Word Blind

They say learning language is to use the same brain function as learning music.

We listen to a song, without knowing the words. Then we sing the words without really hearing the meaning. Then we begin to understand the meaning, but are unable to sing the song unless it is playing along on the radio.

Eventually, the song comes to us and we are able to sing it aloud, on our own, when the music isn't playing.

That's the theory.

The problem is the entire process of being "word blind," whether learning a language through immersion or struggling with learning disabilities has an overwhelming feeling of isolation. While admittedly the emotional separation can sometimes be self-imposed, there are moments enough when the isolation is real.

The language barrier can be an actual barrier. Any anthropologist will tell you that language defines our world view. It also defines our social mores, boundaries, cultural conversation, and general interaction between human beings who share knowledge of a given language.

One of my favorite observations about communication is from author Kevin Powers (The Yellow Birds). To paraphrase, what is thought is never quite what is said, and what is said is never quite what is heard. Even more so when two or more language barriers are involved.

The person who doesn't speak the dominant language is suddenly dependent on others to relate, interpret, and define a process that typically belongs to the individual alone. It's frustrating for all involved because our thoughts should be our own. Independent.

Even in the most committed relationship, the level of trust is challenged when we are forced to give over those processes for the sake of someone else's understanding.

So how do we break through? How to come to a place of understanding? Obviously, people do it every day. My son, and countless adopted children, transitioned from his birth language to English. My partner is fluent in seven languages. His son struggles with dyslexia, but is verbally fluent in three languages. These are just the people close to me. Life throughout this world is a constant journey of words and language, in myriad variations.

Yet, the process can be a bit like looking through a darkened window, trying to glean bits of starlight in the form of recognizable words. It's an unusual sensation for the independent minded, this listening too much. Constantly assessing conversations as puzzles to be decoded.

Casual conversation is a distant memory. Either I am all in, or completely disengaged. Finding the rhythm of a conversation is a constant act of contrition.

Sorry, I didn't catch that.
Sorry, what did she say?
Sorry, I don't know what that means.
Sorry, I am not understanding.
Sorry. Just sorry. Because I suddenly feel like I am drowning in words I don't understand, may never understand, want more than anything else to understand.

Until a moment comes, and suddenly there it is.

I catch one. Like a snowflake drifting into the palm of my hand; a butterfly landing upon the tip of my finger. An instant of clarity occurs, and I understand what was said.

Then I feel renewed, and filled with hope that maybe, just maybe, learning Danish is not beyond me.

My son, Georgie,
transitioned from Mandarin to English at age 4.

My bonus son, William,
struggles with dyslexia but is verbally fluent in 3 languages. 

Animal Magnetism

I am a horrible mother.

I was told this recently by someone I have considered a friend.

Maybe it wasn't said directly. But the meaning was obvious in the layered questions directed at my recent life choices, and in the individual's exaggerated concern about my children's well-being suddenly having great personal importance to them.

It's something I've heard implied several times since I ended my 16 year marriage.

While being married to a narcissist taught me to deal (reluctantly) with the push of criticism directed at the most vulnerable parts of my psyche, it doesn't lessen the sting. 

For me, I am most vulnerable about my kids, and whether or not I am doing a good job raising them. Am I giving them what they need to grow and thrive? Am I finding the balance between protecting their tender souls and letting them explore a world of ideas and adventures without fear? Am I helping them to understand that the world may be cold, but we find warmth in each other: in family, in friendships, in real love. Am I helping them to become who they want to be, are meant to be, deserve to be?

In young adulthood, I did not want children of my own. Dogs were enough. Books and travel were enough. Life was enough. But nearing my thirtieth birthday, I became aware that I carried a hole in my heart that could only be filled through motherhood.

My ache was not to become pregnant. As the poet Kahlil Gibran eloquently states, a child does not come from us, but through us. My children were somewhere else on the planet, and it became my all-consuming quest to find them. The invisible red thread drawing me ever closer.

From then until now, I have never stopped being a mom fully committed to the well-being of my kids. My current circumstance is no exception. Days or weeks apart does not lessen our bond. At worst, it is an annoying change in routines. At best, it is the process necessary to build a wonderful and amazing life together in a new place.

I do not leave them vulnerable and afraid. They are strong and capable, and joyous and smart. They have their father, and friends and family to take up where needed. 

A marriage ending is not always a tragedy. A mother bringing her children into a different life filled with emotional positives, cultural opportunities, and amazing adventures is not something to be disdained. Especially when the foundation of that life is a loving home, filled with shared respect, understanding, and mutual emotional support. 

In the end, there are only two people whose opinions truly matters. So far, they're good with all of it. 

Maybe their ease with my decision speaks to the strength of our bond. Maybe it speaks to the willingness of their hearts to choose love over fear. Maybe it's simply because my kids are remarkable, and the lives they have lived have never been typical or small.

Sun N' Fun Lakeland, FL- April 2008

Gracie, 5yrs - Georgie, 4yrs

Before birth they knew scarcity. At birth they knew abandonment, followed by raw hope when they were rescued. As toddlers, they learned the meaning of salvation.

So did I.

When I held each of them for the first time, I understood my purpose on this earth. They have me unconditionally.

My kids learned young that for every misery, there is equal part joy if we are willing to accept it or sometimes seek it out. Gaining something new does not necessarily mean we lose what came before. We carry all we are and ever have been within us. 

Circumstance changes. Real love remains.

This is what we three have taught each other.