Come On Now, Speak English!

It was 1985 and I had lived in the country of Taiwan for six months.  One morning I decided to try a little of my newly acquired Mandarin Chinese at a small breakfast cart along the side of the road. I had already developed a taste for what was called a “boudz”, which could best be described as a hamburger except that it was a steamed bun with a ball of delicious meat inside. It was very cheap (about 12 cents in U.S. money) and a couple of them for breakfast along with some soy-milk had become a part of my morning commute (bicycle) to language class.

I said to the man, “I would like two steamed buns and some cold soy milk.” The man smiled and politely granted my request.  I think he even said something, which I interpreted as, “You speak Mandarin so well!”

Later I proudly explained to my teacher that I had successfully made this purchase and told her what I had said when ordering my breakfast. She smiled and told me that I had actually made a common mistake for people learning Mandarin. When numbers are used to indicate how many of something, it's a completely different word than when you are counting. So what I had said must have sounded very odd to the man. Yet I saw no evidence of disdain for me. Rather he seemed pleased that I was trying to speak his language. After all he couldn’t speak English so my feeble attempt at Chinese enabled us to communicate albeit in a very limited fashion.

I, along with my family, lived in Taiwan for more than seven years. It was our constant experience that the local people would always praise us profusely for any effort to speak their language. Their response usually went something like, “You speak Mandarin perfectly, how did you learn to speak so well?” (I’m sure our Chinese was far from perfect.) “If only we could learn to speak English as well as you speak Chinese.”  Living there and learning the language was an endeavor that was extremely rewarding.

Recently I was in a fast food restaurant here in the Washington DC area where we live. As I ordered my food the clerk behind the counter spoke to me with English that had a foreign accent but was nonetheless very clear. As she repeated my order back to me the thought occurred to me that maybe I should praise her for her success at learning to speak English so well.  But, I hesitated.  Many of the fast food restaurants in this area are staffed by people from other countries, all of who are required to learn basic English in order to do their jobs. I was afraid that I would appear to be somehow sarcastic or condescending to say such a thing.

This started me thinking of what it must be like for such individuals who have immigrated here and don't have the opportunity to go through a lot of formal training in English. They are working very hard to speak clearly so that they can successfully carry out the duties of their job, often which affords them a minimum wage. I know from experience that learning and using a foreign language can be scary and stressful.  When learning Mandarin in Taiwan, I was met with constant praise and admiration for being willing to come to their country and learn a difficult language and also because I was speaking clearly enough that they could understand me.

The effort and skill that it takes to learn to speak a second language, if it were employed at another endeavor (perhaps a technological field) might earn someone a much higher wage. But in order to function in any position in this country a person must know English and for this effort they are usually rewarded with a minimum wage.

I understand that this may just be a fact of life in this country. However it pains me when I hear negative attitudes expressed toward the many immigrants who work these minimum-wage jobs. In actuality, they have these jobs so that we can buy cheap food or cheap merchandize.  Many, if not most of these jobs are not highly coveted by the majority of Americans.  Yet these immigrants have accomplished something quite difficult, the learning the intricacies of the English language in order to do their job.

I am searching for an appropriate way to convey to these workers, not disdain or even tolerance, rather appreciation and even admiration for their dedication to their occupation.  It would be wonderful if immigrants, when communicating with their families in their countries of origin could say, “Americans are so nice, they are very patient and praise us profusely for our attempts at speaking English!”

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The War on Christmas

A religious organization recently announced that they were urging their members to boycott Radio Shack for one month.  The reason for this was that Radio Shack uses the phrase ‘Holidays’ rather than ‘Christmas’ in its advertising.  A popular television pundit has declared that there is a ‘war on Christmas’ and that there is a group of people who hate Christmas and are trying to eradicate it. 

