Celine Song’s “Materialists” and Why Language is an Art, Not a Science

The role linguistic research plays in society is paramount. Sociolinguistics, the sphere I am endlessly interested in, is the study of linguistics in relation to social factors, such as how things like race and class, for example, influence dialects. However, I have been trying to reconcile these two parts of myself—the academic—the part of myself that asks questions and prods deeper into bilingualism and how home and displacement can impact language—with the artist—who studies how language has the power to persuade, elicit emotional responses, and change the fabric of our beings. Language can mean opportunity. Language can mean love. Language encompasses all and many never clue in. How is it that a two-time college dropout working at a law firm came to study linguistics? I think it is not so much for the science, but for the passion. And while I appreciate and continue to learn from prevailing linguistic theory and research, I believe there is something more than data about the languages we speak, because I am gathering data of my own– stories. They are not peer-reviewed. They are not quantifiable. It is my hope, and my goal, that they will make you feel something. This is just an introduction.

I think about the time I shared a kiss with someone at a local bar called Shot Topic, which is code for, I black out here. We were drunk. I had just ejected a tequila shot from my nose onto the floor below, narrowly missing my partner, and after an impassioned discussion about Spanish-language movies, he kissed me. Big time. I thought in the moment that this may have been the single greatest moment of connection in my adult life. I felt something. That’s what Spanish does to me every time. Every word spoken, every Antonio Machado or Cesar Vallejo poem read– making out at a bar with someone hot. Every realization that yes, I am finally understanding these jokes, or these songs, is a visceral moment. But it isn’t like that for everyone. For some, language is utilitarian. I have a bilingual friend who grew up speaking Spanish with her parents, and her relationship with them impacts her perception of the language. “I don’t share a lot with my parents,” she told me, “and they don’t share much with me. So I don’t use Spanish in the romantic way that you do.” Everyone’s experience is different, and immigration and displacement have a profound impact on the way one perceives both their native language and their acquired language. That is something I am studying closely.

But language doesn’t always use words. Words, I have found, are unnecessary. 

There was my bartender in Madrid. Colombiana con ojos verdes. All we needed were our two pairs of green eyes staring back at each other. I asked her what it was like moving to Spain. “I miss home,” she said, “especially now.” It was Christmastime. I realized that I did not miss home. And I wanted to go home with her. My Spanish at the time fell short, but all you need for flirting, or devastatingly beautiful añoranza, are your eyes and one word– “bonita”. She used that word to describe me. I could have melted right there at the bar. Instead, I finished my beer and left. No kiss, no going home with her after the bar closed. I can’t understand why I did that– perhaps fear. Bonita is the sort of romantic thing that they make movies about. Maybe I wasn’t ready. Now, I think about her often.

Then there are the words I don’t remember. This time, in English. I was so scared when I went to Peru, be it logistical nightmares or the irrational fear of carjackings (nonexistent), that I didn’t leave to find a local bar or fall for a Peruvian sweetheart. I drank beer at my hostel bar, where horny Europeans watched the Copa America all day while they waited to go to Machu Picchu. I met a Brit– our eyes locked while we were both calling home– him, his girlfriend, and me, my dad. “We’re in love,” he said, mentioning her, “I’ve never been in love before, but I feel it now,” as he proceeded to flirt with me. We got into a drinking contest I swore I could win. And I don’t remember what we said, but when our bartender got on the mic to announce it was time to salsa, we danced. Boy, did we dance. Electricity ran through my fingertips and into his. It was the first sparks I had felt in my entire life. You see, in los Estados Unidos, I am doomed to settle for men or women who maybe aren’t hot enough or aren’t deep enough or aren’t entertaining enough, I hate to say. It doesn’t matter their personal statistics– I settle for someone who doesn’t emit fireworks when I touch them. A travesty. But abroad, I find the right people everywhere. Maybe it is the thrill of knowing I get on a plane and leave tomorrow. Maybe it is that they speak the language of my heart.  

