Tower of Babel Anyone?

So here I am, driving down I 45, listening to Spanish 101 for idiots. I am doing my best to learn a language so I can actually learn to interact with those around me. I know what you are thinking, I’m finally over my fear of flying and off to some tropical vacation. Ah if that was only the reason. I’m learning Spanish so I can communicate with the guy building my fence, mowing my lawn, and building the deck. Well you get the picture.

When I was 7, I could not speak a word of English, and nor for that fact could my parents. We were immigrants to Canada, and fresh of the boat, literally. A new country where our native tongue was not widely spoken, other then in the many small Dutch communities that were dotted across North America. We learned english or we weren’t going to survive. Let me tell you, 1st grade was no picnic, and even up to the age of 12, I was pretty unsure of the English words for some things. It took a lot of effort for all of us to grasp a new language and in many ways a new culture. But learn it we did, there was already 2 official languages in our new country and they weren’t looking to add a third.

It was a little weird growing up in a country that on one hand had two official languages, and on the other hand could point at that simple fact, as the main reason for the division in the country. It was not a subtle difference; it felt as if there were two distinct nations.
The folks in Quebec even had a separatist party that was not above violence to achieve their separate agenda. I grew up in a school system that required the learning of French and signage in both English and French. The desire to hold onto one’s heritage can be a bit misguided at best. Over time the French spoken in Quebec became a very watered down version of the mother tongue spokenin France. Sometimes our reasoning to hold onto our past is overshadowed by the bigger need of the country we have chosen to be a part of.

Without a doubt there are huge lines drawn in the sand today. The division between south and north, black and white and of course the ever popular red and blue states, are very much still issues that divide us a nation. But over the years the one thing we did have was a common tongue. We may have had a different accent that could be associated with the region of the country you were from, but it was still a common language. I believe it is important. Life is confusing enough without having to throw in a translator; trust me on this one.

As I drive around my new neighborhood, I think it save to assume that 95% of the workforce is Spanish speaking. The work ethic is undeniable and the level of craftsmanship amazing. There is a huge need being filled by these workers and this will continue to be the case. Where I struggle is the lack of desire or even the need to learn the language. By providing non-English speaking classrooms and education systems, I believe the end result is a division that we will not soon recover from.

A separate but equal state doesn’t work; we all lose with that one.

A Paper Bird in the hand

Have you ever gone to any of the hobby/weird stuff store. Here they are called The Hobby Hut and back home in Washington, they are called Michaels, or something along that line.

Recently I have discovered the joy of going through spare change and looking for rare and usual coins. I grant you so far the only rare coin I have found was a peso, which actually is not at all that, odd, considering where we live.

So off I head to the hobby place, to find some holders for the coins, I know I will someday find. The sheer amount of stuff in these stores is beyond description, or prior to my visit, imagination. It seems to be floor to ceiling fake flowers, fake trees and a very strange section entirely devoted to scrap booking. The smells are overwhelming. It’s a bit like going to your weird aunt’s house, you know the one who had her cat Fluffy stuffed, and now keeps the darn thing on the coffee table nest to the velvet couch.

I also notice I am the only male in the place. This may explain the strange looks I received from a number of “dudes” sitting in their vehicles in the parking lot. All of them looking impatiently at their watches while all the while smoking a cigarette, I should have sensed their dread.

The place is crawling with women of every description. There are seniors, who slowly work their way along the crowded aisles. Many using the shopping cart, as much for a walker, as a place to deposit their paper and silk carnations. There are young moms with their children and some teens. By far there are mostly middle-aged women roaming the plains of plastic land. They seem to look at me in a way that makes me feel a touch uneasy. The “cougars” give me the feeling I’ am at some very twisted singles bar, and happy hour is about to begin.

I finally find the coin collection section. It takes up about a 3-foot by 4-foot section in the back corner of the 2-acre store. I keep waiting for Rod Serling to pop out from behind the 8-foot fake palms at any moment.

As I make my way to the cashier I happen to notice a pair of older women browsing the pressed flower sale. They were in a heated debate over some item that I have no clue as to “What” it might be. I most have stared too long. The taller of the women stood up straight and glared at me. I glanced away just in time to read the bold print on her Tee Shirt. Someone’s grandmother had her feelings on life spelt out rather well.
“Don’t ask me, I don’t know shit!!!”

So much for the warm, fuzzy, crafts feeling.