Foreign Languages

The study of foreign languages is a hot button of distress at my university. Students can meet the university minimum by studying a language in high school for three years. They can also go abroad for a semester, even to countries where English is spoken, and meet this requirement. This is actually more stringent that our previous program, which allowed students to study other cultures but avoid concentrated study of another language entirely.

Even so, many students panic at the prospect of taking a foreign language. Some students grudgingly give a language course a shot. Others spend the energy they could have used to develop mastery on schemes to get out of the requirement entirely.

My department requires students to demonstrate some proficiency in a language: they must get through the second year. Anyone who has studied another language knows that even at this level, not too many of us are very fluent. We can say we “know” the language in the sense that T.R. Fehrenbach means in his column in the San Antonio Express-News today. Fehrenbach says, “Americans study other languages but rarely learn to speak them,” which he sees as one of our positive attributes as a nation.

In Fehrenbach’s United States, we all stick to English and American customs and get along fine.

Fehrenbach sees this as the American genius: the old country disappears in us, including its language, within one or two generations of arrival in the United States. He contrasts the successful loss of competing languages in the United States to the problems caused in Canada by the stubborn resistance of the Quebecois to letting go of French. He even compares the United States to unruly Belgium, which doesn’t have one language to define its identity. He places multi-lingual Switzerland and India in the same category with the United States, however. The Swiss have several official languages, but “only Swiss federal politicians bother to learn, say, both French and Schwyzerduutch plus Italian,” and the Indians still use English, which allows them to develop a national identity.

He tells the story of his Chinese American comrade at arms who was called upon to explain Chinese customs to his fellow G.I.s in Korea. A third-generation American, he knew less about China and its customs than he did about his native West Texas, and he spoke with a West-Texas accent. The only thing he claims to have learned from his friend was the reason Chinese restaurants in the United States served rolls and crackers.

If the United States is so successful because immigrants come here, pick up the local language and adopt the local customs, why did this West –Texan grow up working in his family’s Chinese restaurant? Why is going out for Chinese on Christmas Day such a defining cultural experience that Bob Clark could use it to such great effect in his quintessential American coming-of-age tale A Christmas Story?

Seguin has three Chinese restaurants. One of them is even open on Sunday, when the Christian-church-going crowd might want to eat out. Why? Because our version of Chinese cuisine has become part of the fabric of American life. If the Chinese people had been willing to let go of their food traditions when they arrived on North-American shores, we would all be poorer for it.

American food culture is probably the area in which immigrant cultures have been most assimilated into the life of the United States. Chinese and Italian restaurants are so ubiquitous that we don’t see them as foreign anymore. The cuisine of Louisiana has French and Acadian influences. Humus, from the Middle East, has found its way onto the standard appetizer menu in the United States.

And Mexican food. We made tacos in my home in Michigan in the 1970s. We bought packets that came with shells (the tortillas, gasp!) and spices for the meat. I even tried to make corn tortillas myself, way back then.

We use many foreign terms for foods. Spaghetti. Lasagna. Samosa. Humus. Croissant. Bouillabaisse. Étouffée. Margarita. Taco. Burrito.

We have also retained food words from the languages indigenous to North America also made their way into our particular version of English. For example, American English borrowed squash from the Narragansett language and chocolate from the Maya . Tomato came from Nahuatl.

These words have become so familiar that we no longer think of them as foreign.

I must say that Fehrenbach is right about one thing. It is much easier to study a foreign language than it is to actually speak it. I have studied Spanish, French, Arabic, Persian and Russian. Of these, I speak only Russian well. I understand a lot and can buy things in Spanish and French. In Arabic, I can tell you my name is Robin and that I’m going by car. I can tell you Tehran is expensive in Persian, but not much else. But knowing these languages makes North America richer for me. Perhaps if English-speaking U.S. citizens weren’t so scared of the confusion they feel when learning foreign languages, we wouldn’t be so upset by the people who want to keep speaking them after they arrive here.

We love the foods and the words that represent them, why not learn the verbs that describe the process of cooking? Why not learn to thank the server in the language associated with the cuisine? We embraced the foods, and they became part of our culture. If we embrace the languages, they won’t stay foreign for long, and neither will the people who speak them.

Now, I think I’ll get some Chinese.

