English Isn’t My First Language

Not being able to speak the language(s) of the country you’re visiting can be extremely isolating. In Brussels I didn’t notice it so much because though we were in an apartment with another girl from Norway she spoke very good English. A lot of people in Brussels speak English. I think a lot of people in West Flanders also speak English but I just really wish that I spoke Dutch. I have to say, I am not proud to be an American.

Q: What do you call someone who speaks 3 languages?
A: Tringual.
Q: What do you call someone who speaks 2 languages?
A: Bilingual.
Q: What do you call someone who speaks 1 language?
A: American.

I know a few Dutch words. And I know what even fewer Dutch words mean. I see words on signs and I’m like “I know that word! But I don’t know what it means.” And because I can barely form a sentence it feels insulting to try. I’m just another loud American tourist disturbing this beautiful county. But everyone we have met has been kind and has spoken a bit of English and has not seemed annoyed by us. It is just myself who feels shame for not being able to speak their language.

But there is a language here, and most places, that I understand. On Sunday we drove to Dunkirk and went to Catholic Mass at St Eloi. Did I understand the words the children sang? The words we were invited to sing? The words of the priest? It was French. I know a handful of French words, but got almost nothing from the words I heard. But I heard more than the words. About 20 children took their first communion on Sunday. I am not catholic, but I understood the children’s declarations of faith. I understood the people around me kneeling. I understood the voices singing to the Lord.

That evening we went to another Catholic Mass in De Panne, Belgium. Another language. This time I picked out a few words of the sermon and recognized the Lord’s Prayer immediately when we started saying it. But it wasn’t the words that spoke to me but the people around me. A smaller service than the St Eloi by far, but just as touching.

In Catholic Mass you are only offered the bread, not the wine, something I don’t understand and want to read more about. But I understood the tears of the woman in front of me as she took the bread of communion.

Wherever you are in the world there is fellowship if you look for it. Indeed, I felt more at home with the people of St Eloi and The Chapelle Royale than I would among many English speaking people. I spoke the same language as the people around me. They are not of the same religion as me, but they don’t need to be: they are worshipping the Lord!