March 22, 2008
IMG_3103
Originally uploaded by er1nh
I recently read David Sedaris’ hilarious book, “Me Talk Pretty One Day.” In it, he moves to France and describes with great humor and accuracy the challenges of living overseas and trying desperately to speak a completely foreign language.
Although Sedaris was living in France, not Niger, I have included some excerpts from this book that I feel help capture some of my difficulties of communicating in Hausa.
Enjoy!
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That is what I’m assuming they said. Without Hugh by my side to translate, every interaction was based upon a series of assumptions. The kind butcher may not have been kind at all, and the grocer might have been saying, “To hell with you and your bottleneck! Go away and leave me alone!” Their personalities were entirely my own invention. On the downside, my personality was entirely their invention. I seemed to have reached my mid-thirties only to be known as “the guy who says ‘bottleneck,’” the pied piper who convinces young people to lie in the road, the grown man who ignores the electric-fence warnings and frightens the horses with his screaming. Were such a person described to me, I’d say, “Oh, you mean the village idiot…”
I’d hoped the language might come on its own, the way it comes to babies, but people don’t talk to foreigners the way they talk to babies. They don’t hypnotize you with bright objects and repeat the same words over and over, handing out little treats when you finally say “potty” or “wawa.” It got to the point where I’d see a baby in the bakery or grocery store and instinctively ball up my fists, jealous over how easy he had it. I wanted to lie in a French crib and start from scratch, learning the language from the ground floor up. I wanted to be a baby, but instead, I was an adult who talked like one, a spooky man-child demanding more than his fair share of attention…
On my fifth trip to France, I limited myself to the words and phrases that people actually use. From the dog owners I learned “Lie down,” “Shut up,” and “Who shit on this carpet?” The couple across the road taught me to count. Things began to come together, and I went from speaking like an evil baby to speaking like a hillbilly. “Is thems the thoughts of cows?” I’d ask the butcher, pointing to the calves’ brains displayed in the front window. “I want me some lamb chop with handles on ‘em.”
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Before leaving New York, I enrolled in a monthlong French class taught by a beautiful young Parisian woman who had us memorize a series of dialogues from an audiocassette that accompanied our textbook. Because it was a beginning course, the characters on our tape generally steered clear of slang and controversy. Avoiding both the past and the future, they embraced the moment with a stoicism common to Buddhists and recently recovered alcoholics. Fabienne, Carmen, and Eric spent a great deal of time in outdoor restaurants, discussing their love of life and enjoying colas served without ice. Passing acquaintances were introduced at regular intervals, and it was often noted that the sky is blue.
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One of the drawbacks to living in Paris is that people often refer to you as an expatriate, occasionally shortening the word to an even more irritating “ex-pat.” It is implied that anything might take you to London or Saint Kitts, but if you live in Paris, it must be because you hate the United States. What can I say? There may be bands of turncoats secretly plotting to overthrow their former government, but I certainly haven’t run across them. I guess we don’t shop at the same boutiques. The Americans I’ve befriended don’t hate the United States, they simply prefer France for one reason or another. Some of them married French people or came here for work, but none of them viewed the move as a political act.
Like me, my American friends are sometimes called upon to defend their country, usually at dinner parties where everyone’s had a bit too much to drink. The United States will have done something the French don’t like, and people will behave as though it’s all my fault. I’m always taken off guard when a hostess accuses me of unfairly taxing her beef. Wait a minute, I think. Did I do that? Whenever my government refuses to sign a treaty or decides to throw its weight around in NATO, I become not an American citizen, but, rather, America itself, all fifty states and Puerto Rico sitting at the table with gravy on my chin.
We had a wonderful dinner of Mexican food and a party to celebrate.
There are massive gardens, where villagers grow all kinds of fruits and vegetables, palm trees, and two lakes (supposedly with crocodiles!)! It’s really beautiful, and I had a great time, seeing her house, projects, and scenery. 