Gym Source

The Democratic Process First Hand

I mentioned firsts in my last post, but I’ve actually worked on both my first and my second elections already. I hope the November election draws more people, because it’s embarrassing to have three or six people pounce on every voter. That’s three if the voter made it to the right polling place and can walk right in and vote and six if the citizen has come to the wrong place and needs help finding the right one. Help for the lost voter is as close as a PalmPilot in the hands of the presiding judge, but all the workers are there because we like to be helpful. We are probably a little overwhelming for the lost voters.

Turnout in the March primary statewide was low – under 10 percent – so I guess we did ok with about 40 voting in person and 40 voting early in the Democratic Party primary from two city precincts. Of course, the Republican judges and clerks were busier.

The runoff for Democratic candidates for lieutenant governor and senator compelled far fewer people to visit the polling place at the public library Tuesday. Although the Republicans had a hotly contested race against the incumbent county administrative judge, even the their pollworkers found themselves with a lot of time to stare out the window.

The down time between voters was probably the best opportunity for dialogue between the mainstream parties that I’ve witnessed since I moved to Guadalupe County. Five or six of us, half working for the Republicans and half for the Democrats, are cooped up in a room together from 7 a.m. till 7 p.m. Everyone believes that everyone else cares about the democratic process, or we wouldn’t be getting up way too early and sitting here for way too long. It would be hard to write the other guys off as uncaring fools or to avoid looking them in the eye, like people did to us when we worked at the Democratic Party booth at the county fair.

Here at the polls we talked. We disagreed. We shared cookies from Amy’s and Cathy’s. We learned from each other. We laughed. We even agreed that it might happen that all of us were working there at the public library for the Republicans and the Democrats, but we could end up voting for Kinky Friedman. We laughed again … really loud.

All of us shut up when the voters trickled in, so we wouldn’t influence their decisions. After a couple of awkward moments at our table during the primary, we made sure to mention that we were accepting ballots in the Democratic primary. We had a lovely, large sign that the county election office asked us to remove from the street. It said, “Texas Democrats Vote here,” and people were calling the office asking where the Republicans were supposed to vote. Even when we put our sign up at the end of our table, Republicans still weren’t always sure where to go.

For the run-off last week we put the “Vote here” sign out with the arrow pointing into the street rather than at the library. That would have confused people, I imagine, but a civic-minded voter asked if he could turn it around for us. So, the 95 percent of registered voters who chose not to participate in the run-off can’t claim misdirection as their excuse. The sign was pointing at the polling place for almost the entire day.

We pollworkers spent a lot of our down time brainstorming ways to get out the vote. I’ve heard several great ideas. Of course, one was to make the campaigns, and government itself, seem relevant to the voters. In lieu of that, one of my friends thinks people should have voting parties that reward voters with good food for making the effort to get to the polls. My precinct captain has a resolution going to the state convention to institute a Federal income tax credit for voters. That sounds really good today (as long as doesn’t take a lot more paperwork!).

The Kinky Petition at ChiroJava, already had more than 150 signatures when I asked on Thursday, but Friedman needs 45,540 by May 11 to get on the ballot. If you’re one of the registered voters who didn’t vote in the primary, you can still do your civic duty by signing the petition. Who would have thought that not voting might be more virtuous than voting? I’m sure that’s what you all had in mind when you made the decision not to vote in March.

Right?

Gym Source

Identity Theft

Last time I wrote I was thinking about my history with Washington, D.C., but I’ve also had a number of “firsts” in the past few weeks: I served as a pollworker in primary elections, attended a wedding at a Sikh temple and saw $606 disappear unbidden from my checking account.

First, the $606. It went to Delft Liquors in Cape Town, South Africa. Oddly, I remember seeing signs for Cape Town, Texas, (although I can't find the town in my Web search this morning) on my way to Houston for my friend’s wedding not long before I stopped at McDonalds to buy coffee to keep myself from falling asleep at the wheel. This shows just how desperate I was to stay awake: I used my ATM Visa card to buy McDonald’s coffee.

That $2.00 (!) purchase was the last one I made on my card before March 31 when I logged on to my online banking and saw a string of charges for 80 cents. I followed the string until it led to some $5 debits, several $79 charges and another for a whopping $287 (the small ones were bank fees). All at the liquor store.

People responded in interesting ways when I told them someone else had spent my money at a liquor store in Cape Town.

My advisees, who were coming in to plan their schedules for the next semester, said sympathetic and outraged things, shared their own identity theft experiences, wished me all the best in getting my money back and hurried away with my hastily scrawled signature on their registration cards.

