Humor by John Christmann
Found In Translation
Recently we had a fifteen-year-old boy from Spain living in our house as part of an exchange program designed to introduce students to foreign culture. That’s why he was sent to New Jersey.
Earlier in the summer my own teenage son traveled to Spain and stayed with his family as part of the program. It was an affordable opportunity that was just too good to pass up. It was also nice to get my son out of the house for a few weeks to unearth his bedroom.
Now, as a reciprocal host family, our instructions were simple: show our student guest everyday living in America.
I wasn’t sure if he would appreciate spending three weeks in a messy minivan, but I was happy to oblige because I believe cultural exchanges are an invaluable way to open the eyes of young people to new ways of thinking, new experiences, and the relative price of hamburgers at McDonald’s.
Our Spanish guest was named David (pronounced Dahviid). David did not speak much English.
I discovered this after we picked him up from the airport and I asked if he had a pleasant flight. He looked confused at first, then lit up with recognition once I repeated the question more slowly.
“Oh, it is very big,” David responded enthusiastically. Then he flashed two thumbs up.
At the time we were driving past a prison yard decorated with shiny concertina wire just outside Newark airport. I figured he was in a state of shock. But later, at home, I asked David if he was hungry after the long flight. I pointed to my stomach to help him understand.
“Oh, it is very big!” he said. Then he gave me a hearty smile and the thumbs up sign in support of my bulging waist.
My own son refused to translate for David based on some misguided ethics concerning language immersion that he acquired in Spain. So as understanding rapidly disintegrated, I was forced to alternately communicate in his native language.
Unfortunately for David, my Spanish was limited to what I learned in grade school. I can ask questions like Is George is in the library? or Where is your dog? I just can’t understand the answers.
“This is your bedroom,” I said in suspicious Spanish as I showed him his room. David looked scared and confused.
“Dad,” said my son, “you just told him the dog is in the library.” David looked urgently around with wide, desperate eyes which finally gave way to relieved comprehension.
“Oh, it is very big!” he said, pointing excitedly to our cat.
The next morning David was up at 9:00 AM Madrid time playing with the big tired cat who he kept calling, El Perro. I made him pancakes in the early morning American darkness. “Do you like?” I asked.
“Oh, it is very big!” he said giving me the thumbs up sign after tasting them.
I soon learned that in the eyes of a fifteen-year-old boy from Spain with limited language skills, everything in America is very big: roads, houses, ice cream cones, television, car washes, dinner, laughs, Lady Gaga, pancakes. Even water.
One day I took David and the kids golfing. He had never been before. I had to show him which end of the club to hold. He took a full swing and careened the ball off the Statue of Liberty and into the Grand Canyon three holes away. Two minutes later the ball rolled out of a drainpipe beneath a stucco replica of Mt Rushmore and into the hole.
David was very excited. “It is very big!” he screamed, and we all cheered and gave him the thumbs up sign before we were asked to leave the 18-hole Tour of America Miniature Golf Park which was located behind a bland strip mall somewhere off the Turnpike.
For three weeks we tried to find very big American living among the relentless trips to schools, soccer fields and national monuments such as Costco, Home Depot, and Discount Liquors.
But before we had time to do anything worthwhile, it was time for David to return to Spain. I felt bad. In retrospect, it was not the representation of everyday life in America that I envisioned sharing with an impressionable young foreign guest seeking to experience our culture.
But sadly, it was accurate.
At the airport he said goodbye in perfect English. I gave him a box of pancake mix and his eyes welled. I told him in English that he and his family were welcome to visit whenever they wanted. My son translated, but he didn’t need to.
David hesitated, then pointed to my chest after thumping his own in rhythm. “It is very big in America,” he said.
And then he returned to life in Spain.
© 2010 Dadinthebox.com