I find it perplexing that religious people now decry the current diminishing use of the word ‘Christmas’ in the marketing of merchandize as a ‘bad’ thing.  I say this because having grown up in the Bible Belt and having spent many years as an active participant in evangelical Christianity, I remember that every year, the Christmas holidays brought thundering condemnation from preachers who said that a secular society was ‘co-opting’ Christmas in order to sell merchandize.  “Christmas is a manufactured holiday,” they would say which just gives people a chance to overindulge in spending as well as participating in all other manner of excess.  “Christians should shun such hypocrisy!” they admonished. 

One Christian denomination forbids it members from even celebrating Christmas in any religious manner (Rudolf is OK).  They do so because the Bible does not admonish Christians to celebrate Jesus’ birth (cannot deny this) and because there is no evidence to support the belief that Jesus was born on December 25, that in fact December 25 was originally a pagan holiday that was adopted as a date to celebrate the birth of Jesus (also true). 

I am approaching 60 years old, so I remember when America was much less diverse than it is today.  We had very few people around us who did not follow Christian traditions.  Expressions associated with the Christian holiday were everywhere present.  Society is quite different today.  Ease of travel between continents has brought to our country individuals who may not celebrate Christmas, but who bring other equally rich and interesting traditions.   Isn’t adjusting our greeting to something like ‘Happy Holidays’ saying to them that we want to accommodate their traditions and make them feel welcome in this country.  This seems consistent with the admonition of Jesus to treat others as we wish to be treated.

I am certain that the mission of Christianity is in no way advanced by insisting that Radio Shack or Wal-Mart use the word ‘Christmas’ in their advertising or that their employees say ‘Merry Christmas’ rather than ‘happy holidays.’  A couple of weeks ago, our neighbors invited us to their home for a ‘holiday party.’  They happen to be Jewish.  We were honored that they valued our friendship enough to include us in this event. Had we insisted on saying ‘Merry Christmas’ to them it would not only have been rather absurd, it would also have been unkind. 

I remember the Christmas parties and gatherings that my family attended when I was a child.  I suppose ‘Merry Christmas’ was spoken rather than ‘Happy Holidays’ but I don’t recall any talk of worshipping the babe in the manger.  Truthfully for many in those days, the holiday was just as secular as it is now.  It was mostly about gifts, parties, eggnog, yule-logs, deck the halls, Frosty the snowman, Kriss Kringle, fruitcake, Charlie Brown, etc, etc. Some, not all, may have attended a church service.

As much as I love to hear “Merry Christmas’ I also welcome ‘Happy Holidays’ as an expression of kindness and a wish of good will.  And that makes me feel good!  People waging ‘war’ usually do not want to spread cheer.

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Senior Citizens Drive too Slow!

Mr. and Mrs. Brown were the kind of elderly couple that struck you somewhere between amusing and annoying. Everything about them seemed out of date.  Their car, one of those massive behemoths of the 1970's, signaled that a senior citizen was about, driving slowly, cautiously, easing from place to place. You might think they were such a cute old couple, unless you happened to be behind them in traffic.  Mr. Brown always did the driving since Mrs. Brown had very poor eyesight. 

Mr. Brown's clothes, while neat, appeared to be the ones he had been wearing when he met Mrs. Brown.  He had worn them for so long that the fabric had taken on the shape of his wallet, pocket knife, and keys.  Mrs. Brown, smelling of powder and hair spray, wore thick glasses and carried a giant purse.  They were a perfect match.  

The Browns seemed to be one of the myriad of senior citizens that have been largely passed by as the world had changed.  They no doubt had to watch their money very closely and probably didn't ask for much.  Like so many retirees with time on their hands, they are regulars at the bank, the post office, grocery, and pharmacy.  When they stop appearing at the pick up window at the pharmacy, this will largely go unnoticed.

I knew the Browns because she was our children's piano teacher.  When we had first moved to that community, we were told that a particular piano academy was the best place for our children to study, that piano students there had one many awards.  But the teachers that had been recommended to us were all full and were not taking new students.  Only Mrs. Brown had room for new students.

