FYI - This post will mostly appeal to speakers of Russian, and those interested in the assimilation of cultures. Everyone else might find this more interesting and appropriate for their tastes
Russians are language lazy. I'm not sure if it's a product of trying to assimilate, or just the opposite, but they tend to melange their yazik all ensemble. Oh, I'm sorry, I must have dozed off while mixing my languages together.
But you would too! Imagine, you're an American in France, eating a baguette, smoking a long cigarette out of one of those Cruella DeVille cigarette holders while deriding some foreigner for wearing a religious headdress. You've almost entirely assimilated. Yet, when you speak, you inject a little English, just for good measure, "Je n'ai pas du croissant, mais si vous voulez, vous pouvez breakfaster chez moi." (I knew I majored in French for something - education well used).
Then the French organize an impromptu flash mob and force you to eat like, 1000 frog legs. You're still hungry afterward, cause, seriously...all you had was frog legs, and let's face it: there ain't much meat on them bones.
So getting back to the Russians. While I might not speak, I understand about 90% of what's going on around me. And having my Russian language background be almost entirely built upon a dude who has read more than Oprah, and who speaks impeccable Russian, I cringe just a little bit when I hear the local people use words like, "move-itsya" and "shop-itsya"; English words with Russian endings, a linguist's nightmare.
Ok, well, I've been staring at this page now for 10 minutes thinking of how to end this post. But I can't figure out a good ending. So here's Tom Cruise with no pants on.
Showing posts with label languages. Show all posts
Showing posts with label languages. Show all posts
Friday, April 8, 2011
Wednesday, March 30, 2011
Why not to make fun of big Russian guys
I absolutely love Russian culture. I love the food. I love the music. I love how they party. Just about everything that encompasses how Russians go about their lives is entirely enthralling to me.
But, there is a limit to everything. And I'm bad with knowing my limits.
Early in my relationship with my wife, she introduced me to a little gem of Northeast Philadelphia: Golden Gates. If there was an empire of Russian restaurants, Golden Gates would be their Tsar. It is Peter the Great amongst a gaggle of peasants. The largest matryoshka to encompass all the others.
um...the...Alla Pugacheva of...ok, i think we've exhausted this.
I've only had my life threatened once. But, I wasn't exactly aware of if at the time.
See, here's my side of the story. My first time at Golden Gates was an experience. Russian Restaurants in Philly are not like American restaurants. There is more food than you can possibly imagine. There is more liquor than you can possibly imagine. And there is a Song and Dance Troupe that performs all the hits from the Motherland from Victory Day to Today. It is not suggested that you get up and dance, you are expected to get up and dance. I was at an age where I was unaware of exactly how much vodka I could effectively handle, and I thought the more the better.
However...
Right around 6 shots of vodka, you are having a great time, and dance like an idiot all night long, but any more, and you're getting into dangerous territory. I was about 8 shots in with no food. Bad idea.
Somewhere between "Ah, Kakaya Zhenshina" and "Rodina Moya: Belorussia" I end up making fun of the way some guys on the dance floor were dancing. Please note: this is highly discouraged in any situation, but especially when uncoordinated but massively built Russians are concerned.
It's not my fault they looked like refrigerators whose doors wouldn't stay shut
After a couple of songs, my wife and I went outside to take a smoke break (back when we both smoked) and two of the guys I was ridiculing came out behind us. By this time, I had forgotten that I was making fun of them. They hadn't. So when they came over to me, I thought they were being friendly.
They said a few angry words in Russian, most of which I didn't understand. There was, however, the word sapogi (boots) and a fairly dirtier version of the word popa (rear end).
Still misunderstanding, I was smiling like a complete idiot, and repeating the three words I knew at the time: "Chto? Pochimu? Vse!" (what? why? that's all!) hoping that some combination or ordering of those three words would sort of make them chill out.
Literally, the next thing I know, I'm in one of my friends cars speeding away as fast as possible. I don't remember what happened, but I'm told that one of them pulled a knife and said something to the effect of, "I'll show you how to speak Russian properly!" at which point we all scattered.
Good job, me. I really know how to show my girl a good time. This is why I refuse to drink when we go out anymore.
