Foreign languages are the perfect domain for unknown unknowns: you don’t know what you don’t know until you throw yourself in the water and have to swim to survive.
That my level of English was nowhere near what meaningful day-to-day interactions would require in New York City, I didn’t know. But I didn’t know that I didn’t know.
When I got the admission letter from Columbia, I took it as a seal of certification that my English was decent. After all, I thought, you don’t get into a US Ivy League school if all you know is “my name is Silvio” or “the book is on the table”. The big unknown is that, when you stop learning English in your country -- as structured and immersive and in-depth that learning process may be -- and move to the US, the sound and speed and constructs of the same language are so different that you almost have to start from scratch. And I didn’t know about this (huge) unknown.
So my first few weeks in the Big Apple were a linguistic hell: I would ask to repeat thousands of times, refrain from raising my hand in class in fear of my inability to articulate a simple thought, run continuous simultaneous translations in my head, and go to bed exhausted beyond imagination at nine thirty.
And I’d get irritated when they’d call me “Dude”. Dude who? I was no Dude.
While saying that my English was terrible is a euphemism, such hellish experience stretched probably a bit longer than it should have as in that first period I was hanging out mostly with other Italians, or other Europeans, hoping that, in so doing, I would feel a little less homesick and a little more aware that we were all in the same boat. And that produced cringey instances like when, in a restaurant, someone replied “It’s in the bathroom” to my “Excuse me, where is the toilet?” question.
Nonetheless, my path towards a better and less energy-draining English was slowly but surely appearing less arduous. I now had a “local” girlfriend (arguably the most effective language-learning tool available) who introduced me to people and things and sort of promoted me as someone “really Italian” (as opposed to US-born, non-Italian-speaking people whose ancestors emigrated from Italy to the US generations ago, that called themselves “Italian” -- I guess). My US adventure was getting more amusing by the day.
And then Thanksgiving came, and my friend Charlie, born and raised in New York City, invited me to his folks’ place. As I was a first-timer and had no idea what a Thanksgiving dinner was about, Charlie gave me a primer so I’d know what I was getting into. I was prepared.
Until I wasn’t.
Despite the presence of a giant turkey sitting in the center, around the table all eyes were locked on me, as if waiting for something. As if that humongous bird had surprisingly lost its prima donna status. Amid the general murmur, Charlie leaned towards my ear and whispered “the guest is supposed to go first”. “Go first for what?” I replied. Was he talking about the turkey? Was I supposed to be the first to get some? Or was I supposed to be the one slicing the beast and serving all the others? In doubt, I did nothing and waited for more words. “You should speak, say something”. Oh my goodness -- something what? All of a sudden, my English had receded to what it was like on my first day there, i.e., almost zero. I was petrified. Something what? “Like, be thankful for something” said Charlie, widening his eyes at me as he was whispering it, and betraying a tiny bit of impatience.
So I stood, and cleared my throat.
A glacial silence seized the room, and as the tie around my neck felt like I was slowly getting strangled, I -- almost unconsciously -- spoke these words: “It is a privilege to be here, I am thankful for being invited to your family gathering on this special day. And I am thankful for this turkey, which is NOT from Turkey”.
The room burst into laughter. My very first attempt at public speaking in a language that was not my own drove the tension away and the ease in. Say something serious and something funny in the same line, I read somewhere, and things will be downhill from there. In hindsight, I could have mentioned a ton of other things that I was thankful for, but that’s what came out of my mouth.
I could have mentioned having a roof over my head and a bed to sleep in at night. I could have mentioned the lack of health issues, or not having to flee my country crossing the sea on a rotten boat with a thousand others in hope for a future without persecution and violence. I could have mentioned being born in a part of the world where human rights are a given and life is comfortable and peaceful. Or all the little things that I take for granted every minute of every day, but are not.
Although I did not mention any of these things right then and there, that experience taught me a simple yet not-so-straightforward lesson: that the mere act of being thankful is something to be carefully aware of, and be thankful for.
When you are thankful because a spontaneous and powerful inner force reminds you to be -- and not because it’s the fifth step of your morning routine -- you should pay attention and catch yourself in the act: that’s what you should really be thankful for.
To be remembered and fully absorbed, a learning experience should be funny, surprising, and a little dramatic. And that Thanksgiving dinner had all three of these elements in spades.
So did my English learning journey.
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'funny, surprising and little bit dramatic' I'll have to remember that! What a great story, Silvio.
Thank you for sharing I had a similar experience the first time I was invited to Thanksgiving dinner, that was 13 years ago and still remember it with such fondness and gratitude.