The receptionist and fraud operator at the bank listened well and said sympathetic things. I’d like to thank them and the bank that let’s them take the side of the little guy (mine) at least in this kind of case. After talking with the people at the bank, my hands stopped trembling. I realized that they were not going to make me prove, somehow, that I hadn’t actually gone to Cape Town and bought all that booze. They immediately credited my account with the amount of money the miscreant spent and launched an investigation. Later, the people at the Seguin branch who gave me a temporary card to access my temporarily credited account were equally sympathetic. They didn’t even frown at me for running in five minutes before closing. Everyone should do business with this bank. If I wasn’t afraid of losing more bits of my identity, I’d reveal which one…

The dean of our business department responded with stories about his father’s run-in with identity thieves and his own efforts to get that bank to look for the criminals instead of just writing off the big chunk of change charged at Best Buy and the $700 spent at the supermarket. How many carts would it take to total that much? Why didn’t this raise the cashier’s suspicions? The dean knew both purchases had been captured on surveillance video, and he wanted the bank to minimize the losses we all end up paying for by catching the criminals.

If the bank found the person who used my number, would that person have the money to pay restitution? How long would I have to wait before the case wound its way through the courts? I agree with the goal of keeping fees and costs of banking low, but I have to say that I’m glad I didn’t face suspicious questioning, appearances in court and a long wait to get my money back.

When I told Reza, he said, “Really? At least they bought something useful.” But they didn’t invite me to the party, I answered.

As I told the story to colleagues and students throughout the day, I relaxed and started to laugh about it. Although I’m still wondering who gave my number to a friend or whether H-E-B or McDonalds has a leak in its network, it’s hard to stay upset when you’re not losing any money in the long run. I’ve lost things that hurt much worse than this.

Scott said I was taking it all with remarkably good humor and offered to share a bottle of wine to cheer me up. California Cabernet, Texas sunset, tiny frogs croaking in their deep voices, martins alighting on their houses and bats flying out of theirs. I almost forgot the moment I noticed the first 80-cent transaction.

The next time someone in Cape Town spends $606 at the liquor store, I hope he’s buying me a bottle of fine wine from the Rhone region (I like a fruity, spicey Grenache base), a wheel of brie, truffles and a couple of crystal glasses.

With his own Visa card.

Gym Source

Part of the Neighborhood in Washington

Just being in Washington, D.C. last weekend made me feel important. If importance was a limited quantity in a place, you would think that Washington had used up its quota on all the politicians and activists who live there permanently, but I guess they had a little left over to share.

Although I'm about as much of an outsider as one could possibly be, I knew my way around. The last time two times I went to Washington, I was looking for work and wearing heels that were far too high for schlepping from interview to interview. This time I was wearing pink, backless sneakers as I made my way to the corner of 18th and K. Last time, I was in agony and it was icy. This time, I was in control and the one who would be asking the questions.

I conducted the first information interview for a new research project. That I had the oportunity, and a great excuse, to get away from campus for several days a month before spring graduation stands as great on its own merits. That I am excited about research and could roll it in with an official trip for the university made me almost happier than I could bear.

My visit to the program at American University is probably the closest I'll ever come to the pharmaceutical-company-wining-and-dining experience. The wine was good, the meals superb, the desserts exquisite and the accomodations in the Hyatt Regency Bethesda luxurious. Even the weather cooperated, and I was hot. All of my clothes were wrong (Think Texas at 90 degrees already and Washington temperatures in the low 80s and 40s at night. I thought I would be cold.) Who would have expected a used-clothing store across the street from the Bethesda Hyatt?

Maybe while I was in Washington, I numbered among those a presenter at the conference I attended called, "people who think they are important." I know she meant the people who demand a member of congress's time (she's a former scheduler for two members) and treat the staff with disdain. But maybe there's another interpretation of the phrase.

When I walk confidently on the streets of the U.S. capital, know my way around the metro and get to eat in the restaurant where I first tried Ethiopian food almost a decade ago, I think I'm important. Somehow, I managed to travel to Washington enough times to have a history with the city. I've had the opportunity to serve and learn enough about international development programs to have become passionately interested in testing the assumptions that underly their strategies. People agreed to answer my questions this time.

This is not the sort of important that tries to push people around. Instead, it is the confidence to hold my head high. It is the confidence that I have something to offer, even in Washington.

And it was awfully fun to fly in right before class on Monday with just enough time to pick up lunch at La Madeleine (a chain that has a store in my Bethesda neighborhood, too) and eat French country potato soup at my desk before class.

And before the big pile of grading fell on me.

Gym Source