Mundane Details

“I always do that. I always mess up some mundane detail.”—Michael Bolton, Office Space

I have said many times before in this blog that I have my good days and my bad days speaking Spanish with my patients. You know by now that I am not a native Spanish speaker. I grew up with English as the sole language of the household. I started learning Spanish in the seventh grade by memorizing simple vocabulary lists. I took more and more advanced studies throughout high school and college, until the real learning began with practical use: speaking with the patients I encountered during medical school. That was my introduction to medical Spanish, which is a unique language in and of itself. It took many years to get where I am today, and still I have told you I am no where near perfect. I have a professional, medical fluency. Any situation outside medicine I can certainly communicate my way through, but a native speaker will know I’m not native.

I don’t know why that bothers me, but it does. There are days when I’ll be talking to a patient, and I’ll incorrectly use a word I’ve used a million times before correctly.  Like, I’ll make a feminine word masculine. Or my verb conjugation will be wrong. Or I’ll say something in the simple present tense that should have been in the subjunctive. I’ll completely miss the tip-off word in the sentence that tells me it should be in the subjunctive.

Or, I’ll mispronounce a word that I’ve said a million times before with the correct pronunciation. Or I’ll forget a word and say it in English. Sometimes I’ll even accidentally say it in Croatian (although, that hasn’t happened recently, as, my studies of my husband’s primary language have fallen to the wayside in recent months).  I recall the other day I said the word one hundred to a patient as ciento. The patient corrected me. Apparently sometimes it’s ciento, but other times it’s cien.  For the longest time I’ve been saying, Ponga la frente contra de la barra to indicate to a patient that he should put his forehead against the slit lamp bar. I figured la frente, or the front/forehead is always la frente, so when I had to tell a patient to hand a slip of paper in at the front desk in the office, I said Puede entregar el papel en la frente.  The patient replied, en el frente. OK. I’ll go with it. But I don’t understand the logic behind it.

I feel like, as far as I’ve come in Spanish, I’m somehow still far behind. Granted, some days are better than others. Some days the words come more fluidly and correctly. But other days my Spanish speaking is like a very slow and painful depilatory session. No anesthetic cream. And no warning when the rips and tears will come.

I thought I was the only person who feels this way, until I came across a blog recently called “Y Mucho Más” by an American from Indiana named Kaley who moved to Spain in 2009 to work as an English teacher and to learn Spanish. In the particular entry that caught my attention, “Some Days I Hate Speaking Spanish”, she describes situations that I talk about repeatedly in my blog, almost as if she read my mind. She remarks: “There are good days, when the words flow and people don’t have to wait for me to spit out the word...” and “..there are days when I feel competent and fluent.” But she goes on to say that, “...lately a lot of my days have been bad days. Why? It’s hard-telling.”  She adds, “Whenever I’m excited or angry or emotional or sad, I want to speak in English--because the words mean more to me.”

It’s comforting to know I’m not the only one who feels this way. Especially when there are many people on the internet and elsewhere, who have written blogs and books which always make language learning seem fun! exciting! easy! and quick! But language learning is like any form of learning. If it’s going to stick with you long-term, then it is going to take time. Time to assimilate it. Hear it-- read, write and speak it. Time to succeed in it and make mistakes in it. Time to learn from those mistakes and sometimes make those mistakes over and over until the learning becomes like a painful badge of linguistic courage.

I have to remind myself of this every time I have a bad day in Spanish and get down on myself about it. I can’t keep criticizing myself for messing up the  “one mundane detail” that differentiates me from the native speaker.  I have to remember that it’s the messing up that’s going to get me where I want to be. I just have to believe it. After all, I’m better today in Spanish than I was years ago. If logic holds true, then I should be better still tomorrow.

References

Kaley. “Some Days I Hate Speaking Spanish.” Web blog post. Y Mucho Más. WordPress. 7 Mar. 2014. Web 26 Nov. 2016.

Courtesy: MemeGenerator.Net

Word Foundation

In an effort to improve my medical editing skills, I am currently re-studying English grammar, something I studied many years ago in elementary school as a child. I’ve discovered throughout the process that either I have: a) minimal recall or b) maximal forgetfulness as I meander my way through concepts either long-abandoned or never learned. Concepts such as predicate adjective, compound sentences and dangling modifiers. Listen, they are vague memories, but very vague, and I’m working to coax them to the fore.

What surprises me most during this process, however, is that certain grammar rules that I do remember and have relied upon my whole life are apparently themselves set for an overhaul. Things are changing. Rules are changing.  Case-in-point: Remember the verb: to prove? When I was a child growing up, the first, second and third principal parts of this verb were taught as:

prove               proved             proven

To give an example, if you were to use the word had or have before prove, you would have written it:

I had proven my theory at the conference.   Or...

I have proven that I am a worthy opponent.

Well, I’m here to tell you all Generation Xers, grab on to the seat of your pants, because my English-language sources are now telling me that the third principal part proven is being replaced by proved.   