I suspect some thought she might not be a good teacher.  I said earlier that she had poor eyesight.  In truth, she was almost blind.  She had a large magnifying glass mounted above the piano so that, looking through it, she could see the notes as she pounded out the beat with a stick.  She had an antiquated system of rewarding students for effort that used terms like, "Super," and "Super-duper."   Mrs. Brown was about as 'un-hip' as a person could be, but her young students held her in high esteem and I am about tell you why I believe that was the case.

Mrs. Brown's recitals were elaborate affairs, featuring students from kindergarten to adults.  Mr. Brown was always her helper, handing out the 'super-dupers' and snapping photos.  Mrs. Brown would often leave messages on our home answering machine, reminding the children that there was going to be a a rehearsal for the dress-rehearsal for the recital.  Because our answering machine had our daughter Margaret's voice on the greeting informing the caller that they should leave a message, Mrs Brown always addressed her message to Margaret.  Speaking with what must have been a South Carolina or Georgia accent, "Mawgret Darrrling, don't  forget to bring $3.50 to your lesson for your  music book. 

During a certain period of time, we had a lot of expenses and were trying to find ways to trim our budget.  We decided to cease having our children take piano lessons.  The strain of reminding them to practice, the time taking them to lessons and recitals, along with the cost, were all things we felt we could do without.  Stopping piano lessons seemed to be the thing to do.

Mrs Brown called me to ask why the children were no longer coming to lessons. I told her that we were trying to cut expenses and had decided that piano lessons could stop.  Mrs. Brown wouldn't have any of that.  She said that she would teach the children for free.  She went on to explain that as a little girl, her parents couldn't afford piano lessons and that her teacher had taught her anyway.  She had vowed she would do the same for children that wanted to learn to play the piano. 

I was so stunned and frankly humbled by this that I hardly knew how to respond. It was not difficult to see that the Browns were not prosperous people.  I am certain that I could afford to pay for the lessons more easily than Mrs. Brown could affrord to do without our payments.  But, I reluctantly accepted her offer saying that we would allow the children to continue, and that we hoped we could begin to pay for the lessons again in the future.  And this is what we did.

People like Mrs. Brown do not get much recognition in the world.  They don't stand out in such a manner so as to draw the attention of society.  But, most of us think and behave in ways that have been modeled for us by people we have encountered in our lives.  When I have a chance to do something for someone else, even though it doesn't benefit me, I think of Mrs. Brown.  If I had never been the recipient of such kindness, then I suppose I could justify never extending it to another.  But, I have experienced that,  just as Mrs. Brown experienced it as a child, and together with her, I vow to extend it to others. 

I wonder what kindness was modeled before the teacher who gave Mrs. Brown free piano lessons as a child.


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I Am Commanded to Love Them!

Some issues that currently being debated in the media often result in individuals expressing their opinion based upon their religious perspective. Rights for gays and lesbians and particularly legalization of marriage for gays and lesbians have brought forth vocal opposition from individuals characterized as "evangelical" or "conservative" in their religious affiliation.

I grew up in the "evangelical" religious tradition and spent many years of my adulthood heavily involved in the same, so I believe I understand where these individuals are coming from. The comments coming from such individuals vary in attitude and intensity: from those who politely express reservation to others who use cruel epithets in referring to gays and lesbians. It would be unfair to lump these all into one.

I have heard spokespersons from conservative religious organizations speak heatedly about how these individuals (gays, lesbians, or the "liberal media who advocates for them") are trying to corrupt our culture, destroy the home, defy god, etc. On several occasions I have heard such individuals pause mid-sentence to say, "Yes, I love them, because I am commanded in the Bible to love them" and then continue their diatribe against such individuals.

This has caused me to ponder what is meant by loving someone in this manner. It is true that there are commands in scripture to love others whom we may not find all that lovable, e.g. enemies, our neighbors, spouses :-), even those who hate us! So, to love is not just to hope a feeling comes upon us, rather it is to will ourselves love someone. But how would such love look?