The next time we went to Golden Gates, I stayed sober. But so did my wife. There was some sort of cosmic justice, however. My wife was driving at the time, and as she was pulling out, she backed into some tricked out brand new BMW that someone had obviously put a lot of money and time into. She guaranteed that there would be a little more money and time put into the car. She was freaked, and I didn't want us both to die being taught Russian grammar, so we high tailed it out of there like Dick Dastardly and Muttley (*hee hee hee hee hee*)
Needless to say, we haven't gone to any Russian Restaurants since.
But, there is a limit to everything. And I'm bad with knowing my limits.
Early in my relationship with my wife, she introduced me to a little gem of Northeast Philadelphia: Golden Gates. If there was an empire of Russian restaurants, Golden Gates would be their Tsar. It is Peter the Great amongst a gaggle of peasants. The largest matryoshka to encompass all the others.
um...the...Alla Pugacheva of...ok, i think we've exhausted this.
I've only had my life threatened once. But, I wasn't exactly aware of if at the time.
See, here's my side of the story. My first time at Golden Gates was an experience. Russian Restaurants in Philly are not like American restaurants. There is more food than you can possibly imagine. There is more liquor than you can possibly imagine. And there is a Song and Dance Troupe that performs all the hits from the Motherland from Victory Day to Today. It is not suggested that you get up and dance, you are expected to get up and dance. I was at an age where I was unaware of exactly how much vodka I could effectively handle, and I thought the more the better.
However...
Right around 6 shots of vodka, you are having a great time, and dance like an idiot all night long, but any more, and you're getting into dangerous territory. I was about 8 shots in with no food. Bad idea.
Somewhere between "Ah, Kakaya Zhenshina" and "Rodina Moya: Belorussia" I end up making fun of the way some guys on the dance floor were dancing. Please note: this is highly discouraged in any situation, but especially when uncoordinated but massively built Russians are concerned.
It's not my fault they looked like refrigerators whose doors wouldn't stay shut
After a couple of songs, my wife and I went outside to take a smoke break (back when we both smoked) and two of the guys I was ridiculing came out behind us. By this time, I had forgotten that I was making fun of them. They hadn't. So when they came over to me, I thought they were being friendly.
They said a few angry words in Russian, most of which I didn't understand. There was, however, the word sapogi (boots) and a fairly dirtier version of the word popa (rear end).
Still misunderstanding, I was smiling like a complete idiot, and repeating the three words I knew at the time: "Chto? Pochimu? Vse!" (what? why? that's all!) hoping that some combination or ordering of those three words would sort of make them chill out.
Literally, the next thing I know, I'm in one of my friends cars speeding away as fast as possible. I don't remember what happened, but I'm told that one of them pulled a knife and said something to the effect of, "I'll show you how to speak Russian properly!" at which point we all scattered.
Good job, me. I really know how to show my girl a good time. This is why I refuse to drink when we go out anymore.
The next time we went to Golden Gates, I stayed sober. But so did my wife. There was some sort of cosmic justice, however. My wife was driving at the time, and as she was pulling out, she backed into some tricked out brand new BMW that someone had obviously put a lot of money and time into. She guaranteed that there would be a little more money and time put into the car. She was freaked, and I didn't want us both to die being taught Russian grammar, so we high tailed it out of there like Dick Dastardly and Muttley (*hee hee hee hee hee*)
Needless to say, we haven't gone to any Russian Restaurants since.
Thursday, March 24, 2011
An evening with Yan
My in-laws are smart. Not just smart. They're intelligent. See, Americans do not really differentiate between the two. If you know how they get the pirate ships inside those bottles and onto the fireplace mantles, you are then both smart and intelligent. They are synonyms.
But my in-laws are intelligent. To them, intelligence is a function of the amount of culture you've exposed yourself to. No, not "exposed yourself", but "been to see, or experience". Sounds like you might need a copy of Pat the Bunny. My father-in-law has read every book published before 1900, save the bible. He is an adept chess player, can compute multi-variable calculus integrals in his head, and enjoys going to ballet, theater, and opera. And, he started his own business in Belarus as a contractor. We Americans don't consider contractors to be all that "intelligent", but it's different in the former CCCR.
