My mother is fustian. She likes to use big words-flamboyent words, dramatic words. The truth is, however, that she sometimes gets her words wrong. Don't get me wrong, she is a brilliant woman. Nonetheless, she confuses similar terms, mispronounces foreign ones and, best of all, sometimes makes intricate words up completely.
But by God, she does it with such panache and flair that she almost gets away with it. She was an actress at one time, after all.
That is, she would if I didn't catch her in the act.
When I was in the fourth grade, for instance, I was ensconced in a science project that involved coating the underside of plant leaves with vaseline to simulate air pollution. Knife in hand, I was in the kitchen applying the goop to my generic greenhouse purchase when my mother passed by and took notice. After taking in the scene, she asked, in her most graceful, assured voice, "Are you covering the stigmata?"
I turned to meet her confident gaze with a sly one of my own, knowing I'd caught her red-tongued. "No, mom," I replied with a grin. "I am not covering the wounds of Christ. I am, however, covering the stomata of these plants."
The "stigmata story"came to mind last week when I received my job assignment for the summer. I will be spending the next two months teaching English to young children in Trang, Thailand. The assignment got me thinking about what it takes to teach someone language-to explain, correct and refine another's speech-and whether or not I had a bit of experience in the area. Formally, I do not have experience. But informally, I have plenty.
Twenty years gleefully pointing out my mom's fustian-ness constitutes experience. Between my dad and me, I think her vocabulary is probably closer to reality than it ever has been.
My more beloved experience teaching language, however, began in a car ride last July. Returning from a day trip to Busch Gardens, a fellow Chronicle staff member and I got to talking about where we were from-she is a Korean-American from New Jersey, I am a Welsh-German-God-knows-what-else from eastern North Carolina. We soon got onto the topic of speaking another language, and eyes wide she begged to hear what "Southern" sounded like.
And so it began. Driving along I-95, she would point to a road sign, commanding, "READ!"-and I would. "Richmond"was "Rich-mund." "Asheboro" was "Ash-burrah." "Nashville" was "Nash-vuhl." "Carolina"was "Car-o-laahna"(widen that "ah" as much as possible). "Florida" was "Flah-riduh."
She cackled and guffawed-but with genuine interest-as I elongated my vowels and words, digging up that accent that usually only rears its head when I'm eating with family in South Carolina. It was like explaining another language, I realized-a beautiful (or bastardized, depending on who you talk to) variation of English.
Lesson No. 1 in Southern, I decided, had gone well. In a car ride to Mississippi a few months later, the same friend and I moved to Lesson No. 2-object recall:
"What's that?"
"A hay bale?"
"Ooooh ok. What about that?"
"Tobaccah barn."
"And that?"
"Well, that's just a Southern man on a motorcycle. Though he does have a Confederate flag tied around his head...."
"NO WAY!"
And so I took on the role of teacher. It quickly became a joke in the news office that I could offer a weekly lesson in Southern, and I often did-not that I'm an expert. We moved away from language to culture (yes, there are multiple types of barbecue bases), and eventually some history.
Looking back, I realize how much I enjoyed imparting knowledge to my friends, and it excites me when I think of the two months to come. Certainly, teaching "Southern" will be nothing like teaching English to children, and it will definitely be a far cry from correcting my mom's fustian tendencies. But I am looking forward to the same sense of satisfaction that always accompanies the sharing and appreciation of languages and, more broadly, cultures.
Who knows? Maybe I'll bring along a jar of N.C. barbecue sauce for my Thai supervisors. Or at least explain the meaning of "y'all."
Seyward Darby is a Trinity senior and editorial page managing editor of The Chronicle. Her column runs weekly during the summer.
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