A few days spent in a foreign country often wake you up a bit. And by foreign, I mean somewhere you don’t speak the language. I have been living in the UK for almost a year – but the UK is anglophone, and the Church of Scotland feels like home. It’s been relatively easy to make my ongoing Canadian work (writing projects, raising Canadian Presby kids…) sync with my current English life.
But last week, we went to the Netherlands. The Spouse’s parents were here visiting, as I’ve mentioned before, and my father-in-law’s family is Dutch. Add an uncle’s birthday to celebrate and the in-laws significant wedding anniversary, and you have a perfect excuse for a family reunion.
And the family spoke Dutch.
Now, most of them also spoke English, and they were very kind, including us in every way they could. But when the conversation really got going, as it does when families get together, it slipped back into Dutch.
We were celebrating at the birthday uncle’s house. It’s a rural property, with a large garden perfect for a party. There were paths, patios and flower gardens, private benches and large shady trees. There’s a playground for the children, a boules pitch for the adults, and a pen for goats and chickens under the walnut trees.
At the back of the property, there was a picnic tent in case the rain came, but instead we sat there when the sun was too bright. Come supper time, there were half a dozen long tables in the front garden, and homemade bunting hanging from the bushes to celebrate my in-laws upcoming 40th wedding anniversary.
There were lots of children.
In a reversal of the usual order, Blue had an easier time fitting in with the others. Language isn’t quite so crucial when you aren’t yet three. A small slide on the lawn, a fabric tunnel to crawl through and a ball to kick around are all that’s needed to bring kids together.
Beangirl held back a little more. For one thing, she was one of two girls present. It seems to be a masculine generation coming up next. And all these little boys were being boisterous in Dutch. But, interestingly, it made her more physically bold. She certainly held her own on the playground. She was fearless at climbing the rope ladder up to the zip line. I gulped and let her go.
Then, I played boules with the Dutch uncles. (I’d say aptly named, but they didn’t give me much advice, though they were encouraging in tone.) I’m not a superstar at boules, and I suspect they all are. But they included me – gave me a bottle of beer to drink and made sure I knew when it was my turn to play. Listening to them joke in Dutch, I felt a bit like a kid when all the jokes go over your head, though you understand the tone full well.
Being a minority makes you self-aware. You become aware of how others read your gestures and aware of your words and their strangeness.
When a friend was looking into seminary, he was advised by a wise minister to consider Presbyterian College in Montreal because it’s good to experience being a minority. Excellent advice for anyone. It is humbling not to know.
It is also the experience of a child – to live among others, included in a group but excluded as well, to know you have a space there, but also that you need to piece together meaning from the few bits you can understand.
As adults, we acquire so much power in language. With words, we have the power to present ourselves as we like. And to distract others. We try to control the world with words.
It is good to let go of that power sometimes.