His best friend in the States (they met in the requisite "welcome to America" class every foreigner apparently has to take) is a world champion chess grand master from way back in the day who has about 7 pHDs in mathematics and worked in some secret building in Moscow doing secretive spy (supposedly) stuff for the Communists.
His name is Yan. He is about 70 years old, and has a well-tended-to, full head of silver hair, and my wife seems to constantly tell me that she could totally see how he was super-attractive back in the time when no one had indoor plumbing. We meet up with him about every other weekend or so, mostly because he and his wife Gala have taken such a genuine interest in my wife and I, they could truly be "Uncle Yan" and "Aunt Gala".
Every single time we hang out with him, however, he brings something with him. Last time it was a poem that he had written (in Russian, of course). Other times it's a mind-bending mathematical problem. And still others it's a simple English grammar question that he somehow corrupts to make it a mind-bending mathematical problem.
I don't think he understands fully that I speak only enough Russian to impress Russians. I know the basic phrases, I understand the majority of low-level blabber, and, admittedly, almost everything about food. When you are part of a Belorussian Jewish family, there's a lot of discussion about food, which is a topic for another time. But the second anything above small-talk comes into the conversation, I'm immediately lost. His English skills are as good as one could expect from someone who came here in their 60s. That is to say, basically non-existent.
Being the first Saturday night that was above freezing, I was excited to grill - and Yan, being the naturally curious man he is, was hovering around my wife as she was feeding Samuel. Gala promptly threw him outside with me.
And this is where it gets weird. Normally, when we spend time together, we barely talk. The language barrier is paralyzing. But for some reason, this time, he gets in his blabber mood. The below is in Russian, translated for your convenience into English with the majority of Yan's side of the conversation contextually extrapolated.
Yan - So, Bill, you must certainly describe to me just how wonderful it must feel for you to finally be a father!
Me - yes - i think it is nice.
Yan - Of course! I remember back when i was a young adult the same age as you, when Gala and I welcomed our first and only child just how excited and awe-stricken we were to finally hold her in our arms!
Me - it is interesting!
Yan - I know, isn't it? so, now that Samuel is almost two months, can you feel those same emotions?
Me - Yes, he is very important. So very important. He is like Sun, and me...like this (I point to the grass).
Yan - Like the grass!
Me - yes (though thinking he could have said anything in the general direction I was pointing, and I wouldn't have know the difference).
He then rambled on for a few more minutes about children, and love, and his wife, and family, and all the things you would expect someone to ramble on about when having a discussion about a newborn. I understood less than 10% of it, but made some very convincing "I understand" faces.
Finally, Gala came downstairs and called him back inside signaling that Samuel was done eating. Yan then went upstairs to prepare the three page poem he had memorized for the evening.
But my in-laws are intelligent. To them, intelligence is a function of the amount of culture you've exposed yourself to. No, not "exposed yourself", but "been to see, or experience". Sounds like you might need a copy of Pat the Bunny. My father-in-law has read every book published before 1900, save the bible. He is an adept chess player, can compute multi-variable calculus integrals in his head, and enjoys going to ballet, theater, and opera. And, he started his own business in Belarus as a contractor. We Americans don't consider contractors to be all that "intelligent", but it's different in the former CCCR.
His best friend in the States (they met in the requisite "welcome to America" class every foreigner apparently has to take) is a world champion chess grand master from way back in the day who has about 7 pHDs in mathematics and worked in some secret building in Moscow doing secretive spy (supposedly) stuff for the Communists.
His name is Yan. He is about 70 years old, and has a well-tended-to, full head of silver hair, and my wife seems to constantly tell me that she could totally see how he was super-attractive back in the time when no one had indoor plumbing. We meet up with him about every other weekend or so, mostly because he and his wife Gala have taken such a genuine interest in my wife and I, they could truly be "Uncle Yan" and "Aunt Gala".
Every single time we hang out with him, however, he brings something with him. Last time it was a poem that he had written (in Russian, of course). Other times it's a mind-bending mathematical problem. And still others it's a simple English grammar question that he somehow corrupts to make it a mind-bending mathematical problem.
