I don’t learn languages easily. In fact, after years of trying, I remain uni-lingual. A born introvert (“born” being debatable given the childhood environment that shaped me), I trained myself painfully over long years to achieve a limited palette of extroverted behaviors. Enough to be mistaken for an extrovert by people who don’t know me. But enough of the introvert remains to sabotage my efforts to learn a language; that little voice inside that discourages me from speaking, fearing I’ll instantly self-identify as a complete idiot to the unsuspecting listener.
Without going into the tedious details of my false starts and feeble efforts to learn a long list of languages, I have managed over the years to attain a mediocre level of German-speaking ability. On occasion, I may understand what is said to me. Restaurant menus in German are just about manageable. And I get the basic gist of what most road signs are advising the traveler. Otherwise, when German-speakers get going, I’m lost – a room lit by simple candlelight plunged into irrecoverable darkness.
Years ago, anxiety would set in at this point. My eyes would dart from one speaker to the next with a sudden fear of being spoken to, ears focused on what might sound like a question, countless possibilities for humiliation blooming in my head like mold spores. My inner being shrank from the danger; my soul cringed at my terminal recklessness for naively and persistently placing myself in such a vulnerable position. My mind yearned for the magical ability to speak whatever language warbled around me – hell, at that moment, I would have made a blood pact with the devil to speak every living language on the goddamn planet.
Then, as I grew older, I began to ease into it. After spending enough time among people who no longer expected me to speak their language – this is where Croatian enters the picture, because who, frankly, could expect anyone to learn such a difficult and obscure language as Croatian? (Reality check: German-speakers number over 100 million while Croatian speakers total about 4 million) – I began to relax. Yes, I could understand a few words; I could even speak a few basic phrases. But I had not achieved any proficiency in the language. I lied to myself about learning it over time. And as time passed, I extended the timeline and reduced the goals. I wanted to speak the language because my wife did; I wanted to know what was said around me, to me, about me. But as time passed, my introversion asserted itself at about the same time that those around me gave up hope that I would ever learn their native tongue.
Instead of doubling down (although I would do this later, when the pandemic had receded and the world reopened) by hiring a private tutor and doing the hard graft to learn the language, I came to appreciate the solitude of being alone among many. It crept up on me in the same way that never leaving the house can become, in time, a habit justified in your home-bound and consequently secure mind by the anxiety-inducing madness of the daytime outside world. I could sit in a kind of disconnected tranquility on the terrace of my father-in-law’s home while he and my wife and his partner blathered, argued, and laughed. My extroversion lapped up the human contact, the social occasion, while my introversion thanked me for being conversationally off the clock.
It was only after my divorce from the Croatian, when I was talking to my therapist (a German living in Austria and speaking with me in English) about a related topic that I discovered the meaning of this behavior. The noisy silence of tongues foreign to me was a welcome panacea. I enjoyed, possibly thrived in, environments that made no demands on me socially. My presence was enough (of course, it proved not to be). I could smile serenely, nod my head in partial (if I was lucky) understanding, and insist to my Croatian wife that she should not feel obligated to translate anything for me. I lied about how much I understood. And adored the freedom from social responsibility.
Someone who hovers between an introvert and extrovert, who is drawn to unintelligible conversations, and who prefers countries other than their own might be too specific, too just plain weird to label. I don’t know. But as my ability with languages improves and the veil of ignorance that has cloaked me until now recedes, my emotions are mixed. Understanding and speaking a new language is continuously thrilling, while the loss of that blissful ignorance of uni-lingualism exposes me to the stressful demands of polite society. It’s a double-edged sword. But, in the end, the allure of fluency prevails – seeing that door begin to open to a new culture and the richness of an unknown tongue is appealing.
How do I think I was perceived by those around me when I was a committed ignoramus? No idea. I had moments where I understood enough of what had been spoken to respond with a simple witticism – enough to draw a laugh – and that pleased me and perhaps placated them. As an introverted pessimist, I might say they all thought I was an idiot and had no business being there. If I allow the extroverted optimist a foot forward, then I would say, I had enough lucid moments to establish a modicum of respect among those who knew me, and to be accepted – as accepted as any foreigner can be.