I was born in the U.S. to a mother who was born in Québec. My childhood was spent on both sides of the border. Mom and I converse in English and French throughout each day, depending on topic, mood, whatever. It’s nobody’s business but our own. I’m lucky to have Mom nearby and to express ourselves as we wish.
I was dismayed to read Sharin Alpert’s insightful op-ed (Recorder, Nov. 14) about an incident involving local residents out for a walk. Conversing in one of their shared languages — Spanish — they were verbally accosted by a misguided passerby.
While French-Canadians have, at times, been oppressed in the U.S., I’ve never experienced abuse in the Pioneer Valley while publicly conversing in French. On the contrary: fellow francophones chime in, or English-only speakers gush, “Oh, I love the sound of French!” Apparently, French isn’t considered a dangerous language here, and no doubt I’m given yet another unearned privilege based on my skin color.
To anyone who believes that non-English languages pose a threat, I say: unless you’re Native American, my dear, you’re an immigrant, too. You live amongst fellow immigrants, new and old. Please consider releasing baseless fears. You’ve been brainwashed, and it’s past time to de-program. By living in fear of immigrants, you’re missing out. I promise that if you get to know your fellow humans, you’ll find us fascinating, amazing, and strong.
Meanwhile, please ask yourself, “Who built the bridges I drive over, the stone walls I pass? Who established the electric grid and laid the pipes for water I drink?” Dollars to doughnuts they weren’t English-only speakers. I guarantee it.
Years ago, I was about to go on stage at Lincoln Center with the folksinger Pete Seeger for a festival of languages. Pete said, “[Gospel singer] Mahalia Jackson told me that when we learn a song in someone else’s language, it makes us less likely to want to hurt humans who speak that language.”
We need that wisdom now, more than ever.
Last spring, my mother landed in the hospital after losing all language. The next day, she regained some speech, but French only. I learned that her attending doctor grew up speaking Spanish in a South American country. Though his English was superb, I decided to play a little game to distract my mother from her distress. Mom and I studied elementary Spanish, so I tried to translate her halting speech from French to Spanish. It was fun, but didn’t last long because the philosophical thoughts my mother tried to express soon outstripped my Spanish skills.
Yet a beautiful thing happened: the doctor, Mom and I ended up laughing because my attempts to translate deep memories and questions about mortality led to garbled outcomes. So I switched to reaching for English, but not before we’d made a marvelous bond with the doctor. Our camaraderie may have contributed to the fact that Mom soon became strong and clear enough to be released.
Perhaps we’re released from distress when we relax. It can’t hurt. Racism and bigotry, however, certainly do hurt. We can live in false narratives, or we can live in reality. North America is filled with dozens of languages, cultures, foods, traditions, and stories. Let’s please skip the vitriol and welcome each other home.
Eveline MacDougall is a longtime resident of Franklin County and the author of “Fiery Hope: Building Community with the Amandla Chorus.”