Mommy, help you me.

Language is a process of free creation; its laws and principles are fixed, but the manner in which the principles of generation are used is free and infinitely varied. Even the interpretation and use of words involves a process of free creation.

– Noam Chomsky

Salad Days, Albanian Sayings

Cucumber was the first “real” word I learned in Albanian.  Kastravec, my now mother-in-law, mami Natasha, taught. With a sharp thike, she sliced the domate, djath, and qepe. The cubed, crimson tomatoes, the feta cheese and raw yellow onions tumbled into the bowl with the cucumber.  I–who didn’t speak Albanian–watched her–who knew no English–as she gently trickled in the uthull. The acrid pungency splashed back into the air; the glands on the underside of my jaw constricted, releasing saliva.  She pointed to the bottle of vinegar, she held, and wagged her finger.  Not too much, she gestured.  With the other bottle–the plastic one that had once been filled with orange soda–she was reverent.  Inside was liquid gold, not sold in local markets, but collected from vats of first pressed olives from the western coast of Albania.  Be generous with this vaj ulliri, she made it known with few words and grand gestures.  I dipped my finger into the oil as it streamed into the bowl.  The taste was evocative of a past in which the currencies and measures of wealth were salt, olive oil and spices.

“Mami, I help you?”  I pointed to myself first and then to the cutting board, offering assistance.

Mami walked over to the sideboard, where she removed a printed dishcloth from atop a crudely woven basket.  Inside was a hefty-sized, crusty buke. She directed me to slice the bread just thick enough to withstand the weight of the dressing, into which we would all soon be dipping.  Meanwhile, she fried slices of salcice, in the tigan, until the spicy sausage halves were browned.  She placed the meats onto each plate and spooned the drippings from the frying pan on top.

Then we watched the ora, the clock. My now father-in-law, Babi Viktor, Mami and I sat together on the divan waiting for Skerdi to come home for dreke. At half past noon, he walked in with gusts of wind following him into the apartment.   I met him at the door, where he shrugged off his dusty, black jacket.   His lips were cold as they met mine; his fingers frozen as they cupped my cheeks; his forehead stiff as he leaned against my brow.

“Lunch?”

I nodded in reply, then recounted what I had done that morning.  We walked hand in hand to the dining table, beside which the electric heater thrummed.

With dry, chaffed hands, Skerdi broke his slice of bread in half and swirled the white soft flesh around the red pan drippings.  I did the same.  Mami heaped the vegetables onto our plates.  The floral acidity of the salad cut through the salty, unctuous taste of the sausages.  Skerdi sprinkled more salt onto his plate.

“Kripe,” Mami said and then pointed to his son with a smile.  She, then, said something rapidly in Albanian.  I looked over to Skerdi, confused.

Squeezing my hand, he translated, “There is an Albanian saying that a man who likes a lot of salt in his food is very much in love with his wife.”

“Well, if I had known you were already married, I wouldn’t have started anything with you,” I laughed.

He stared at me; his thick eyebrows puckered.  “I’m not married.”

“I know.”  I giggled.

Still perplexed by my comment, he continued solemnly, “but you just said…”

“Sarcasm,” I interrupted.

“Oh. Hm. Ok.”  He went back to dipping the bread in the dressing—the joke lost on him.

Can you say cow brain soup?

I learned to make a salate that first morning back in Albania.

It was November 2000–my second visit to the country.  Several months earlier, Skerdi had moved Mami and Babi from the warmer coastal city of Vlora to the capital, Tirana, where he worked.  He lived with and helped to take care of his retired parents.  The first time I had ever been to Albania was in March earlier that year.  Back then, I had stayed with Skerdi, who was fluent in English.  There had never been an opportunity in that first visit to learn more than the usual array of terms one gleans when traveling to a foreign country–good morning (mire mengjes), thank you (falimenderit), gezuar (cheers!) and where is the … (ku eshte…).

During the second visit, however, I spent entire days over the course of three weeks with my future in-laws.  Still new at his job, Skerdi could not take any time off to be with me. Everyday, he left while I was still asleep and came home twice, once at lunch and then again at the end of the day.  Bonding with his parents presented an opportunity to learn their language.

