It Doesn’t Make Sense

Being multilingual doesn’t make any sense. So why am I still trying to make sense of it? There seems to be hundreds of inexplicable things which give me this dreaded feeling that I’m floating in the ether somewhere and life isn’t real. It doesn’t make sense, right? Or does it? I first felt much imposter syndrome when learning Spanish and a dear friend called me “bilingual”. Bilingual who? I reserved the term bilingual for those who had two native languages, or those whose level of fluency far surpassed mine. But the comment made me pause. What is bilingualism? How do we define it? I think, more importantly, how do I define it? Not a day goes by where I don’t use Spanish. So I think, by that measure, I am bilingual. At least, to me and my friend.

            Most of my family and friends have not heard me speak any of the languages that I speak. I certainly have talked my dad’s ear off about grammar on multiple occasions, but he has never been a fly on the wall during my tutoring sessions. But they have such faith in me. Such high regard for my talent. What talent? It doesn’t make sense. Just because it comes easy doesn’t mean it comes easy. Sound paradoxical? Exactly. My beloved Spanish tutor is another who has such faith in me. “You did so well!” she mentioned after our last session. I had her tell me stories and I focused on listening. Understanding. Engaging. I fucked up the grammar a bit. But I did well? I learned something, that’s for sure. I learned how “not ready” and “ready” I was at the same time for my proficiency exam—another paradox. Doesn’t make sense.

            I felt a similar imposter syndrome about the other languages. The terms “multilingual” and “polyglot” carry weight. There is such an online culture of polyglots who are much more fluent than I. I at times lack the discipline—something I am trying to remedy. But is it true? I speak, or have spoken, or can get around with four languages now. Sure, I’m new to Russian. I’m reading. But I still count it. And I haven’t spoken German in ages, but it still pops into my head at random moments and I remember all the interactions I have had while traveling with the German speaking community. I regard each language with such fondness—the cultures with such respect—the music with such love. My high school Spanish teacher once said you can never truly know a language until you can sing in it, and I believe that to be true. However, by that measure, does it mean I know Italian? That one I doubt.

            Now, regardless of the feelings of inferiority I have and still do feel at times, I have owned the term “multilingual” and all the paradoxes that come with it. I have worked hard. I have shed tears. I have made mistakes and learned. I speak four languages. Studied seven—crazy, right? I think it takes a small measure of crazy to do it. I’ll claim that.

            I was somewhat prepared for the imposter syndrome, and the possibilities of embarrassment and failure, but I wasn’t prepared for a new feeling: homesickness. It is strange. After traveling across four continents in two years, meeting friends and speaking languages, I often feel a terrible sense of loneliness and homesickness for Latin America and Spain. There is such a euphoria when speaking to someone in the language of your heart and being understood. There’s something about the seaside cliffs in Barranco and the hole-in-the-wall cafes in Madrid. There’s flamenco. Chicken soup on a tired stomach. Jamaica juice. Pollo Campero. I miss every second that I’ve spent in the Spanish speaking world. There’s such a large part of my heart that can only be expressed in Spanish and only understood by a Spanish speaker. There’s the brief time I dated a drunk. A Spanish-speaking drunk. The connection, while never meant to last long, was electric. I crave someone who speaks my language. Another thing I claim—my language. It is not my native tongue, but I have come to find it as my own. A beautiful adoption process. A homecoming. It doesn’t make sense, but there it is.

            So what now? I must pursue home at all costs. Soon I will go to Argentina and speak with those who share my dialect. Someday I dream of going to Kazakhstan—a sort of edge of the world for me—and speaking Russian. While I think all these things will look marvelous on my resume, that’s not why I do it. There’s a love; a lust; a craving. An insatiable desire to know and be known. English is useful for me, and it’s a privilege I can’t take for granted. But my soul wanders elsewhere.

            Some advice? The craziness of multilingualism isn’t for the faint of heart. However, there are things in all our lives that don’t make sense. Maybe it’s art. Maybe it’s writing—I can relate. Maybe it’s music or mathematics. Astrophysics. We all have that thing—our big fish, and we are the old man tied to it hopelessly. It may not make sense, but we adore that thing. So pursue it at all costs. Life is short on art. Be it AI, or the corporate life stealing your time, or another issue. If it doesn’t make sense, let it be. It doesn’t have to for it to be worth it.