I don't think he understands fully that I speak only enough Russian to impress Russians. I know the basic phrases, I understand the majority of low-level blabber, and, admittedly, almost everything about food. When you are part of a Belorussian Jewish family, there's a lot of discussion about food, which is a topic for another time. But the second anything above small-talk comes into the conversation, I'm immediately lost. His English skills are as good as one could expect from someone who came here in their 60s. That is to say, basically non-existent.
Being the first Saturday night that was above freezing, I was excited to grill - and Yan, being the naturally curious man he is, was hovering around my wife as she was feeding Samuel. Gala promptly threw him outside with me.
And this is where it gets weird. Normally, when we spend time together, we barely talk. The language barrier is paralyzing. But for some reason, this time, he gets in his blabber mood. The below is in Russian, translated for your convenience into English with the majority of Yan's side of the conversation contextually extrapolated.
Yan - So, Bill, you must certainly describe to me just how wonderful it must feel for you to finally be a father!
Me - yes - i think it is nice.
Yan - Of course! I remember back when i was a young adult the same age as you, when Gala and I welcomed our first and only child just how excited and awe-stricken we were to finally hold her in our arms!
Me - it is interesting!
Yan - I know, isn't it? so, now that Samuel is almost two months, can you feel those same emotions?
Me - Yes, he is very important. So very important. He is like Sun, and me...like this (I point to the grass).
Yan - Like the grass!
Me - yes (though thinking he could have said anything in the general direction I was pointing, and I wouldn't have know the difference).
He then rambled on for a few more minutes about children, and love, and his wife, and family, and all the things you would expect someone to ramble on about when having a discussion about a newborn. I understood less than 10% of it, but made some very convincing "I understand" faces.
Finally, Gala came downstairs and called him back inside signaling that Samuel was done eating. Yan then went upstairs to prepare the three page poem he had memorized for the evening.
Wednesday, March 23, 2011
Night-time Routine
Fed up with the month long randomness that went along with having a month old child, my wife and I decided to put Sammy on a routine.
After a bath, a rubdown with baby-oil, and a clean diaper, and while being fed, we read to him, alternating between Russian language stories and English language stories.
That's all fine and good, but there's one problem. I don't have any English Language books for a 2 month old.
I've got Calvin and Hobbes. I've got Horatio Hornblower. I've got Hardy Boys, and Treasure Island, and Three Musketeers, and old Spider Man comics. Dragonlance, C.S. Lewis, The entire Oz series of books, miscellaneous Star wars (canon, duh) books, and Goosebumps.
But I have nothing for someone who cannot hold his own head.
My wife, on the other hand, has hundreds of silly jovial stories about various forest animals interacting in a friendly and helpful way. In one, a friendly bird is helping some cute squirrels gather food for the winter. In another, a fox defends a deer against a dangerous boar through wit and cleverness.
I started with two - Peter Rabbit and Benjamin Bunny. And now I'm out.
But I've looked! and everything I've seen has been disappointingly stupid. Take Mrs. Mustard's Baby Face book. Just a bunch of faces. Dumb. Then there's Black & White. I'm not crazy about beginning to teach my 8 week old about racial inequalities just yet. And I also came across Pat the Bunny, which seems like a thinly veiled sexy book. inappropriate, much?
So, I guess I'm going to have to resort to reading in Russian, subjecting my son to bad pronunciation and frequently made-up words. Anyone have any suggestions as to good infant books?
After a bath, a rubdown with baby-oil, and a clean diaper, and while being fed, we read to him, alternating between Russian language stories and English language stories.
That's all fine and good, but there's one problem. I don't have any English Language books for a 2 month old.
I've got Calvin and Hobbes. I've got Horatio Hornblower. I've got Hardy Boys, and Treasure Island, and Three Musketeers, and old Spider Man comics. Dragonlance, C.S. Lewis, The entire Oz series of books, miscellaneous Star wars (canon, duh) books, and Goosebumps.
But I have nothing for someone who cannot hold his own head.
My wife, on the other hand, has hundreds of silly jovial stories about various forest animals interacting in a friendly and helpful way. In one, a friendly bird is helping some cute squirrels gather food for the winter. In another, a fox defends a deer against a dangerous boar through wit and cleverness.
I started with two - Peter Rabbit and Benjamin Bunny. And now I'm out.
