Language learning

(from 2013)

A long, long time ago, I spent five years at secondary school learning how to successfully fail every French language exam that came my way. It was customary in those days in schools to concentrate on French. Two wars had forced two natural opponents to be civil to each other, and France was, after all, the nearest “foreign” country. My mother was absolutely determined that I should learn French. I don’t know why to this day. She could never speak it, and attempts to question her on this omission tended to get her mad. She even insisted on paying a retired French teacher to come to the house for extra coaching – and we weren’t all that well off at the time. I still failed. I ended up with the schoolboy’s ability to recite the occasional French irregular verb, which did not exactly lend itself to scintillating conversation. Few French people are keen to hear their irregular verbs recited – and recited badly – by young Englishmen.

So that was that. Life moved on. A dabble at Swahili came to naught, as did a dabble at Spanish – for reasons I cannot for the life of me remember now.

But then I started courting a girl who was living and working in Spain. So I tried Spanish again, and this time made some headway. I could visit Spain and communicate a little better than the average Englishman, who appears to feel that as long as you speak VERY SLOWLY AND LOUDLY the world will understand them.

Time moved on again, but I was quite amazed later how much Spanish I knew. When trying to learn other languages – which I’ll come to in a minute – invariably the Spanish would come to mind. Not a lot of help in the circumstances, it was as if the part of my brain that dealt with languages was sort of full... (That’s a very polite way of putting it).

Next on the list was Urdu. (If you include Hindi with it, which is the same basic language when spoken but with a different script since the partition of India and Pakistan – it is the fourth most widely spoken language on the planet). The work I did (and do) involves talking to people about belief, and there was a large Pakistani community in a neighbouring city, most of them nominally Moslem in belief. For several years, we had a very enjoyable time amongst them – a very friendly and hospitable people who make a really mean curry, even if my conversation tended to be of the mix and match variety. Mrs O took to it, wrote a book teaching others how to read the script, and all was well – until 9/11. That changed things drastically. Many westerners suddenly became fearful of everyone linked to Islam. While that didn’t apply to us, more to the point, many in the Asian community were subjected to prejudice and a blanket condemnation and went to ground. They were now fearful and kept their distance, which made our work far more difficult.

So time moved on again. The work amongst the Asian community still continues, but is done by those who were former missionaries in Pakistan – brought home when westerners were being targeted. They can get better results than we ever could, and so we moved on.

So the latest is Welsh. I am struggled to learn Welsh. And it is the Spanish that keeps popping back into my mind – especially at awkward conversational moments in class.

Why on earth learn Welsh? Everybody in Wales can speak English can’t they? Well, it is true they can – but I’m going to take you on a brief scriptural journey now. (Now don’t worry – those who think Oh Horror – Occasional is going to preach a sermon – really, I’m not – but feel free to skip the next paragraph if you wish.)

There is an account in the book of Acts where people came to a city for a festival, and suddenly heard others speaking in their native languages. When visitors heard those languages, they were impressed big time, and listened.  But, you could argue, what was the point? – People then could get by in the common Greek – the lingua franca of that part of the world. They hadn’t reached that city by using a Berlitz phrase book or waving their hands wildly about like tourists – they could communicate anyway. But it was their native language – what they call in Wales the language learned at the hearth – that touched them. The sort of language someone might use when shouting at their children! The natural, deep down language, reserved for such intimate occasions.

So a native language reaches people. That is being proved in Wales by organising numerous meetings in the Welsh language, which is getting people in who would have said no on principle if approached in English.

So here I am – an elderly Englishman, with a head full of English and an annoying amount of Spanish – trying to get my head and tongue around a language that is totally foreign to my speech patterns. (There is the old joke, and if I’m repeating myself – well tough – I’m repeating myself – Doctor speaking to Worried Man – “don’t worry Mr Evans, you’re not dyslexic – you’re Welsh...”) I can understand Welsh road signs, and what means “entrance” and “exit” – but this is mega. And my head hurts. As always Mrs O is taking to it. I am a mixture of pleased for her, and cheesed off that she finds it so much easier than I do.

We sing Welsh folk songs. This is quite good actually. Not necessarily our singing – but the songs.  And we have been watching a crime series that was filmed simultaneously in Welsh and English. We are being good, watching the Welsh one with English subtitles. I now know that the Welsh word for “forensics” is – er – forensics... For some reason though, they always choose to swear in English...

Of course, one could always go on about the weirdness of the English language, as those learning it will attest. In what other language do you have noses that run and feet that smell? How come that “fat chance” and “slim chance” mean the same thing? And as for American English... Don’t get me started...! I think it was George Bernard Shaw who said that Britain and America are two countries divided by a single language.

Although I guess that may be why most who attempt to read my posts claim they can’t understand them...