The above mentioned comments (I love them, because I am commanded to love them) seem to be merely a verbal statement of love, but one that seems contradicted by attitude and action. What of a parent who says "I love you" to children but then abuses or neglects them? How about a husband who says "I love you" to his wife, but is callous to any of her desires, needs or viewpoints? All would agree that such a statement of love is really worthless.

An adage that is often cited by religious people is, "We are to love the sinner, but hate the sin." (by the way, this phrase is not in the Bible). Sometimes it seems that individuals use this as an excuse to make very harsh and hateful statements that really do not differentiate between sin and sinner. I am reminded that when a crowd was about to stone to death an adulterous woman, Jesus, rather than attacking the behavior of the woman, instead reminded the crowd that they had all made mistakes (sins) and that they should not condemn her.

There appears to be a lack of empathy on the part of some who stridently address some of these issues in current society.  How many times have we have heard of a prominent parent who, upon learning that their own child is gay, has changed his or her view on the issue?  Apparently, truly loving someone means that we cannot escape putting ourselves in their shoes and attempting to feel what they feel.   Such a process can lead to a radically different outlook and attitude.

I am sure that some, even many who express that they love gays or lesbians because they are commanded to, are sincere.  I hope that this love will be taken beyond mere words and will also change attitudes.

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Stereotypes and the Dignity of the Individual

Recently an adolescent was brought into my counseling office for therapy.  The teen had just been released from a local hospital after being hospitalized following a suicide attempt. I noted by his appearance and name that he belonged to one of the minority ethnic groups that are common in the multi-ethnic area where I live.  This particular ethnic group is one that is often mentioned when discussions of 'un-documented' immigrants come up. 

Because individuals of this ethnic designation in this region tend to be of low socio-economic status, they are quite visible in the community, using public transportation, walking or riding bicycles.  There is a somewhat natural tendency to categorize people based on some outward characteristic, e.g. skin color, physical characteristics, etc.  Had I seen this young man prior to his coming to my office, I would likely have viewed only a 'group' of those particular kind of youth, not him as an individual. 

I have a box of assorted buttons in my office that I sometimes use to help clients describe themselves.  I dump the buttons on the table and ask the client to take their time and select a button that represents him or herself.  There are buttons of all sizes, shapes, colors and textures. Some plain, others more ornate.  This only works after children have reached a level of cognitive functioning that allows them to understand the concept of one thing representing another.  A seven-year-old will probably just pick a red one and say, "I picked this one because it is my favorite color." But, beginning in adolescence, most individuals begin to think more abstractly and can find some aspect of a button to convey their concept of themselves.  

Taking his time my client chose one of the larger and more ornate buttons, not the typical round kind.  Pleased with his choice, he placed the button on the table and looked up at me. "Why did you choose that one?" I asked.  His reply; "because it is one of a kind."  A pang of sadness came over me as I thought that to some people, even to me, he might merely have been one of scores of individuals, often lumped together due to some arbitrary categorization.  Indeed, he is one of a kind, with his own dreams, hopes, fears, and yes . . .  sadness.  

If we do not know a person, have never heard them share what they think and desire, it is much easier to dismiss this person as unimportant or even an object of derision.  But, once we have dared to open ourselves to the "human-ness" of another, no matter how different from ourselves, we are presented with the opportunity to forever view that person through new eyes, as deserving of every consideration that we afford ourselves.  




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Those Middle-Eastern Drivers!

I have owned a "Vespa" motor scooter for a number of years. If you do not know what a "Vespa" is, remember the scooter that you see in the movies when a spy in Europe needs to make a quick get-a-way and he jumps on the first thing available? The one where the beautiful girl is on the back, clutching his waist? Yes, that is a Vespa. They are made in Italy.  

I became enchanted with the Vespa when I lived in Asia where they were common and were sort of the "Cadillac" of scooters. The motor is unseen, under the seat and it was common to see women in high heels or men in business suits riding down traffic-congested streets. Years later, after returning to the U.S. I purchased one for myself and have enjoyed riding on weekends and to work on sunny days. I even got one for my wife for mothers day!

