Off the rails

Here is my train of thought as I study Chichewa flashcards on the couch:

Card: To continue 

My brain: Continuar. Also, pitiliza (informal imperative), pitilizani (formal imperative).

Card: To start

My brain: Empezar. No - yamba, yambani.

Card: To show

My brain: Mostrar... aughhhhh!!! No! Onetsa, onetsani.

The Spanish static will not go away. 

In my 45 years, I have studied Spanish (2 joke semesters in high school), ASL (3 college semesters), Russian (1 semester abroad), Portuguese (2 weeks with a math tutor and 2 1/2 years living in Mozambique), Spanish (2 weeks with a Spanish teacher and 1 1/2 years in Bolivia), and now Chichewa (3 1/2 hours with a Chichewa tutor yesterday). 

This is a pathetic prospectus at best, a series of dabbles leading nowhere. I was most fluent in Mozambican Portuguese, which I forgot within 6 months of returning home. I remain only semi-conversational in Spanish, but as it is the most recent input into my brain, it gets top billing. Thankfully I have not yet said gracias to anyone here.

I have stories about these attempts:

- High school Spanish: Our bored and unserious teacher, Señora Sloan, gave girls in the class extra credit for painting their fingernails - during class. I guess that's the way we rolled in the 90s? 

- College ASL: I partnered up with a classmate for conversation practice, as directed, and dutifully asked him with my deft little hands, "What is your job?" His eyes bugged out and he whispered back that I had asked him in ASL slang: "Do you want to fuck?"

- Russian study abroad: I wanted to go to Russia and learn about Russia, not study Russian; but it was a required class. At the end of the semester, with a lot of pomp and circumstance, our Russian teachers - in high heels, beaming proudly and clapping - awarded the entire class of expat students each a certificate of "Very Good"... except me. I was given a certificate that said, simply, "Good". It was awkward for everyone. 

That same semester, I was giving an oral report about Tatar Muslims to the class (in English), and I couldn't resist the opportunity to make a little joke about their children, the Tatar tots; but then I began to giggle so hard I started crying. The Very Good students stared back at me.

- Portuguese in Mozambique: I was okay at Mozambican Portuguese by the end. I learned it "on the street", essentially, since there were no language schools in our area. (The math tutor wasn't helpful.) The failure of the colonial Portuguese to invest in local education means that most rural/uneducated folks there don't speak "proper" Portuguese. 

You know what else isn't proper? Subjugating a people for 400 years, then leaving them with almost no healthcare or schools. (More Mozambican history at this 2006 post.)

- Spanish in Bolivia: We were similarly allocated only 10 days of language study for this job (though at least with a trained teacher). Because I had no real foundation in Spanish, I struggled to learn with a baby and toddler at home. I used a lot of accidental Portuñol and drove Matthew insane with my mushmouth accent. (He was "good" going into it and "very good" by the end.)

- Chichewa in Malawi: Our brains were wracked after yesterday's first lesson, but not nearly as much as Amess and Mabel, our poor tutors, who watched us struggle to differentiate "yes" (eya) and "no" (ayi) all morning.

I perversely enjoy tackling an obscure language, because I have such low expectations of myself. It's gratifying to have Matthew be so terrible at it, too. Thankfully, educated Malawians speak good English.

But I just had a chat with Kondwoni, the night guard where we're staying, and I said to him: "Mumanena kuti chani mu Chichewa? How do you say in Chichewa...", and pointed to the falcon Matthew was peering at in a big tree. And of course, any amount of effort and fumbling is worth it in such moments, even from me with my poor track record, for that smile.