By Tom Bridges
July 2001
Language is a funny thing. We all use it although few of us ever stop to consider what it means. Even fewer of us ever consider why it means what it does.
There is a phrase in Alice in Wonderland that may serve to illustrate the point. “I know well enough what it is when I find a thing,” said the duck, “it is usually a frog or a worm.” In other words the duck wanted a clear definition of “it”. Asking someone for a clear definition can be frustrating for the definer even under the best of conditions. With slightly less than perfect conditions frustration can give way to anger.
One of the problems is that language is not a code but rather an abstraction. A word is not the thing to which it refers. A word is more like vocal shorthand, which allows us to point in the general direction of objects and ideas. Most of us can no more define the thing “tree” than we can flap our arms and fly, but even the youngest children “know” that the word tree refers to a specific inanimate object which can be climbed.
When we string words together to form ideas, the abstract quality of single words almost becomes a non-issue in the face of the even more obtuse idea. Ideas which are common to a group of people can have associative words, which are not only abstract in themselves, but may refer to an abstract peculiar to that group commonality. Following this is frustrating, isn’t it?
Okay, in simple English, we can say that words aren’t things but are simply a way to talk about stuff. The reason that language works is that everyone in a given geographic area uses the same words to say the same things. If we move from one geographic area to another, we may use the same words but they may not mean the same thing. For instance, in a farming area the question, “Think it’s going to rain?” may mean you better hurry to get your corn in the ground, while the same question in a city, could indicate scheduling a trip to the car wash. Only through immersion in the local culture, can we ever hope to fathom the intricacies of the language patterns of a geographic area.
If we make a radical change in geographic area we can encounter a corresponding radical change in words, ideas, and their meanings. Sometimes the change can be so great that an entirely different language is required to adequately express the abstractions common to that area. Moving from the US or Canada to Mexico is an example of a radical geographic change.
There are many words in Spanish, which have corresponding English equivalents. For example, semafaro is the same as stoplight, cebolla is the same as onion, padre is the same as father, or is it? In Spanish, something which is “muy padre,” is very nice, but the direct equivalent of “very father” loses something in the translation, don’t you think?
I know a man who is “muy padre”, but has limited opportunity to immerse himself in the Mexican culture. My friend has learned the rudiments of Spanish but has not yet developed the ability to “understand” the language. The other day I had the opportunity to observe him talking with one of his Mexican acquaintances. The conversation revolved around financial issues. At one point his Mexican friend made reference to a certain transaction between them where an automobile changed hands. As soon as this exchange was mentioned both men became agitated. Both had had their feelings hurt but for very different reasons.
My friend felt that he had done a good deed by arranging for the other man to possess the car. The car had value and was in good working order. It provided reliable mobility and gave greater earning potential to the Mexican gentleman. Besides, the car was worth more than was required by the transaction. My friend was offended that his good deed was not accepted in the spirit in which it was proffered.
The Mexican understood very well that the car was everything my friend purported it to be, but it was not, after all, money. For “business” to be done in Mexico, money has to change hands. Lackeys accept cast-offs but businessmen deal in cash. The Mexican was offended that his friend had treated him as a mere “mendigo” (beggar).
A command of a language must include a corresponding immersion in the culture that language expresses. Early in my own Mexican sojourn, I was with a close friend when he sneezed. I made no comment thinking I would politely let it pass, but to my consternation, my friend chastised me sharply. “You’ve been here for over a year,” he said, “it’s past time you understood that it is polite to say ‘Salud’ after someone sneezes.” Since that day I’ve had reason to consider his chastisement many times.