The Fabric Of Books In Our Lives

Often, I find that literature bridges a divide between me and someone with which I might not otherwise have anything in common.  Books have always been my escape yet, in recent years, they have become a platform of understanding between someone of a different world view or a different country altogether. 

This weekend I noticed a woman pronouncing her W’s as V’s and wondered if she was Russian or German or if she was just pressing through a speech impediment.  My mind became hooked on how we say Volkswagen, but it is really pronounced Volksvaguhn.  From there, my mind darted off into thinking she was maybe Romanian and that she grew up in Germany and made her way to the states as an adult becoming a teacher of cultural studies.  Her hands and how she carefully placed her eyes on things told me otherwise.  Maybe she was Slavic. 

I am enraptured by language.  This has only come about because of a Linguistics course I took in college years ago where I couldn’t stop finding ways to use fricatives, labiodentals, glottal stops, interdentals, and nasals in sentences.  For years, after the course, I analyzed ways of forming words in my mouth only to tell people that what I was saying had a Gaelic or Germanic root.  It was the most fun I had ever had with words.  A lot of what I learned in that class has been lost; however, I can refer to certain file cabinets in my mind and remember some of the more exciting elements of this linguistics creature.

I could spend hours listening to this woman speak or trying to decipher from what country was her accent.  This is where forming a bridge from one world to another is all the result of reading.  I approached her gently.

I imagined she may have been sitting in a garden, curious and timid.  The years pressed into her skin and her stories far hidden in her throat.  With each swallow she pushed one story down to bring to the surface another story – her arm outstretched to her blind daughter. 

“May I ask what country your accent is from?”  I never dare to ask, what country are you from? because I think it to be terribly rude to assume someone is not from America just because of their accent.  Her eyes lit up as if someone was asking her to dance.  Indeed, we would dance, but not with our feet.   

“Iran.  I am from Iran.”

“From Tehran?” I pressed.

Joy overtook her face.  The fluorescent lightbulbs from the ceiling were now visible in her eyes. “Yes, but vy?  Howv do you know?  You have been there?  I am surprised you know this place.”  A connection.

“No, I have not been there.  I read a book by Nafisi.  Reading Lolita in Tehran.  It is the only exposure I have had to Iran.”  A book she had surely heard of.  I hoped.

“Dr. Nafisi!  Yes!  Such a good book.”   I had now entered her curious garden and if she offered tea, I would joyfully oblige.

We continued our talk and my husband joined us as did his aunt whom informed us on how she had met this incredible woman.  She offered me stories as a friend would offer tea.  I humbly accepted.  I feel inclined to share her stories with you, but it is not rightfully my place quite yet.  I hope it is not the last of our encounters.