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.