For ex:

I had proved my theory at the conference.  Or..

I have proved that I am a worthy opponent.

My grammar book proceeds to tell me that “..while using proven is not considered incorrect, ...it is considered somewhat old-fashioned.”

Can you believe this? Old-fashioned? When did I become ‘old-fashioned’?

During an English to Spanish translation class I participated in recently, I discovered that the Spanish language is experiencing similar forms of change. For example, there was a time when there was a clear distinction between these two words:

sólo and solo

The accented solo meant ‘only’.  The non-accented form meant ‘alone’.  Now, however, the Real Academia Española (RAE) – or the Royal Spanish Academy – has determined that the accented form of the word should be dropped altogether and the meaning of solo inferred from the word use in the sentence. (Incidentally, the Royal Spanish Academy, founded in 1713, serves the purpose of monitoring, preserving and modifying the Spanish language. Questions regarding a particular word, its meaning, spelling and grammar in the Spanish language are directed to the RAE.)

This evolution of languages reminds me of a time in college when I wrote the word aforementioned in an essay I handed in to my English professor. I thought it sounded regal, stately. But my essay was returned with a lower grade and a red circle around aforementioned, with the comment ‘archaic’. I don’t get it. I spent years being taught that what’s important in English writing is word spelling, sentence structure and grammar. I worked hard to memorize rules and meanings. Now, I choose a veritable English word and it’s not ‘with it’ enough? If I pass my days reading Victorian novels, who is to tell me that words like aforementioned and betwixt are archaic? For me, it would be everyday. It would be standard. I learned that the third principal part of the past tense of to prove is proven and therefore it should always be proven, because it’s been tried, true and, well, proven – to me, in my everyday life.

I think we keep certain words in our word foundation, if you will, that we rely upon every day or almost every day, to communicate with people and to make a point. I am always willing to learn something new, but chip away at my current word foundation, and I feel a bit...lost. I need to have a set of vocabulary and structure upon which I can rely. If that foundation is taken away, what do I have to stand on?

I have built a certain medical word foundation in Spanish over the years while practicing medicine with Spanish-speaking patients. There are certain phrases I use ad infinitum when speaking to patients. They always seemed to work, meaning, they were understood by the patient. But after a conversation I had with a patient recently, my reliance on these comfortable phrases was threatened:

Doctora: <al acabar el examen> Todo está bien. Tiene ojos sanos.

Paciente: <expresión de temor extremo> ¿Qué es lo que tengo?  ¿QUÉ tengo?

Doctora: Tiene ojos sanos. Ojos sanos. SANOS. <elevar la voz en manera obligatoria> Tiene ojos saludables. No tiene una enfermedad del ojo. Todo está bi-

Paciente: <aparecer aliviado> Ay, whew, ¡Pensé que me dijo que tengo ojos con gusanos!!!

Doctora: <sonreír> O, no, ojos sanos. <pensar de qué más un paciente no entiende, dependiendo de mi pronunciación de las palabras, o de mi elección de palabras particulares.>

I rely on particular phrases in Spanish during my conversations. Usted tiene ojos sanos is one of them. The phrase is grammatically correct, You have healthy eyes, but either it’s not commonly used by Spanish-speaking doctors (how does an ophthalmologist in Spain or Nicaragua tell her patient: Everything looks good!) or I’m mispronouncing it, because this patient thought I said, Usted tiene ojos con gusanos, essentially, that he has worms in his eyes! Extreme relief ensued when he found out that’s not what I meant! It was funny at that moment, but after the patient left I got to thinking, how many more Spanish-speaking patients of mine have been misinterpreting this seemingly harmless phrase- or worse- anything else that I’ve been saying?

When I come across these issues: vocabulary words that I’ve come to rely upon tossed aside for more modern expressions; phrases that I’ve become accustomed to that are misinterpreted, and grammar rules that are modified or entirely abandoned, I worry. I worry because these are more than just words or expressions to me. They’re a part of me, in a way. They’re who I am. They’re what I’ve cultivated over the years. How we speak is more than just language. It is personal.  It says something about us as people. Certain expressions and words, like the accent a person has, tell a story about that person’s life. Where she comes from. What her experiences have been. I understand that life evolves, and so does language. And I am willing to go along with the ebb and flow of a language’s evolution.  But I’m not willing to set aside my story (and my way of expressing that story) simply because it’s not en vogue.

To this end, I’ve decided: I’m going to continue to use what works. If I speak to my patients in a certain manner and am understood, then that is all that matters. If they don’t understand me, then I will find an expression that they do comprehend.  That’s not old-fashioned and it’s not archaic. It’s an adaptable uniqueness.  And to me,  it’s beautiful.

References

Witte, Flo, PhD. Basic Grammar and Usage – An Essential Skills Workshop of the American Medical Writers Association. American Medical Writers Association, 2011.

Desert Adaptations, Joshua Tree Nat'l Park