The Smart Question
Just about an hour ago, a troop of young men from South Africa came into the cafeteria. I asked one where they were from,–although I was fairly certain they were South African. One, there are a LOT of South Africans in Belfast and 2) it didn’t sound like any European language I knew. That left Afrikaans.
So, I asked one of the boys and he confirmed. Another young man,–who had [ somewhat bravely, I thought ] sat closer to our table than the others, then asked me where I was from. I said New York, and he said he knew that from the accent. I laughed and said that I didn’t have a New York accent, but then he said he knew I was American anyway!
Then, he asked The Smart Question that I heard as : “Do you speak any African language?”
My response was uncharacteristic: I began to snort “How the he…” Then caught myself on, because after all, he was a young guy and I didn’t want to curse. Then, it occurred to me that he was taking the piss, so I added, “No, but I DO speak Japanese!”
Yoshie and I then walked out, but I started to feel regret over my flippant response. Maybe he truly *had* been curious. And, after all, what was wrong with his question? Absolutely nothing! In fact, it started feeling like a better and better question.
*Did* I speak an African language? Hmmm….
Going upstairs, I continued to chuckle about it in my head, but the longer I thought about it. The more I saw his earnest question as a valid question borne of interest, not teenaged snark. My adult bias, knowing that he was from South Africa, had prevented me from addressing him as simply an openly curious teen. Instead, I diplocked him into the “post-apartheid privileged smartass Afrikaaner” basket.
He deserved better.
So, going back downstairs, I logged on and waited for him to come out of the cafe. Initially, I flagged the wrong boy. Fortunately, this slowed the stream of teenagers down, so that the right boy came out slowly enough that I could engage him directly.
I explained to him that I thought his question deserved a better answer than he got. He seemed pleasantly surprised.
Next came the explanation that Americans in general don’t learn foreign languages and even if a black person was lucky enough to go to a school that taught foreign language, the idea of studying an African language was pretty outrageous.
I didn’t add, “outside of Washington, DC or New York, that is.” No sense making it even more complicated. The general rule holds that most black students DON’T learn foreign languages, so that was how I presented it: when we do, it’s first the European languages and only in rare cases are we exposed to instruction in languages currently spoken in African nations.
I said that American blacks and Africans are completely different people. Even if we got to study an African language, which one? There are hundreds of them…we wouldn’t even know which to choose.
He seems chuffed that an adult (an older black woman?) was addressing his question in a real way. he explained that he spoke “Sutu,” an African dialect from his region. I did not ask how he learned it, beccause his mates were gathered around to see what the fuss was about.
He politely asked if I knew anything about African languages, that there were quite a few in his area, but he had chosen Sutu. I said I didn’t know much about it. I was thinking about how well he spoke and how his parents must be proud of him…not because he had embarassed me inside of my own head, but because he was so poised and proud of his linguistic ability.
His friends, –tourmates, found this all highly entertaining. Several of them stuck around, then figured it was an adult conversation and peeled off. Still, one of them finally got brave and said “I hope he didn’t cause any *offense*” which caused great hilarity and earned him a gut punch. I laughed and said “I have a 22yr old son, there’s probably nothing you could say that would offend or shock me!”
Noting, in retrospect, another bias. I don’t have any problem learning foreign languages. I know several. But, when it comes to an African-origin language, for some reason, I would want to learn the “right one,” the one I’m supposed to have always known. This terrible anxiety grips me, as if my learning the language of my genetic ancestors would scream in spiritual agony if I happened to pick a language spoken by an enemy clan, tribe or nation.
I guess I just hope that none of my genes originate in Malawi,–because that’s the nation I’ve chosen to care about.
And then, learning an “African language” will be as normal to me as learning English, French, German and Japanese.
My new teacher laughed, gave me the thumbs up and walked away. I left him with “Thank you so much for the smart question.”
And, I meant it.