Practice Is the Point
Welcome to my random musings about the world, on a weekly-to-occasional basis.
Where we are: Tokyo
Practice Is the Point
One of the things we’re all thinking about (I assume I’m not the only one?) at this surreal moment is the nature of community. Humans are fundamentally social beings, even those of us who are introverts. Constant travel, and no fixed address, mean that Lee and I generally live outside of the ‘normal’ community structures that used to underpin our days—no more carpool, no more waving to the same neighbors we’ve known for years, no lunches with the same friends we’ve had for thirty years. But even (especially?) without those below-the-radar daily interactions, we think a lot about our need to interact with humans-who-aren’t-us.
We have found, over the last few years, that we work harder to pursue those quiet, unobtrusive daily interactions when we’re in a less-touristy place. The locals are less inured to the presence of foreigners, and we’re paying more attention to the actual people, rather than the sightseeing. Dakar, Senegal was one such place; I wrote the following while we were there, in February of 2019.
One of the things about our peripatetic lifestyle that Lee and I both find most fulfilling is engaging with children. In much of the world, children see the two of us as an opportunity to practice their English, and we try very hard to embrace the experience. We think of it as one small thing we can do to be good ambassadors for our country.
Sometimes the kids we encounter are with their families, sometimes they’re in school groups, maybe on a field trip to see the tourist attraction that we’re also visiting. Sometimes they just high-five as they file past, sometimes they wave and yell hello from the window of the school bus. Sometimes they’re shy, reluctant to initiate, but a parent hovers in the background, urging them to say hello, or welcome, and modeling the hospitality we’ve experienced in so many places. My favorite part is engaging them in conversation, listening and encouraging as they try out their memorized phrases: hello, how are you, my name is. But when they reach the limits of their learned vocabulary, the conversation comes to an immediate, complete halt. How old are you? gets a totally blank stare. Or if I deviate from the correct response—I’m fantastic! instead of I am fine, they falter, and look awkwardly at each other.
The tables are turned in Senegal, where French is the lingua franca, rather than English. I fake it pretty well, well enough that occasionally people assume I actually speak it. I say good morning to the security guard down the street, every day, and he asks how I am. I say I’m fine, how are you? But the other day, he tried to engage me, talk some more, and we hit a brick wall. I am instantly, utterly, lost. It’s almost a physical lurch in the normal give-and-take rhythm of human interaction.
Years ago, when Lee and I first went to Paris together, I was in my early twenties and oh-so-easily embarrassed. We went into a seafood restaurant, tables jammed close together, everyone speaking in rapid-fire French. A waiter set a bowl of snails on our table, tiny black ones, not much bigger than my thumbnail, with a little china cup full of toothpicks. We sat for a few minutes, Lee urging me to read the menu, figure out what everyone was eating, order our dinner, but I couldn’t take it. I couldn’t bring myself to pull out my rusty, juvenile French and engage with one of those immaculate, professional French waiters. There was no English on the menu. Everyone around us would be able to hear my stammering, stumbling, yokel accent.
Mortified, close to tears, I got up and walked out. Poor Lee. He just wanted some fish for dinner. I have no memory of what we ultimately managed to find, but that embarrassment, the way it bound me up, burned my face and tied my tongue, the panicked helplessness that pushed me blindly for the door—I remember that.
I haven’t made any concerted effort to learn more French since then. But I have made a concerted effort to see the world from outside of myself. It’s the beauty of growing older, I guess—finally being able to step outside of my own knee-jerk emotions enough to realize that the small embarrassments are fleeting and irrelevant, but moments of connection can really make the world a better place. I’ve helped enough kids (and adults—soldiers, with machine guns! But that’s another story for another day) practice English to know that no one is judging me when I try to speak the local language. No one is judging me, period. I don’t judge kids trying to practice English—I welcome the opportunity to engage. Connecting, finding common ground, common words, reaching out—never a bad thing. Yes, I sound like a five-year-old when I try. That’s okay. Five-year-olds still have a lifetime of learning in front of them. I should be so lucky.
From my writer’s notebook:
Last week, a friend sent me an article about the theft of a Van Gogh on Monday, from an art museum outside of Amsterdam. The museum—like almost all of the world’s museums—is currently closed because of the virus. I had been wondering how long it would be before thieves took advantage of the empty streets and facilities. I don’t like to think the worst of humanity; perhaps at this moment in history, we should hope that criminals are as paranoid about getting this illness as the rest of us are.
Take care,
Lisa
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