No Shortcuts, or “I Wish There Were Shortcuts”

Friday, August 29th, 2008

Some day, I will learn passable, functional Japanese. Not just the “Where is the toilet?” or “Can you point me to the nearest train station?” kind of stuff I used on my short sojourn through the streets of Tokyo. I mean the sort of Japanese where I can talk about the things that matter the most to me—music, art, creativity, why we exist, Jesus, board games—with words that are beyond the scope of the TV drama we’ve all used in language labs for our 5-credit classes. And maybe I’ll get my French back up to snuff so I can do more than just read it with a pretty decent understanding. But, short of a miraculous amount of progress and a currently unavailable wealth of free time, I’ll never be able to be truly, natively fluent in either. I wish that wasn’t the case, but I’m realistic enough to admit that it is.

English, though? That, hopefully, is another story.

When it comes to facility with language, there are multiple levels. I’m not exactly a veteran teacher of English, but I did do my time with international university students, which gave me innumerable opportunities to observe language acquisition in progress. I haven’t performed an empirical study, and I’m certainly not an expert, but I am curious and fascinated, both of which help make me observant. I think of it like this*:

Level 1: This is the sort of language ability that lives with a kung fu grip on the 80-page phrase book and clams right up when the subject ventures beyond immediate tourist needs. At this level, one can say, with chances a little better than 50-50, “Those people are speaking _______.” You probably have this kind of ability with at least one foreign language. Please, thank you, and finding out where the bathrooms are. This is Korean for me. I can thank someone for something and identify the language by picking out the seyo at the end of every other sentence, but to even call my grasp on Korean “tenuous” is too generous by miles. At this level, one phrase at a time is mentally translated from the source language into the destination, and the words themselves are functional only as syllables in a larger construct.

Level 2: Here’s where the building blocks of the language start to gain some function. Words are broken out of the phrases in which they were learned, mixed together, and reused to make more basic, functional sentences. Instead of translating one phrase at a time, words start to factor in to the communication process. Translation is still way ahead of content in the thought process, but a Level 2 will begin sentences and halt in between words rather than pausing to remember an entire phrase or sentence and freezing if it doesn’t come to mind. This is French for me.

Level 3: Now we’re eating with utensils! Everything still starts in the source language and gets translated before it hits the mouth, but at this point, there is more of a flow, and content and translation are working together. Communication is beginning to be expressive of thoughts. Logic is starting to enter the formation of sentences: Level 3 speakers will begin to use words in situations in which the words are likely to be correct or appropriate, even if the resultant phrases are untested or unfamiliar. Level 3 speakers will begin to stumble over idioms where the Level 2 speaker never approached them in the first place. Interests, preferences, and unique experience will start to differentiate an individual speaker’s overall vocabulary. The tone of a person’s communication will start to appear at this level.

Level 4: Most native speakers older than seven or eight get a pass straight to Level 4. Translation rarely enters the communication process for non-native speakers at this point. Technical or highly academic terminology may still be met with the occasional “What does that mean?” moment, but if problematic individual words are defined, they don’t get in the way of the main point. Conversations are comfortable, easy, and personal. Personality comes through word choice, not just demeanor, and wordplay and humor are often appreciated if not actively engaged.

Level 5: I was describing this sort of interaction with language to a couple of coworkers earlier today. When language becomes a toy that you can pick up, marvel over, reinvent, transform, enjoy, and put back just the way you think it goes best, you are truly fluent. When your command of your native tongue is such that it gives you opportunity more than it restricts you, and you don’t have to think about whether you put that comma in the right place or spelled “paroxysm” or “deterrence” correctly.

I think most people, if you’re going to put any stock into my weird little scale, are not, or choose not to be, fully fluent, even in their native tongue. Now, every generation that’s ever lived has, I’m sure, looked around and decided that this was the generation when humanity would finally stupid itself to death. I have to get more perspective than just to compare the nerdy language books I’ve read in my life with MTV, 99% of the internet, and Dan Brown. There are people out there who know how to use their words. But doesn’t it seem like they really a bit more sparse than they ever have been? It seems like the loudest voices are choosing not to reinvent, not to push forward, not to delight or innovate or inspire.

And I’m one of them. I start way, way too many sentences with “so.” (Although that is probably the number one item on my writing hit list, and I’m getting better and better.) I put delineating walls between casual and creative communication. I’m too lazy to proofread beyond typos when I write. I take for granted the definitions that my stock of words has always had without giving thought to how they might be reapplied and reinvigorated.

But sometimes… Sometimes the light hits those toys just right, and they sparkle again. The tools are repurposed, see? Sometimes I remember how much fun it can be to paint with a mop, make lasagna in a crock pot, measure length with speaker wire because my tape measure’s gone, or write the word “BLUE” with a hot pink crayon. Other times I just mop the floor exactly the way it should be mopped with a tool that is just perfect for the job. I pick up the gifts I’ve been given, I turn them over, and I make the choice not to be any less fluent than the limits of my mind will allow me to be. There are still MacGyvers out there that will build impossibly beautiful castles out of nothing but dry sand in a way I’ll never match, but that doesn’t mean I have to be sidelined. It just means that greatness has been redefined. Again.

* Like many of my thoughts, these are equal parts ridiculous and extemporaneous and, as such, are subject to revision without prior notice.

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