For Peter Rothbart, a visiting American researcher at the TU’s Aerospace Engineering faculty, being unable to follow conversations in Dutch has allowed him to emphasize with his mother’s deafness and her struggle to ‘live outside the language barrier, waiting like a beggar at the gate.’
For as long as I’ve lived my mother has been deaf. Shortly after the birth of my oldest brother a sudden and mysterious illness severed the nerve tissue of her inner ear, leaving her entirely without hearing. For two days her head had been uncommonly congested, and the next day she awoke to nothing but ominous silence. For my parents, the inability to communicate to one another was overwhelming. My mother became isolated and depressed. She lost her job teaching sculpture at the university, and her circle of friends dwindled as she was unable to function socially. My father was angry and frustrated at being disconnected from the wife he knew.
For my brothers and I, however, our mother’s deafness was a simple reality. The mother we had was the mother we knew and her handicap was an intrinsic part of our childhood; learning to interact with her was as natural as had she not been deaf. Before I could speak an intelligible word of English, I knew how to communicate using sign language. In fact, this idiosyncrasy of my life at home was so fundamental that I never fully appreciated how trying the language barrier was for my mother, and the profound effect it had on her life. In the United States, a native English speaker never really has trouble being understood. The concept of a language barrier is exclusively reserved for interactions with foreigners, who are invariably the ones holding up lines, asking incomprehensibly for directions, or driving painfully slow along the freeway attempting to decipher road signs. Being on the majority side of a language barrier is like being on the inner wall of a medieval castle, lording over the peasantry. You have power and control over the transient population; you decide what to give and what not to give by way of your willingness to converse. But when you live outside of the language barrier, you wait like a beggar at the gate, hoping the keepers will be kind enough to let you across the verbal moat and into the conversation. Only now, nesting in a country where I am not among that majority, can I empathize with my mother’s deafness and the struggle of those who live beyond that gate.
My Dutch is poor. I can count to 20, recite the days of the week, and name most of the items I purchase when shopping for groceries. Beyond that, I know only the most rudimentary phrases, and entering a conversation in Dutch with a native speaker is as unfathomable to me as Arnold Schwarzenegger entering a political campaign. I’m appreciative of how patient others are with my linguistic shortcomings, and of their willingness and ability to speak with me in English – yet I’m keenly aware of the division between us. My first days here I joined my Dutch TU colleagues for coffee in the mornings only to find myself unintentionally but largely excluded. It was acutely reminiscent of dining with my family, of my mother calmly observing the discussions going on around her and waiting for someone to explain. Worst of all are the moments that I find myself at the supermarket trying to figure out why an item costs more than I had expected, looking behind to see the line backing up and realizing that I am the foreigner I have so impatiently dealt with at home.
Through my experiences in the Netherlands I have come to see communication as a brave and noble act. While this may seem like a ready form of self-flattery, the prospect of interacting with someone in a manner so unknown to you is intimidating, and I have a renewed respect for all those who attempt it. Thanks to the time I’ve spent as a visitor, I’ve learned how important it is to speak slowly and pronounce my words clearly, to give directions patiently, and, when seated around the dinner table with my family, to explain to my mother why we’re all laughing. I am compelled to be both more communicative and more approachable. Hopefully, should I meet you someday in the markt, you’ll do the same for me.
For Peter Rothbart, a visiting American researcher at the TU’s Aerospace Engineering faculty, being unable to follow conversations in Dutch has allowed him to emphasize with his mother’s deafness and her struggle to ‘live outside the language barrier, waiting like a beggar at the gate.’
For as long as I’ve lived my mother has been deaf. Shortly after the birth of my oldest brother a sudden and mysterious illness severed the nerve tissue of her inner ear, leaving her entirely without hearing. For two days her head had been uncommonly congested, and the next day she awoke to nothing but ominous silence. For my parents, the inability to communicate to one another was overwhelming. My mother became isolated and depressed. She lost her job teaching sculpture at the university, and her circle of friends dwindled as she was unable to function socially. My father was angry and frustrated at being disconnected from the wife he knew.
For my brothers and I, however, our mother’s deafness was a simple reality. The mother we had was the mother we knew and her handicap was an intrinsic part of our childhood; learning to interact with her was as natural as had she not been deaf. Before I could speak an intelligible word of English, I knew how to communicate using sign language. In fact, this idiosyncrasy of my life at home was so fundamental that I never fully appreciated how trying the language barrier was for my mother, and the profound effect it had on her life. In the United States, a native English speaker never really has trouble being understood. The concept of a language barrier is exclusively reserved for interactions with foreigners, who are invariably the ones holding up lines, asking incomprehensibly for directions, or driving painfully slow along the freeway attempting to decipher road signs. Being on the majority side of a language barrier is like being on the inner wall of a medieval castle, lording over the peasantry. You have power and control over the transient population; you decide what to give and what not to give by way of your willingness to converse. But when you live outside of the language barrier, you wait like a beggar at the gate, hoping the keepers will be kind enough to let you across the verbal moat and into the conversation. Only now, nesting in a country where I am not among that majority, can I empathize with my mother’s deafness and the struggle of those who live beyond that gate.
My Dutch is poor. I can count to 20, recite the days of the week, and name most of the items I purchase when shopping for groceries. Beyond that, I know only the most rudimentary phrases, and entering a conversation in Dutch with a native speaker is as unfathomable to me as Arnold Schwarzenegger entering a political campaign. I’m appreciative of how patient others are with my linguistic shortcomings, and of their willingness and ability to speak with me in English – yet I’m keenly aware of the division between us. My first days here I joined my Dutch TU colleagues for coffee in the mornings only to find myself unintentionally but largely excluded. It was acutely reminiscent of dining with my family, of my mother calmly observing the discussions going on around her and waiting for someone to explain. Worst of all are the moments that I find myself at the supermarket trying to figure out why an item costs more than I had expected, looking behind to see the line backing up and realizing that I am the foreigner I have so impatiently dealt with at home.
Through my experiences in the Netherlands I have come to see communication as a brave and noble act. While this may seem like a ready form of self-flattery, the prospect of interacting with someone in a manner so unknown to you is intimidating, and I have a renewed respect for all those who attempt it. Thanks to the time I’ve spent as a visitor, I’ve learned how important it is to speak slowly and pronounce my words clearly, to give directions patiently, and, when seated around the dinner table with my family, to explain to my mother why we’re all laughing. I am compelled to be both more communicative and more approachable. Hopefully, should I meet you someday in the markt, you’ll do the same for me.
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