I underestimated Albanian.  It is a difficult language to master.  I–who won national awards in French throughout high school, was President of the French of Honor Society, spoke two Philippine dialects and could sing an entire song (just a song) in Arabic—was humbled.  I was felled by Albanian.  That’s what I get, I thought, for falling in love with one.

Nevertheless, I was determined to conquer this Sisyphean feat.  Like a toddler, I started learning Albanian with baby steps—one word at a time.  And the arsenal of words I first built reflected one of my main interests: food!

For three weeks, Mami and I cooked lunches and dinners.  She patiently named each step in making the regional dishes and also the ingredients for each recipe.  Bizelle me mish vici (peas with beef), tave kosi me mish qengji (lamb baked in yogurt), and clitharaq me pule (orzo with chicken).  Outside, when Skerdi and I dined at restaurants, we studied the menus, the best of which was from Juvenilja, our favorite pizzeria in the center of the city.  All the ingredients for each pizza were listed within the menu.  Vez (egg), spec picante (spicy pepper),  majdanoz (parsley).  By the end of that visit, I had memorized a long list of cooking terms–from roasted (pjekur) to stuffed (mbushur), from grilled lamb chops (paidhaqe) to cow brain soup (paqe).

ABC’s are not building blocks.

I visited the country four more times over the ensuing few years.  With each visit, I learned to count–yes, to a million and beyond—and to name the colors of the rainbow.  I memorized slogans from the sides of buildings and on banners that hung over the main boulevard.  Gervisht dhe fito–scratch and win–posters peppered the outside walls of kiosks and advertized lottery-style scratch tickets.  Ramazani mes nesh, gezimit e perheshem heralded the start of Ramadan, also observed in this once Ottoman-held nation.  I watched Albanian news hours in furious concentration.

Amused by my increasing vocabulary, they would show me off to friends and family, who came to meet the kinesa–the Chinese (a term they used for all Asians)–girlfriend.

“Liza,” Skerdi would say, pointing to the spoon, “what is this?”

“Luge.”

“And this?”

“Pirune.” Fork, I barked out like a seal.

They would ask me to read from the daily revista, or newspaper, and listen to me correctly pronounce many of the words.  Only a few syllables evaded me–the double ll, the difference between the q, ch, c, sh, gj, and xh (which all sounded alike at first), and the soft d.  Nevertheless, my reading earned me rounds of applause.  I was a child; I lapped up the praise.

“But can she recite the alphabet,” a friend had asked one afternoon over strong Turkish coffee.

Skerdi translated.  I shook my head.  Unlike the English alphabet, there was neither an easy mnemonic nor a catchy song to help memorize the 36 letters of the Albanian one.

Today, I still don’t know it.

There once was a neighbor from Tirana…

During one visit to Albania, one of Skerdi’s cousins taught me a few songs, one of which, he said,  would help me memorize a set of pronouns.  At dinner, the cousin (named L)  who had been invited to stay clinked his glass with a fork.

“Auntie, Uncle, Liza has a song to sing for you,” L said in Albanian.

Skerdi shifted his gaze from me to his cousin and back again to me.  He was suspicious, and a tad afraid.  Oblivious, his parents smiled encouragement.

I cleared my throat.

“Une, ti, ayi, ayo, me, ne ata, ato…”

“Bravo!” They cheered in unison.

I sang the innocuous children’s song, without a hitch.   Skerdi sighed, then took a swig of his beer. He clapped his cousin on the back and thanked him.  Mami and babi clapped in pride.  Happily, I ate my peas.

“Ok, Liza,” the cousin started, “sing the other song!”

“Po! Po!” Yes, yes–everyone chanted.

“Ok, here it goes…”  I took a deep breath.  ”Pune m*ti, ka hajduti, pes mille lek…”

“NO!”  Skerdi shouted, coughing out his drink.  He glared at his cousin. Thankfully, Skerdi’s parents weren’t familiar with the bawdy limerick about a lusty neighbor, 5,000 leks and a request for a good time.

Squeal like a piglet!

