Russian Lesson in the Pool

 Floating, dawdling, Russian immigrants are a regular contingent at morning swim times in our senior community.  Some speak English, but as a group they naturally revert to their first language.

One recent morning a swimmer smiled at one of the Russians and asked, "How do you say hello in Russian?" The other woman grinned and slowly said the word. The native English speaker tried it out. The Russian woman repeated, and the first woman tried it again. Apparently, from head shake by the Russian, she got close. 

The friendly woman repeated it once more, thanked the Russian speaker, and said "My grandfather came to the United States as a three year old from Russia. But he didn't remember Russian. His family were Germans working in Russia, and they left when conditions became difficult."

A second Russian woman observed the interchange, and her friend turned and translated. She beamed too.

A fourth swimmer said she'd taken Russian in high school, but didn't remember it. And I chimed in that we only remember a language if we have to use it, preferably with a native speaker, not the disembodied voice in the language lab.

Did you have lab time as part of the required foreign language requirement in secondary school or college? I hated it. The large head phones clamped too tightly and messed up my hair. I felt stupid talking to a machine, and I didn't know if I pronounced words correctly or not. 

Then one summer we hosted a foreign exchange student for a week-end. His English was better than my Spanish, but we spoke mostly Spanish. It was the first glimmer of hope I had that I could learn enough to speak with someone. 

Teaching Spanish speakers and communicating with parents, then attending a (sort-of) bilingual church kept my Spanish skills alive. A few years ago I was riding the subway in Barcelona. I got on, and a young man offered me his seat, using English. In Spanish I answered, "Thank you, but I don't want people to think I'm old." A couple about my age, sitting nearby, laughed with me. I'd been slightly funny in a foreign language. It felt great.

In all these situations, a small effort to connect with someone in their own language caused a stranger to not feel strange. Somehow, the act of humbling oneself to be bad at the language, turned an outsider into an insider. What a marvel. 

However, this strategy did not work when I learned a few phrases of Finnish off of a website. I used them at a wedding with the groom's family. They looked perlexed until one of the party unmangled my greeting, and burst into laughter, turning to fill in the rest of them. Ah well, I tried. 

Have you had a chance to "cross the aisle" linguistically, and make a stranger feel welcome?

Bites and Peaces: When our Band Hit the Sour Notes

My weekly jam with four other musicians hit sour notes when our interpersonal dynamics got out of tune.

For three years we've met, chosen songs, worked to learn them, and enjoyed ourselves thoroughly. But a month ago we went on the activities calendar for a concert at our senior living community.  We buckled down to choose a set of songs, and doubled our practice sessions to refine the arrangements.

The unexpected pressure revealed stress cracks.

Our musical perspectives vary widely over genre (folk, rock and roll, bluegrass). Sometimes our different styles of how to work together set each other on edge. The most experienced musician is a rock and roller with wide experience. He can hear a chord and it reminds him of the same chord in a different song. Next thing we know, he's zig-zagging down musical rabbit trail and I feel like Alice in confusion-land.

 It drives me crazy, because my background is the high structure of a string orchestra where everyone is on the same page at the same time.  Some of our band members are adept at improvisation, while I'm a prisoner to the notes on the page, and the same melody every time. (Thankfully, I'm learning to loosen up a LITTLE.) 

I should have recognized the fault lines in our alliance when we couldn't agree on a name for our band. Thus we're still "fill in the blank" which doesn't look good on a T-shirt. 

Ten days and (two practices) away from our concert date, we were running through a favorite, familiar bluegrass tune. Our banjo player, who never makes notes to himself about our plans,  played all over the guitar player's solo. The guitar player, used to his previous bands that kept those details straight, hit his breaking point.

"That's it. If you can't remember that ending, Dave, which we have done over and over for two years, I'm pulling the song from the concert."

It was one of Dave's favorites, and best-played.  He didn't say anything but it was evident he was unhappy.  Four minutes later he spoke up. "So it's okay if you make a mistake, but if I do, it ruins everything?"

It went from bad to worse. 

In the past I have seen all of us extend grace to each other, accommodating one another's abilities and lack of knowledge, encouraging all.

But today some important strategies for peace-keeping and harmony were missing from their skill sets, such as negotiation, or letting it go. 

I hoped their impatience and frustration with each other wouldn't over-ride the satisfaction we've had in the past. A schism would be a giant loss to all of us.

At the next practice, we held our breath when we came to the pulled number. Would the guitar player just skip it? substitute something else?

What relief when he said "We worked it out" and Dave kicked off the piece. Harmony restored, our concert went well. 

Maybe we can fill in the blank for those t-shirts with "bites and peaces."