I've been contemplating my interactions with others lately--mostly as relates to language. A couple weeks ago I had a conversation about the Bible with a parent at Max's school. He abruptly ended the conversation pointing his finger at me and saying very forcibly, "No! Because you don't know. You don't know." I realized in the moment that his refusal to continue the conversation, which was quite pleasant up until the last 6 minutes, had to do with simple word choice. I had referred to Biblical accounts as cuentos or "stories". This greatly upset him. I discovered, a bit late, that I was supposed to use the word historias, which also means "stories" in English. He left, red in the face, completely appalled.
These sort of interactions have happened in my native language as well. It's usually a combination of the two parties coming from entirely different places and with different intentions. Surely, you can relate on some level to this kind of misunderstanding, painful and common as they are. I hope, for the sake of unity, that you were able to detach from outcomes and discover a point of mutual understanding in these instances. As we all strive for this kind of sensitivity and love, I wanted to share my favorite poem with each of you.
The Language of There
by Roger White
"I mean to learn,
in the language of where I am going,
barely enough to ask for food and love."
--James Merrill
Yes. There, light will be our language,
a tongue without words for
perhaps, or arid, or futile,
though shadow be retained
that we may contrast the radiance.
Almost will no longer be a measure.
We will learn a hundred synonyms for certitude,
and love will have a thousand conjugations.
Ours will be the italicized vocabulary
of delectable astonishments.
The possessive case will play no part
in the grammar of joy and burgeoning,
infants will speak at birth, and only the ancients
will remember the obscenity of exile
There, laughter will be spelt in capitals,
sadness grow obsolete,
and negation be declared archaic.
Hell will be pronounced remoteness,
and vast tomes will be devoted
to the derivations of yes.
Where all is elation and surprise
exclamation points will fall into disuse.
There, food and affection will be ours for a smile,
and immortality for a fluent, knowing wink.
In time, our desire to speak will abandon us.
All that need be said the light will say. Yes.
These sort of interactions have happened in my native language as well. It's usually a combination of the two parties coming from entirely different places and with different intentions. Surely, you can relate on some level to this kind of misunderstanding, painful and common as they are. I hope, for the sake of unity, that you were able to detach from outcomes and discover a point of mutual understanding in these instances. As we all strive for this kind of sensitivity and love, I wanted to share my favorite poem with each of you.
The Language of There
by Roger White
"I mean to learn,
in the language of where I am going,
barely enough to ask for food and love."
--James Merrill
Yes. There, light will be our language,
a tongue without words for
perhaps, or arid, or futile,
though shadow be retained
that we may contrast the radiance.
Almost will no longer be a measure.
We will learn a hundred synonyms for certitude,
and love will have a thousand conjugations.
Ours will be the italicized vocabulary
of delectable astonishments.
The possessive case will play no part
in the grammar of joy and burgeoning,
infants will speak at birth, and only the ancients
will remember the obscenity of exile
There, laughter will be spelt in capitals,
sadness grow obsolete,
and negation be declared archaic.
Hell will be pronounced remoteness,
and vast tomes will be devoted
to the derivations of yes.
Where all is elation and surprise
exclamation points will fall into disuse.
There, food and affection will be ours for a smile,
and immortality for a fluent, knowing wink.
In time, our desire to speak will abandon us.
All that need be said the light will say. Yes.