Courtesy of Skerdi’s cousin, I learned my first bad words in Albanian and wished I could have unlearned them.  Many people studying a new language think it’s funny, and, for some, imperative, to build a cache of vulgar words.  It’s not.  It’s disrespectful to build this verbal ammunition to lob at rather than bridge ties with other people.  Words are powerful.  Nations have been razed on the premise of a few traded barbs.  Violence can ensue from just one word.  Fights can break out from a simple curse.

During one visit, Skerdi and I quarreled.  Like most arguments between couples, it started over something silly and escalated rapidly.   I had eaten too much over the time I spent in Albania and he pinched the fat under my arms.

He thought it was cute. “You’re a little derkuci.”

“What’s that?”  I asked, sitting up from the couch where we were snuggled watching football.

“Little piglet,” he offered easily.

“Piglet?”

“Yes, you’re cute like a little pink piglet.”  He followed that with a pinch of my cheeks.

“Piglet,” I screeched.

He nodded, sweat breaking across his upper lip.  He hesitated before reaffirming, “Um, yes, piglet?”

“Piglet!  As in baby pig?!”

I stood up, hands on hips, foot tapping.  If he wanted a size 2 then I could leave for the US soon.

“I don’t understand.  What is a size 2?”  Oh, I clenched my teeth, the nuances of language!

“Size 2!  You know….size 2!”

Skerdi rolled his eyes, and said I was overreacting. “Piglets are cuddly.  We call chubby little babies piglets all the time.”

“B*thq*ra!” I spat out, immediately regretting it after seeing his face pale.

He blinked.  He blinked again, in disbelief that I knew the worst of the curse words.  He blinked rapidly, in fury.  And in a blink, he left the apartment.  He was gone for several hours.

When he came back, the silence was devastating.  I sat beside him, took his hands, and said, “Me fal.  Te dua shume.” I’m sorry, I love you, I said.

“Me too,” he apologized, “By the way, I don’t want a size 2.  Whatever that means.  Just you, ok?”

When parallel tracks cross

It’s been ten years since my first visit to Albania.  And I am still far from being fluent.   My in-laws now live with Skerdi, me and Sebastian.  They help us raise our son in an Albanian-Filipino home.  He’s learning both Albanian and English at exponential rates.

Like me, Sebastian has slowly developed a little lexicon.  He can count to five in Albanian, to fifteen in English.  He orders his grandparents about like a miniature Ali Pasha.

“Hajdee, gjuysh!”  Come here grandpa, he’ll cry out.

“Hape televisore.”  Turn on the tv.

“Ikim!”  Let’s go.

Learning two languages at the same time can often confuse Sebastian.  The parallel tracks often cross-talk.  Sometimes he’ll use words from both languages to form a single sentence, leaving many, like the teachers at his daycare, confused.

One day last week, Buddy, Sebastian’s teacher, asked, “What happened to the butterflies you had [raised for three weeks]?”

My son looked up at the sky and said, “Iku. ‘Pafshim! In the sky now!”

Buddy’s eyes widened and glanced quickly at me in question.  “They left.  He waved goodbye,” I translated.

Lost in translation

Like Sebastian, I often string words in Albanian together without conjugating verbs or worrying about tenses.  One evening, several months ago, at dinner with just my in-laws, Mami asked how Sebastian had slept the night before.

I replied in stilted Albanian, “Yesterday, he not sleep good because he wake at 3 in morning for drink water. One minute after, he sleep again. No wake up. This morning, wake up ok but he not want go school.”

Across from me, Babi strained forward, slowly raised his chin and then lowered his head while twisting to his right to look at his wife.  He had not understood a word I had said.  So Mami put her fork down and then translated my Albanian—back into Albanian.

“Mire, mire,” my father, finally comprehending, addressed me again.  Good, good.  Next, he launched into a discussion on Sebastian and sleep.  Babi is a fast talker; his words slide into each other.  He keeps his hands motionless when he talks.

It was my turn to crane my neck forward, attentively listen to each word, and then attempt to make sense of everything.  I understood nothing.  I shrugged my shoulders, turned back to my mother-in-law, who then translated his Albanian into mine—a simplified, elementary school version accompanied by numerous hand gestures, onomatopoeic sounds, and body spasms.

