Speaking "the wrong kind"

Have you ever been somewhere where you speak the language, but speak "the wrong kind" of that language? Languages often have different varieties, AKA dialects. For example, the way English is spoken in the U.S. vs. Australia vs. Ireland. Speakers from these countries are mutually intelligible; however, we use different phonological patterns and lexical items. You don't even have to go to another country to experience this: within countries there are also regional and cultural dialects. Here's an excellent illustration of regional varieties of English in the U.S.

At the West Side Market, Cleveland, OH.

Lately, I have seen a few examples of this, speaking the wrong kind of a language, and they reminded me of some of my own experiences. Last year, in Italy, for example, it was a very lonely day when I realized I spoke not only the wrong kind of English (Italians often learn British English and I also happened to be working with a British, English language immersion school), but also the wrong kind of Spanish (duh... Spain is a lot closer to Italy than Latin America). I clearly remember the disheartening sensation. I was already feeling like an outsider thanks to my "emerging" Italian. Speaking English, of course I could communicate fairly easily with the teachers and students at the British school; however, they sometimes used mysterious expressions like "tuck shop". One day, I overheard a Spanish teacher talking to a student there, ¡en puro español de España! I decided right then and there, I simply would never fit in in Italy.

Speaking the right or wrong kind of a language is definitely a question of fitting in. Yesterday, a student sent me an episode of TED radio hour, "Spoken and Unspoken". An excellent program... the second episode was based on the work of Mark Pagel, who researches evolution in language and culture. He explained this idea:

"... it's as if we use our language almost instinctively and subconsciously as a marker of tribal identity. As soon as someone opens their mouth and we hear their accent, we start to place them. And what we're subconsciously doing is saying, are they one of us?"

What happens if you are the one who is not part of the tribe? This reminded me of one of my current students, who immigrated from Guyana, an English speaking country, but always talks about how much she had to learn when she first arrived in the U.S. She spoke English, but not the right kind. 

Another friend confided recently that her brother, a native English speaker, had been an undocumented immigrant and was recently deported from a different, English-speaking country. Why? In part, because he couldn't "pass" for a local due to his accent.  

Along these lines, the powerful documentary film, El Coyote, by Chema Rodríguez, chronicles the supposedly final voyage of Mexican coyote, Maco, as he leads a group of migrants from Honduras to cross the U.S. border. In part of the film, he explains how he coaches his clients to speak like Mexicans, so they can pass for locals as they cross the country.         

You might not imagine that people in Mexico would speak so differently from people in Guatemala, or Honduras, but it's true. As it turns out, Spanish is a great example of a language with many kinds. I mean, how many different ways can we say, "beans"? Frijoles, habichuelas, porotos... After living in Chile for a few years, I visited Buenos Aires. Claro que sí, I spoke Spanish, but I had a very serious case of Chilean Spanish, which conflicts with Argentinean Spanish on so many levels! 

Nowadays, my Spanish is more "generic", but I still run into a lot of differences. For example, I was taken by surprise when, at a restaurant in Puerto Rico, I asked what kind of juice was available and didn't understand any of the four options! As it turned out, two were fruits I knew, named in different ways (e.g., "china" for "naranja"), and two were local, tropical fruits whose names I had never heard.

Of course, that feeling of belonging seems to come back when you run into someone or something that reminds you of "your kind" of language. Growing up in Ohio, I used words like "pop" (the fizzy drink) and "tennies" (athletic shoes). Although nowadays, I usually say, "soda" and "sneakers", I feel a fond connection whenever I hear someone use my "native" terms. I guess we never forget our original language kind.