Reactions are varied. Some people in their a 50's or older remember when Vespas could often be seen in the U.S. Sears & Roebuck even sold one under the name of "Allstate." Teenagers don't quite know what to make of it. I rode up beside an adolescent on a "crotch rocket" and saw his mouth moving with the words, "What the ?*@#*!!??"

One day, my Vespa was parked in my driveway and I was working in the front yard. A car stopped and a dark man of apparent middle-eastern descent walked up to me and, with heavily accented English  said, "In my country, when I was a boy, I rode on one like this everyday!" I enjoyed reminiscing with him about this common interest of ours. He was from Pakistan and lived just a few blocks from me.

We became good friends. He would always wave when he passed, often with his veiled wife and several children in his car with him. Occasionally he would stop and chat. We talked about the weather, the economy, or whatever. Several times I offered to let him ride my Vespa, but he always declined.

Last summer my Vespa was stolen from in front of my office. When I saw my friend driving by my house I flagged him down to tell him the bad news. I knew he would care about my loss. He just shook his head and seemed genuinely grieved. We talked for a while about whether I would try to get another one and he went on his way.

This experience with my Vespa has been repeated often. At the Starbucks where I often hang out, there is a group of people that appear to be from an African country who like to drink coffee and chat there.  I see them often. Once when I parked my Vespa out front, I could see them nodding admiringly, like American men might look with awe upon a Harley Davidson or a pick-up truck with all the extras. One man, who told me he was from the country of Eritrea became nostalgic when sharing with me that his uncle was the first person in his village to own a Vespa. Once, as I started-up the engine (a sound which some have compared to a sewing machine), one man had such a satisfied look on his face as he said, "I just love that sound."

It is great to have found these friends with whom I can share my interest. I also feel privileged that I can share theirs.


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To Be a Third-Grader Again!

On Saturday, my wife and I decided to go out for brunch.  By the time we got to the restaurant, it was almost noon.  The restaurant was crowded and we were seated next to a group of 12-15 third-graders who were having a birthday party.  By this point they had consumed their cake, ice cream, and beverage and they were feeling the effects.  I imagine some patrons would not appreciate being seated next to such a rowdy group, but for some reason on this day, I found it to be quite entertaining.  They giggled and squealed and were oblivious to the fact that they were in a restaurant and not on the playground.

I am not around groups children this age on a regular  basis, so I was fascinated with their constant movement, exuberant laughter and pure joy at just being together.  Standing around the table were their mothers each of whom wore a broad smile.  This was not the obligatory smile often seen in polite company, but the irrepressible grin, just like my own, that was the result of seeing their own child so excited and happy.

These children and their mothers evidenced the diversity that is characteristic of the Washington, DC area where we live.  There were Asian, Hispanic, African-American, and Middle-Eastern as well as caucasian children.  At this age children appear totally unaware of any difference between each other.  They are drawn together by their love of life and are capable of thoroughly experiencing the moment, something that becomes harder for adults as we grow older, take on responsibilities of various kinds, and have difficulty putting aside thoughts of what must be done later today or at work on Monday.

As I watched the children disperse and as I saw the mothers stand and chat, I realized how much more similar they were than they were different. Jumping, wiggling, laughing with their birthday hats and favors, I'm sure they could have continued in this fashion for a few more hours.  Each parent obviously took great joy at seeing their child happy, lost in the sheer exuberance of being with their peers.  Each was devoted to making their child's life a full as possible, evident by their willingness to spend a Saturday morning at a birthday party.

Often, when I hear immigration issues discussed, various national and ethnic groups are mentioned and if one is not mindful, it is easy to forget that those being talked about are these children and their moms who are much more like us than they are different from us.  Immigration, legal and illegal, are complex issues that require thoughtful decision-making.  I just do not want to think of immigrants as nameless groups to be dealt with.  They are the giggling children and their moms at a birthday party on Saturday morning.


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