“He said,” she translated, but in Albanian, “Sebastian is probably not sleeping in school.”  She pantomimed Sebastian running around and playing.

“Aaaaaggghh!”  She then shouted.

My son, who was sitting with us at the table, trying to spoon more rice into his mouth, let the grains fall out as he, too, shouted, “Aaaaaggghh!  Nena funny! Mire mire!”

My eyes narrowed as I tried to understand what she was still trying to say.  So she raised her voice even louder to get her point across—which at any decibel level was still hard to decipher.  Finally, after several tries, she asked, “do you understand me?”

“Yes!”  Finally, I got it.  Sebastian, she surmised, had been too excited at school by the new, older kids, with whom he had wanted to play.  Hence, he had probably not taken a nap the previous afternoon, leaving him drowsy earlier that morning.

The tower of babble

Before 1990’s, Albania was in the clutches of an extreme form of isolationism and communism.  Only state-approved broadcasts were allowed on television and in radios.  The singing group, ABBA, was one of the few bands, whose music was permitted to be transmitted over the airwaves.  Football was also shown on television.  Skerdi, like many of his countrymen, often secretly listened to pirated programs from other countries.  The punishment for being caught was a long jail sentence and ignominy for one’s family.  Nevertheless, he found ways to listen to the sounds of the world outside his nation’s hermit-crab existence.  Although he did not speak English at the time, he fell in love with heavy metal music, especially Bon Jovi, Metallica and Iron Maiden. When communism fell, the way was paved not just for a democratic Albania but also for more open media.

During this transition time, Skerdi opted to learn English from a private tutor after school.  Learning a language academically does not teach one about nuances, idioms and irony.  When I met Skerdi in 1999, he was conversant in English, but he failed to pick up on jokes heavily based on sarcasm.    Moreover, there were cultural and linguistic idiosyncracies one can only glean outside textbooks, simply by living the language.

In 2002, Skerdi came to the United States to be with me.  We lived in a 500 sq. ft. apartment four blocks behind the Capitol in Washington, DC.  He had enrolled as a graduate student at American University and worked as a part-time waiter at a nearby Greek restaurant.  When he wasn’t studying or working, we were curled up on the couch watching comedies, like Friends.  During the thirty minute show, he would laugh once, maybe twice.

“Do you want to change the channel,” I’d ask.

“No why?”

“You don’t think it’s funny,” I stated.

“I do, but I don’t get the jokes.  Everyone sounds like they are babbling. Blah. Blah. Blah.  And that’s only because I don’t understand them.  Everyone speaks so fast.”

The American Accent

Day in and out, Skerdi learned, and sometimes struggled with, the intricacies of the English language while I put aside learning Albanian.  One evening, he came home from worked, flushed in the face.

“Honey,” I asked, “is everything all right?”

He closed the door, took off his apron and walked up to me. “What does char-broiled mean?”

“What? Why?”

“Well, I had some German tourists as customers tonight,” he described, “and they pointed to the menu and asked what charbroiled chicken was.”

I waited.  He continued, “And I didn’t know what it was myself!  So I said..”

He paused.

“Yes?”

“I said, ‘Well, you see, we have this machine…it’s called a char…and that’s where we put the chicken to bake.”

I tried not to laugh.  “Oh. Ok. Your boss didn’t explain the dish to you?”

“No,why would he? He’s Greek; I’m Albanian. We stay out of each other’s way.  I’m lucky I even have a job there.  He says I make the place feel authentic.”

Shaking my head, I explained what a char was, and he turned a deeper red.

“How am I ever going to be good at English?  Tell me, Liza, what can I do to be better?”

“You’re already good, and time will make you great.  Just wait.”  I hugged him tightly.

“Ok, tell me, how can I get rid of my accent?”

“What?!” Surprised, I pulled back.

“People don’t understand me. Some customers say ‘hola’ to me.  Others say, ‘El salaymu alaykum.’  And even some have said, ‘dasvedanya!’ I want to sound American.”  He was clearly agitated.

“What does that sound like?”

“No accent.  Neutral.”

I took a deep breath, “Sorry, honey, that will never happen.  Your accent is a part of you.”

