Our life is full of languages. The good news: this means it can make a mess of all of us equally. We’re never alone.
One of our bread ladies has faithfully been coming to English each week. She does about 45 minutes of Rosetta Stone, and then we practice together for ten to fifteen minutes: whatever I can get out of her before she looks like she might give up. Right now we are working on:
This is my daughter. This is my son. This is my husband.
My name is Nyein Nyein. I am twenty-six years old.
My favorite is “This is my husband.” Somewhere, quite awhile ago, she learned husband = Stephen. She can’t help it now; her brain has learned it wrong. Every time I ask, Who is this?
This is my Steph…husband.
Every time. She always catches it before the last syllable, but it’s still pretty obvious. And pretty funny.
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Aye Aye Naing is nearing two and half, and she’s all toddler. She really loves Stephen and isn’t a huge fan of me. As in, Do you love uncle? YES. Do you love auntie? NO. Side glare included.
The challenge is, she has our names switched. She’ll come to the door and see me, give me the glare:
Kelli?
Hi! How are you?
NO. KELLI.
Yes, do you need something? Do you want to play? Do you want water?
NOOOOOOO! KELLI!!!
Do you want Uncle Stephen?
Yes.
{Right. One moment please, madame.}
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Win Moe is another little all-toddler toddler. One afternoon, as she pranced around with a lot of attitude, I said, “Wow, she is sassy! Do you know the word “sassy” in English?” (I said this in Burmese, except for the word “sassy” itself.)
To which her mother replied, “Oh, yes! I do know that word. Sexy, sexy. My daughter is very sexy!”
“No, no, no, NO. Those do sound similar but they are very, very different. Please NEVER say your three-year-old is sexy.”
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The Reinforcer, Pyint Soe, knows English. He still comes to study Rosetta Stone once a week and practice with me, which we hope will help with his graduation exam at the end of next year.
Sometimes I have him write a few sentences at home so he can practice new vocabulary and work on his grammar. He came last week using his new word, wedding, with this sentence, “Everyone will die wedding.”
I wasn’t really sure what to make of it. Usually I have a pretty good idea of what he’s getting at, even with errors. Of course he’s watching my facial expression and listening to my silence as I re-read it, scrabbling my brain to determine what he was going for. His face is falling, “Is it wrong?”
Well, I’m not sure. What do you mean?
Everyone will die wedding.
Yes…but, why? Can you tell me why?
Everyone die. Die (he says this in Burmese)–we call this “die,” right?
Yes. I understand “to die.” And “everyone.” But why “at a wedding”?
You said wedding is one day. So I think everyone dies.
Rewind to the previous week, when I was explaining the difference between a wedding and marriage: A wedding is one day, but the marriage is for the rest of their lives. So Stephen and I were married on November 1, that one day event or party; and then we are married for ten years now. So a wedding is one day and the marriage is the years following.
So wedding = one day. Everyone will die one day. And that, my friend, is true.
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