Tongues

Two stories about overcoming the barrier of language.

Lion’s

Foreign Poet

When you’re on a beach in the tropics with the sun going down and there is a person beside you that has a rolled cigarette and they offer a bump, you don’t ask what’s inside, you just smoke it. You do that, nod in agreement to whatever you’re smoking, and try to make small talk.

I pointed to the horizon and nodded, “pretty good one today,” I said not really knowing if my compadre on the beach spoke my language.

“The red sun falls good today” he said. When you don’t speak the language well, poetic language comes naturally. It’s a gift to be limited in the way that you speak but still know how to speak. I was once a poet until I started to study comparative literature. With all my knowledge I’ve forgotten how simple beautiful can be and how beautiful can be simple.

“I’ve never seen fireflies on a beach before,” I said.

“Yes the light bugs are beautiful on water moon light view.” He said and gave me another puff.

I thought of the world of simple language that I had left behind after all my study on my own. It was here that I decided that I would become a poet. I would learn a language by grammar and a base of the parts of speech needed to place and describe objects. Then, I would write. If I became too versed in one language I would move to a new area and start to learn another. I would be one of the few poets that wrote in a tongue other than their native.

And in the middle of my thought, he handed me the rolled cigarette and said, “The world magic and the mind are magic.” And right then I promised to start looking for it.

Ceahorse’s

The Translator

I met my wife when I was living in Beijing. She grew up there; I was there working. We married and I, or we, stayed there to remain near her family which was more important to her than my family is to me. Then we had a son; we named him John.

He was 8 when it first happened, or at least when he first mentioned it to us. He came into our room late one night, after we were all asleep. He told us that there was a person in his room. I freaked, thinking it was a burglar, and ran to his room, grabbing the first thing I could as a weapon – the hairdryer.

His room was empty, and there was no sign of a break in. My first conclusion was that he had confused dream with reality. I talked to him about it, but he was too afraid to contradict his hero, his pa.

The next time it happened I came into his room hearing him scream. I was watching a movie with the wife. As I entered the room he jumped up and ran to hug me. Safe in my arms he pointed to the empty corner. “She is there” was all he said before he began to sob.

I knew there was a problem. After consulting with my wife, we decided we need to take him to a doctor for a check up. Our family doctor wasn’t able to help so we found a specialist through the internet.

Late in the next week the three of us were sitting in the office of Dr. Wang, of Hong Kong. We went through the questions together, and the doctor ordered up an MRI. The week later we were back, the results in. The doctor diagnosed John with classic schizophrenia and encouraged a treatment with clopimozide. When I asked him for the side effects, one stood out alone, ringing loud my ear. “A lost in creativity.” I told him we needed to think about it.

Back at home, my wife asked why I didn’t take the doctors advice. My response was as follows. “He is our son. Perhaps he is mentally ill and in need of medication, but perhaps he is not” She got angry and asked what I was suggesting. I responded “I’m not saying I believe in ghosts. But clearly John does, for whatever reason. And I think we should face this problem not run from it with medication that will stop our boy from seeing anything.”

It made me think about my childhood. I used to see colors. Colors in everything. Not just the color of objects, but the colors of abstract things. Like blue for and intense math problem. And red for an angry girl that was frightened by a bully with a bug. My parents took the doctors advice, and my colors went away. I also became a bore.

The next time my son saw her I was ready. Safe in my arms I guided him. He told me she was back. I asked him to be strong and I told him I would let her hurt him. He stopped crying and asked what he was to do. I told him to ask her if she was ok. He told me she didn’t say anything that perhaps she didn’t understand, that she looked Chinese. I asked him to translate what I was saying in to Chinese. He did it, and told me she responded. She said that she didn’t feel good, and that she was lost. I told him to tell her that we might be able to help her. She smiled, and said thank you. I offered our help again, building her trust. Next I looked deep in my son’s eyes, intensely, and told him that the next part was very important. I told him that the next thing he said had to be worded and said very softly, like your talking to a puppy. He said he understood and then translated. “You appear to be a ghost to us”.

He never saw her again. He never screamed or came running into our room at night. But there were times when, on my way past his room to bed, I heard him whispering in his room.