I’ve always assumed that my logical and mathematically oriented brain would take to another language like a ditch-digger to dirt. After all, language is just a bunch of grammar and syntax rules that you apply in a uniform and consistent manner, right? What could be easier? I’ve been doing this kind of shit for 15 years in over 10 different computer languages. Why should Dutch be any different?
My expectations for myself and the language were therefore rather high when we first moved to Holland. I bought a phrasebook, a dictionary, and a beginners course on CD-ROM. What I had not anticipated was the fact that 90% of Dutch people are fluent in English. From the very first day in Holland, when we met Peter and Ben on the street in front of our house, we’ve never been in a situation in this country where we could not get by with English. It bulldozed over us. With each passing day, we were meeting and interacting with more and more of the locals, making friends, setting down roots – all in English. No one ever expected us to know their language. After all, we were just Expats, passing through for a year or two. They were always happy - no, let me rephrase that - they were always excited to speak with us in English. It was very good practice for them.
And so the pattern was set. When I was out in the park I would speak English. Sure, I was studying Dutch at home with the books that I brought from America. I thought that it was going well and I would occasionally “dazzle” someone with a phrase or two of Dutch, but any conversations quickly reverted back to English, which was fine with me. We were just getting to know people and even though I had learned the conjugations of verbs and basic sentence structure, I didn’t feel that I could fully express my personality in the language yet. Things were going so well in English.
I still remember the day that I realized how naïve I had been. It was about 6 months after moving here. Beth and I were at the old butter market in Haarlem and we were going to have lunch at our favorite fish stall on the square. I’m sure that the guy behind the booth knew our faces because we’d eaten here so many times before, always ordering in English. But this time it was going to be different. I had been rehearsing all morning exactly what I was going to say in Dutch. I would order us two Cod sandwiches, with mayonnaise and spicy sauce, on hard rolls. Beth would be so impressed. I imagined her looking up at me with fluttering eyes and pouty lips. This was going to be great.
When our turn came, I pulled her up to the counter with me so that she could hear every word of my linguistic talents. I stepped up and confidently delivered my rehearsed lines, which went something like this:
“Ik wil graag twee gebakken stukjes kabeljauw, op harde broodjes. Met mayonnaise and gekruide saus op allebei, alstublieft”
The clerk hesitated, looking at me with a hint of uncertainty in his eyes. But then my heart soared when he pulled two crusty rolls from the bag and reached into the counter for the stack of breaded cod.
Homerun! The grammar was perfect. The sentence structure was fully optimized. The proper syllables were stressed. The inflections of voice were on target and my “g’s” were beautifully gargled. Hrmmph! No problem. I could speak Dutch! I looked over at Beth, beaming with pride and waiting for the payoff look from her. I didn’t quite get the “Oh Dan, what a stud” look that I had daydreamed about, but she did smile back at me with her eyebrows slightly raised.
Then I felt a jab on my other side. An older woman was standing beside me, poking me on the shoulder and pointing toward the clerk. When I turned, she hit me with a long, fast stream of Dutch. I think it was Dutch, but it could have just as easily been Swahili because I had no idea what she was saying or what she could possibly have wanted with me. I was a bit shaken and followed her pointing finger to the clerk. He was coating our sandwiches in mayonnaise, but when he caught my eye he asked me a question. At least I thought it was a question. His voice rose at the end, and he appeared to be waiting for a response. But seeing just more confusion on my face, he stopped giving his mayonnaise bath and repeated the question a second time, looking me directly in the eye.
Nothing. Nada. Zip. Null. Blank stare. In the context of this simple transaction for two lousy fish sandwiches, you’d have thought that I could pull the meaning of a word or two from the heap of sounds that I was hearing. It was truly embarrassing that I had absolutely no clue what he was saying. My confidence was shattered. I took a step back, and punted.
“I’m sorry, but I don’t speak Dutch.”
…
That day was a bit of a turning point for me. I am still convinced that there is some genetic code that makes certain skills easier or harder for different people learn. But I now realize that whatever the code is for a second language, it wasn’t delivered with my aptitude for math. I was going to have to work for this language.
It’s been a very tough road for me, one of the most difficult things that I’ve ever undertaken, full of setbacks and frustration. But the longer that we stay here, the more that I realize how important learning the language is for us to move out of the “temporary Expat” box with our local friends.
That day on the butter market, I set a goal for myself for the next 12 months. It was a vague goal, and would be very tough to measure. But I am now happy to say that I consider that goal met.
I am finally able to hold a meaningful, two-way conversation in Dutch.
I continue to learn and am nowhere close to fluent. I don’t really know if I ever will be. My vocabulary is pitifully small, and I still catch myself making many mistakes. But people no longer automatically switch over to English with me, and even if they do, I continue on in Dutch. After all, I need the practice.
