The Arabic screenplay

The more I study Arabic, the more I feel like the language is a screenplay and I am simply an actress who doesn’t know my lines. When tossed onto the stage of real life, I am lost, babbling my way through awkward situations.

“In the name of God, start eating.”

“Your greeting is welcome!” Oops. Or worse: “Goodbye!”

“Thank you” in response to polite comments is effective in both English and Spanish, and I don’t see why Arabic should be any exception.

“Send greetings to your family!” “Thank you!” (But not in Arabic.)

“Here. Wash your hands.” “Thank you!” (But not in Arabic.)

Somehow, one must learn and say beautifully trite phrases after anything. The problem for language learners is which phrases to say when. Saying “Praise God!” after someone sneezes is not acceptable.

Often when comments are made, I don’t even open my mouth, harnessed by the fear of reciting the wrong line.

Photo by Kyle Head on Unsplash

Making sentences

After 9 days of studying Arabic, we learned formulaic sentences today. I discovered I was capable of following a pattern… and making mistakes.

I plodded through the Arabic script, plugging in my information at the end of each sentence: “My last name is…”, “My country is…” The sentences ticked by, miraculously without authoritative interruption to correct my pronunciation. I gathered speed. “My city is…” And like a sentence-making machine, I burst out: “My wife is…” and then paused. I really didn’t know who my wife was. Hmm.

I wasn’t the only one making mistakes. My classmate smilingly informed us that she was a “teacher” of Arabic instead of a “student.”

We giggled at ourselves. But the fact we were making mistakes meant that we were producing the language (or at least some form thereof).

Language learning is tedious. I confess I think it unfair for an adult to struggle for speech and still be patronized by teachers. There must be a better way. But meanwhile, I’ll keep working.

The Arabic school director told me, “This will give you more sympathy for your English students.”

He’s right. I didn’t even laugh when a 15-year-old boy stood up and told the class that he was a “housewife.”

Celebration CELTA

Spicy chicken and Mexican coke tingled my tongue.

This was the last day, our last moments together. We had made it, all ten of us. Four weeks of labor, laughter, and tears were suspended in this memory: a memory that would never change by an updating database of other times together. Spain, Vietnam, United Arab Emirates, China. We were going places and would never see each other again.

Ashley and I ducked out of the dim pub and into the scorched air of a summer afternoon in downtown Phoenix. I pulled my sunglasses out of my backpack as the misters under the awning created a sheen over our hair.

“It’s sad to think we won’t see each other again.”

“Yah.”

When we reached the corner where she would walk one way to the parking garage and I would walk the other way to the metro, we hugged goodbye. There were so many things we could have said. Indeed, we said some of them, but nothing sounded as final as reality.

As I stood on the platform awaiting my train, I wondered, “Is this the end of an adventure or the beginning?”