bi-lingualism can even be a hazard. Take, for example, when you're
traveling on a foreign airline and the plane starts to buck and shudder
from "unexpected turbulence," which is airline-speak for holy crap, we just flew into a freakin' tornado!
The flight attendant comes over the intercom and warns passengers, in
English, to return to their seats and fasten their seat belts and refrain
from moving around blah blah. Then the attendant translates
this warning into whatever language-French, Italian, German-is spoken
in the country that the airline operates from. As a mono-linguist, you
sit there not really paying attention to the stream of incomprehensible
words until a scary thought pops into your mind: Since everybody hates
Americans, what if the stewardess is telling her fellow countrymen
something entirely different from what she told the American
passengers? What if she's saying that, "ze plane iz about to crash into
ze huge lake below but do not worry, we haf placed all ze French
passengers in ze only seats with ze inflatable flotation devices.
While ze American dogs sink like ze stone, we shall paddle safely to ze
shore. Viva la France!"
I don't think that my two years of high school German qualify me as
a bi-lingual speaker. First of all, German is simply not a melodious
language that's a joy to speak. One doesn't croon at the peak of
passion, du unterrichten die dichter zu sehen!
Which roughly translated means, "you teach the poets to see!" which is
perhaps not something you'd say in any language at the peak of passion
but definitely not in German, which sounds like someone repeatedly
clearing their throat. Second, it's not like the world is awash in
German speakers and it's a handy traveling language to know, or that
citizens of the new emerging super-powers are named Fritz and Klaus so
you'd better get a handle on Deutsch ASAP in order to compete in the
global marketplace.
Being mono-lingual also puts you at the mercy of translators. Why
are there never charismatic translators on the radio? There you are,
blearily listening to National Public Radio first thing in the morning,
wishing that coffee could be injected to hasten the caffeine delivery,
when some story about Russia comes on, and the person being interviewed
goes into a passionate spiel that, while you're no expert in Russian,
sure sounds like somebody's ass is about to get a whuppin'. Then the
translator comes on and summarizes the preceding 5-minute outburst with
a single sentence delivered in a flat monotone: "The Russian foreign
minister denies the allegation." What? Really? It took him five minutes
to say that? What he really
said involved the opposing party's mama and how big a hurt he's about
to put on somebody, but the robotic translator edits out all the good
stuff in a way that would put an insomniac into a deep sleep.
Being able to speak more than one language implies a richness in
one's own ethnic heritage, and an interesting cultural background can
be a real plus. For instance, an accounting professor in Florida
recently found out that his great-great-great granddad was not some
nice little peasant living in some ivy-covered cottage in The Olde
Country, but was actually Mr. Nasty himself, Genghis Khan. One doesn't
usually associate a Sunshine State bean-counter with the Mongolian
conquerer who cut a bloody swathe across Asia and chunks of Europe on
his way to building an enormous empire that he ruled with ruthless
authority. Yet as the accounting professor mused when hearing his DNA
matched that of Captain Khan, "I do have administrative skills." Yes
indeed, that is precisely what the slash-and-burn global dominator was
known for: his kick-ass administrative abilities. Nobody could delegate
like Genghis could! "You there, soldier with the funny furry hat, get
out there and take over a duke-dom by midnight or you'll be eating
Mongolian sheep doo for dinner tonight!" he was known to bark at his
staff.
Imagine being able to list on a college entrance form that your
ethnic heritage was of Khan-ian descent. You'd have an awesome
advantage over everyone else, whether or not you were fluent in
Mongolian or just contented yourself with enraged screaming, which was
probably the language of choice for old Gengy. Because how many
universities have a surfeit of Khans? Not only would you get a
full-ride scholarship, you'd get to waive at least a couple of
freshman-level history classes while having a great pick-up line at keggers.
So for a variety of reasons, it makes sense for us mono-linguists to
dust off the Berlitz language catalogue and get busy on that second
language. Now, how do you say, "Stewardess, where is the inflatable
flotation device really?" in seven different languages?
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