My Weekend and Monday of Spanish, or, Why Shy People Make Rotten Language Learners

I have taken to accepting any invitation proferred by spanish speakers (given a minimum level of non-creepiness, that is). And so it is that I have discovered a rather awkward irony. The people who are the most attentive and the most conscientious, vis a vis including me, are far more exhausting than those that are less so.

Picture, if you will, four people at a table, all of whom are fluent in spanish except our hapless blogger. She is seated opposite a very pleasant colleague who is making every effort to have a conversation with her. He speaks, and then he checks for comprehension, of which there is often not much to be found. He tries to find a way around the barrier, cannot, laughs. Occasionally he asks for a translation from other corners of the table. She stirs her coffee. She memorizes her placemat. No, she doesn't understand. She feels like she is shrinking under the well-intentioned glare of attention, incapable of offering a coherent thought, incapable of responding correctly. He hesitates, searches for a topic that might be accessible. She feels guilty, wishes he would join the conversation with his friends, so that he would enjoy himself. So that she can go back to being ears with feet. Instead she stumbles through garbled responses and tries to appreciate the corrections she is offered. The light in the cafe seems brighter than normal. Her cheeks burn, she is embarassed by her helplessness and lack of personality, and then she is embarassed by her embarassment.

The thing is, you see, that I am very accustomed now to living behind this little wall of mine. It's not preferable, of course, but it no longer really bothers me in an immediate sense. I no longer feel strange sitting, uncomprehendingly, at a table of people who are conversing amongst themselves as if I were not present. I learn quite a bit that way. The family that I live with has come to know me rather well. They speak to me directly, but when I start grimacing and trying to hide my face in my soup, they know it's time to let me be quiet. New people, understandably, are not quite as accustomed. How odd would you feel having some random person trying to read your lips while you speak to someone else?

It is an interesting problem. It is probably one of the more valuable aspects of this experience, or rather will be once I've done with it. I love words. Ridiculously. My sense of humor is largely based on misusing words; I mean, really! I am articulate. I might be spacy, and awkward, and all sorts of other things, but at least that is a constant that I can fall back on. And so oddly enough this pushes me into situations (ie, say, Chile) where I find myself without the one thing that I consistently rely on to be my strength in all kinds of situations.

Well, and so, it's obviously no tragedy, I do it anyway. I go out and humiliate myself, and frankly no one really cares. It's completely internal (until I write about it online, that is, speaking of ironies). It is an incredibly strong feeling, though, physical even. I feel, at those times, as if I am far back in my eyes, disconnected from the nervous hands and the head that keeps lowering no matter how many times I remind myself to keep it up. As if I've gone from automatic to standard, I suppose. Lift head. Make eye contact. Stop staring at people's mouths. They've stopped talking, they're looking, speak.

Ah my. And so it goes, my very strange and silly silent life....when I am on my own, I am frusturated at not being able to practice my spanish. When I get the chance, I start wondering if I can climb out the bathroom window.