After I blacked out, made it back to my bed, and spent the morning vomiting, I found myself at a restaurant at 8pm eating Peruvian fried rice, just a few short hours before my plane home would take off. I spotted my British sweetheart walking down the cobblestone streets, toward the back of a group of people I know came from the hostel, looking bored out of his mind. Was he thinking of me? I looked at his face, wondering if I could telepathically tell him to look my way. He passed in the street and was gone before I could gather up the courage to call out. In my mind, this was the most romantic thing I could have done– say goodbye, mentally, Casablanca-style. We’ll always have Barranco. 

Here in the States, I recently watched the film Materialists in the theatre with my sisters. Celine Song makes fantastic, poignant movies, and this one was no different. The movie explores the role materialism plays in relationships and is a critique of the way we approach dating– in America, at least. It so often becomes a numbers game and less about passion. I’ve seen this play out in my own life being on dating apps. A person I may choose not to swipe right on might approach me at a bar and change my mind, because there’s something about being with someone and feeling the energy through their fingertips and into yours– tequila through nose aside– and leaning into that connection rather than focusing on a checklist. I don’t know what my Shot Topic guy did for a living. Nor my Brit in Peru. They weren’t 6’3”. I didn’t have boxes in mind that they ticked. I knew nothing about my Colombian bartender– I believe her name was Tatiana. We were just present. The way it should be. It’s easy to critique others for “settling”. I have certainly done that, or been the recipient. What matters is not how much money he makes or her weight or hair color or what kind of car or truck they drive– it’s the connection. That feeling you get when they walk in the room. After years of both dating apps and in-person meet-cutes, I think I can say that with exceptions, of course, it’s much harder to get that connection via a swipe. Playing the numbers game, with anything, seems to kill the joy. That is, of course, unless math is your passion.  

Each of these connections I have has is a study in and of itself. A story– not a stat. Each a moment where I felt belonging– a sense of home– perhaps because in their own ways each of these people spoke my language. It is not always a spoken language, or the language I might expect. But all the same, no matter where I am, there seems to be a divey bar or a packed hostel full of people who bring their home with them, a home I can step into if our eyes meet and one of us says hello. Maybe my brand of sociolinguistics is not sociolinguistics at all, but rather, a study of words unsaid. That goodbye I never said. That text where I could reconnect but will never send. The number I never got. The way he or she ghosted me. A secret between me and my sister. Language will fill up the space around it, and the silence will burrow inside. Sometimes, it is good. Maybe I perceive it as my own form of closure, or maybe I think words would ruin a moment of belonging. Other times, I wonder, “what if.” That is something all humans can relate to– I think we all emit some sort of electromagnetic sense of regret. That is, until we find home again. Until we say our next hello, hola, or guten tag. 

Linguistic research can tell you many incredible things. I am learning these things now– it’s mind blowing. But it can’t tell you how to fall in love. It can’t tell you how to apologize or forgive. It can’t tell you how to walk into a bar and amid the jukebox and the chatter of people you’ve never seen before, step out of your shell. For those things, you have to live life. In studying Spanish, I have learned the most by simply living life with this language. It has become a living thing, almost like a close friend or a roommate. I have done karaoke, read aloud poetry to a lover, flirted, salsa’d, grocery shopped, and hailed unmarked taxis in this beautiful language. I have cried watching Y Tu Mamá También. I have snort-laughed at video clips of La Rosa de Guadalupe that my bilingual friend sent me. I have lived a lot of life. And no matter what language you speak– one or multiple– whether well or badly– life is meant to be lived. It seems sometimes that we are more indoors than ever post-COVID. It’s easy to get lost in TikTok on your couch, and there is certainly a time and a place for that. But life is out your front door. While I have accumulated a treasure trove of words unsaid and linguistic and romantic blunders, I would not trade it. I find it to be the most beautiful thing. In this world of divisive politics and everything else, we owe it to ourselves to chase that beauty, wherever we find it. 

These are just a few of the lessons from over a decade of linguistics– a life that is just beginning.