The way my Mom switch voices mid-sentences is what gets me. That sudden flip from English to Ebira when she's on the phone with her sisters, when she's pretending I'm not listening, when the topic comes up something that's important. The words contort in her mouth, get rounded out, more serious. And I stand there catching words, knowing the tone but missing the actual substance.
If I could trade my slick English for smooth Ebira tomorrow, I would. Not because I don't like English — I do. I'm good at it. One could say fluent even. I can write essays that cause lecturers to nod in approval, make contributions in a style of clarity that brings out the "articulate" and "well-spoken" labels. But what's the use being articulate in a language that doesn't hold your whole self?
My mother was trying to say something to me last month at the market. Something about the woman selling tomatoes, some warning or advice that she couldn't speak out loud in English because the woman was there. She kept switching to Ebira, mumbling low and fast, and I kept nodding like I understood what she was saying while desperately trying to cobble together what she meant. The woman probably knew I was baffled. Mom sure could tell. There's this expression she gets, not disappointed or anything, but genuinely concerned.
I recall my home cousins who code-switch without even realizing it, who can exchange banter with the uncles such that everybody is doubled up in laughter. I'm always outside of the loop when I'm there, catching the essence and not the nuance. The puns that have everybody rolling are lost on me. I join in and laugh with them, entraining my laughter to everybody else's, but it feels insincere.
The worst are the secrets that I'm excluded from. Family history that's present in Ebira, stories that don't translate as well in English because the cultural reference point is lost in translation. My grandmother's proverbs that Mom tells sometimes — I feel the rhythm, I know that they're profound, but I'm not receiving the depth of knowledge that would make them actually helpful to me.
I recently attended a wedding, sitting with my aunties while they analyzed the ceremony, the couple, the family dynamics. The actual conversation was occurring in Ebira, with lots of observation and comment that was undoubtedly hilarious and very likely a little bit scandalous. Occasionally, someone would recall that I was there and make a mediocre English translation like: "We are just telling the bride is pretty," but I felt I was being given the diluted version. The salacious pieces of information were contained in the words I could not fully hear.
My English works. It's professional. It opens doors, gets heard and respected in some rooms. But it's put between me and the very most meaningful parts of my identity. When I try to pray in English, the language is gossamer. When I'm angry or wildly happy, my go-to is to turn to words that don't exist yet in English, or do but somehow feel watered down.
I catch myself thinking in what I perceive as Ebira, not words really, but the meaning and cadence of what thoughts would be like in my native language. It's embarrassing, this fake language I've created in my head because I'm unable to come up with the real one naturally.
My younger brother is worse than me. He knows even less and can barely string a simple sentence together. Mom has started insisting that we speak Ebira at home on Sundays, Dad doesn't trouble himself much, but it pains all of us. We struggle, switch to English halfway through a thought, drop the complex ideas because we don't have the vocabulary. It's like an effort to converse in gloves.
I know what I would be sacrificing. That careful, proper way of speaking that is admired by others. That talent for crafting cover letters that sound good, for giving presentations that sound good in print, for arguing points clearly. My English has served me well, carried me a long way, made me sound smart and capable.
But what I'd learn is greater. The ability to hear something beyond what my mother is telling me, but the tone in which she's speaking it. To hear the jokes, catch the references, be able to continue conversations instead of merely sitting in on them. To be completely surrounded by my own culture instead of a guest who has everything interpreted.
My self in the present is fragmented; half- of me is in English, sounds professional and educated, effortlessly filling out provided spaces. The other half is reaching for something I am unable to comprehend, a fuller version of myself that would be accessible if I could communicate in my own tongue without having to think consciously about it.
I'd trade the shine for the sense of belonging. The address for the fellowship. The ability to sound articulate in English for the ability to sound ME in Ebira. Because what's the point of being articulate if you can't articulate who you actually are?
Thanks for stopping by.