He grunted.  I kissed him on the cheek, “Besides, I think it’s sexy.”

To market, to market

Dejected, he went to bed. The next day after the charbroiled discussion, we both went to Whole Foods.  He had never accompanied me grocery shopping.  He was mesmerized by the size of the American “supermarket.”  Back in Albania, markets were smaller and specialized.  You bought meats at the  butcher, produce at the grocer, and bread at the stand outside a bakery.  And you always brought enough leks, the Albanian currency.

At Whole Foods, he walked up and down the aisles for nearly an hour.  The sticker prices shocked him.  Kos, or plain yogurt, was over $2, four times more expensive and four times smaller in quantity than in Albanian.  He went to look for feta cheese–$5 for a 3-inch cube!

I waited outside as he finished shopping.  When he emerged, he had the same perplexed look on his face.

“Honey,” he said.

“Yes?”

“What does paper or plastic mean?”

“Well, the cashier wanted to know if you’d like your items in a plastic bag or a paper bag,” I replied.

He closed his eyes and then started chuckling.  “No wonder she looked at me funny and had nothing to say.”

“Oh?  What did you tell her?”

“I said I would pay in cash.”

Finally, we’ve arrived.

These days, Skerdi works with clients at a financial planning firm.  The fact that he still has an accent still bothers him.  Clients will call asking for the Jamaican guy to whom they just talked or for the Pakistani who had helped them.  They never ask for his name, which many find difficult to pronounce. Nevertheless, he is finally fluent in English.  He catches nuances and sarcasm.  He guffaws endlessly at jokes—the funny ones—and puts me in my place if I’m overly sarcastic.

Ten months ago, my in-laws became permanent residents of the United States.  They moved here to be with us for part of the year.  Sebastian and I have learned even more Albanian from being with them.

Last week, I had a chance to practice my adopted language.  One of the participants at a conference my office organized was from Tirana.  He (named S) and I exchanged a few words in between sessions.  During the final lunch, catered by a local Thai restaurant, we sat beside each other.

“This morning you mentioned that you know my husband is from Korce [in eastern Albania],” I remarked.

“It’s no mystery,” he said, smiling.  S swirled the green curry sauce with his fork, while pushing the chicken and tofu off to the side.

“Did someone tell you?”

He then twirled the rice noodles coated in peanut sauce around his fork, but never put the strands in his mouth.

“No.”

S placed a napkin over his plate of half-eaten food.

“You want bread, don’t you?”

He nodded.

“Me fal. I’m sorry.  We only have rice.”

S turned to face me.  ”Ska probleme.  It’s ok. I will be home soon.”

“So how did you know my husband is from Korce?  Did I tell you accidentally yesterday?”

“No.  Actually, it’s your accent.”

“My accent?  My American accent?”

“No,” S said, “you speak Albanian with a Korcan accent.”

I had arrived.

Mommy, help you me.

Over the past year, Sebastian has thrived.  I credit both the school and the attention his grandparents have lavished on him.  As a result, he is developing into a dynamic little boy eager to learn.  His language abilities have also skyrocketed.  Just a few weeks ago, he was stringing sentences together—often lacking in grammatical correctness—but a far cry from the days when he would just say a few nouns.

The other night, Sebastian climbed onto the bar stool and looked into the kitchen where I was preparing dinner.

“Mommy,” he asked, “help you me.”  Was he asking for help or offering it?

“What did you say, Sebastian?”

“I said, help you me.”

I stood there looking at him.  And he sighed, frustrated with his mother.  So he pointed at himself and then at the vegetables on the cutting board, and he said, “Sebi help mommy cooking, ok?”

“Oh, of course pumpkin, you can help me!”

While he’s too young to wield a knife or a peeler, he stood on the bar stool and helped me identify all the ingredients.  I let him smell the garlic, the onions and the vinegar.  I placed a diced tomato in his mouth–he promptly spit it back out.  We made a salad together.

A few hours later, we walked hand in hand to the bedroom, where he tried to climbed into my bed.  ”Mommy,” he yelped, “help you me.”

This time I knew what he meant.  I bumped him on his bum, so he tumbled onto the pillows.  He let out a big giggle.  Together we read his alphabet book.