But I've looked! and everything I've seen has been disappointingly stupid. Take Mrs. Mustard's Baby Face book. Just a bunch of faces. Dumb. Then there's Black & White. I'm not crazy about beginning to teach my 8 week old about racial inequalities just yet. And I also came across Pat the Bunny, which seems like a thinly veiled sexy book. inappropriate, much?
So, I guess I'm going to have to resort to reading in Russian, subjecting my son to bad pronunciation and frequently made-up words. Anyone have any suggestions as to good infant books?
Wednesday, December 15, 2010
First thoughts on fatherhood - bilingualism
Last night was the first time that either my wife or I had ever actually seen part of our son. He pushed his little hands up through her stomach so that his little palm could be seen ever so faintly. His tiny fingers were there too, though even less visible. We both took turns placing our fingertips in the center of his palm and pushing as lightly as we could to let him know we were there. It was an unbelievably magical moment, and one of our first real interactions with our son. I'm so incredibly excited for him to come out so we can start giving him serious love!
All the baby websites say that while in the womb, your baby is immediately a social being, longing for interaction with you. About a month ago, before we were going to sleep, i was rubbing her tummy with my hand and noticed that he was following me around, pushing back at my hand whenever i would tap on her belly.
I was immediately in love with him.
I try as much as i can to chat with him - whatever is on my mind at the time. i know he can't understand anything yet, but it makes me feel better that he's getting used to the sound of my voice.
But my wife is shy. She knows that Russian will be the minority language not only in the house, but outside as well, and she doesn't like to talk to him in Russian in front of me. Nevermind the fact that she will blabber for hours with her parents and sister without thinking twice about it. I wish for her that she gains the confidence to speak only Russian with him, like we're planning, even if it means alienating me to a degree.
Our nephew - her sister's son - is six now. He was born in America soon after they came to the states. For the first four years, he didn't speak a word of English, and it was difficult for me to communicate with him, despite the fact that I've picked up a significant amount of Russian. But now that he's six, he will almost exclusively speak to me in English, and tends to shy away from the rest of the family, because they will only speak in Russian. They're also having a hard time getting him to speak Russian at home. They say that within a year, he won't speak a word of Russian. I've thought about speaking Russian to him, but I speak in broken - probably more accurately described as crippled - Russian, and I would worry about our ability to be together suffering.
This is the fear that my wife has about our son. I've been trying to study so that the majority language can be Russian at home, but i know that it's going to be more difficult that I can imagine to speak solely in a foreign language at home in a country dominated by my own majority tongue. Maybe that's the solution? If i was worried about my relationship with my nephew, I would certainly be worried about my relationship with my son.
All the baby websites say that while in the womb, your baby is immediately a social being, longing for interaction with you. About a month ago, before we were going to sleep, i was rubbing her tummy with my hand and noticed that he was following me around, pushing back at my hand whenever i would tap on her belly.
I was immediately in love with him.
I try as much as i can to chat with him - whatever is on my mind at the time. i know he can't understand anything yet, but it makes me feel better that he's getting used to the sound of my voice.
But my wife is shy. She knows that Russian will be the minority language not only in the house, but outside as well, and she doesn't like to talk to him in Russian in front of me. Nevermind the fact that she will blabber for hours with her parents and sister without thinking twice about it. I wish for her that she gains the confidence to speak only Russian with him, like we're planning, even if it means alienating me to a degree.
Our nephew - her sister's son - is six now. He was born in America soon after they came to the states. For the first four years, he didn't speak a word of English, and it was difficult for me to communicate with him, despite the fact that I've picked up a significant amount of Russian. But now that he's six, he will almost exclusively speak to me in English, and tends to shy away from the rest of the family, because they will only speak in Russian. They're also having a hard time getting him to speak Russian at home. They say that within a year, he won't speak a word of Russian. I've thought about speaking Russian to him, but I speak in broken - probably more accurately described as crippled - Russian, and I would worry about our ability to be together suffering.
This is the fear that my wife has about our son. I've been trying to study so that the majority language can be Russian at home, but i know that it's going to be more difficult that I can imagine to speak solely in a foreign language at home in a country dominated by my own majority tongue. Maybe that's the solution? If i was worried about my relationship with my nephew, I would certainly be worried about my relationship with my son.
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