Cameroon: L'Immersion

I noticed that I've now been writing the Harrigan Report for 6 months, and have covered a wide variety of topics -- Irishness, dog shows, kids' chores, foreign languages, astronomy, etc. I'd like to think that's a sign of a creative mind, and not a symptom of adult ADHD.

Hey, look -- a squirrel!

Now where was I? Oh, yes -- initial Peace Corps training in Cameroon.

After recovering from my early GI distress I rejoined the ranks of the living and started in on French class. Our whole math/science program was headed for western Cameroon, the English-speaking area, but it was in our interest to learn at least some French for navigating through the rest of the country.

It was an intense 5-week program, with 6 hours of class time plus homework each day. Each class had only 2-4 students, grouped by fluency in French or facility with languages, so there was no hiding or slacking off. Our teachers were all Cameroonians, they were mostly secondary school French teachers, and they quickly became our friends.

I also got to know my fellow trainees (stagiaires) -- most of them straight out of college, idealistic, and a little nerdy, so I fit right in. It was a definite bonding situation, with the 20 of us knowing (without being told) that we'd be each other's key support for the next 2 years.

A couple of guys were bridge players, and they taught the game to a few of us in our free time. It quickly became a collective obsession, and we wound up playing throughout our time in-country, whenever four or more of us got together somewhere.

After two weeks of French class we had a fun "immersion" ceremony the following Monday morning. The training director explained that for the next three weeks we were to speak nothing but French, in the classroom or out, daytime or nighttime, weekday or weekend -- an intense (but effective) way to learn a language. He said, "You may even start to dream in French. Bad French, to be sure, but French nonetheless." We all raised our hands and swore to be true to the immersion for the next three weeks, signed a pledge, and had a ceremonial glass of red wine, even though it was only 9am. And then -- awkward silence. There was plenty to say, we just didn't know how.

We were an earnest bunch, even by Peace Corps standards, so we followed the immersion pretty consistently. The bridge players even learned the card suits so we could keep playing: clubs, diamonds, hearts, spades, and "no trump" are trefle, carreau, coeur, pique, and sans atout. Most frustrating for us learners was our inability to kibbitz between hands, as we tried to figure out the hand that had just been played, who did what and why, etc. We'd ask "Pourquoi..." and stumble our way to as much understanding as we could get. Mealtime conversation was similar.

French speakers know that a lot of words are cognates of English, i.e. almost identical to the English word, like "immersion" -- just spoken with a French accent. During one bridge game Tom N. (who had no foreign language ability at all) was so excited about a hand that had been played that he tried to ask a question using cognates, but instead was really just talking with a French accent: "But whan I play zee king why deedn't you cover wiss zee ace?", or something like that. We all paused for a confused second and then burst out laughing, and someone explained to Tom that he'd been talking like Pepe Le Pew.

We would often venture out from the campus into the town of Mbalmayo at night, for a snack and/or a couple of beers. Beer is the unofficial national beverage of Cameroon, so there's plenty of it, and it's pretty good. These forays gave us the chance to practice some more French, and also start to get a feel for the country and the people. More on that later.

After our three-week immersion was over we breathed a collective sigh of relief, jabbered away in English like we'd been on some desert island, and got ready for the next part of our training. Some of us tried to maintain what we'd learned as we moved off into the English-speaking part of the country, but for most people the French quickly faded away, unfortunately. Quel dommage.

Pat

The Pipes, The Pipes Are Calling

The kids had Thursday and Friday off (teacher in-service days), so I took advantage of the long weekend to take them to New York City. We stayed with my brother Rob in New Jersey, and took the train into the city each day. We were unabashed tourists, hitting all of the major sites -- Statue of Liberty, Ellis Island, World Trade Center, Empire State Building, Central Park, etc. It was a great time, Rob is an excellent tour guide, and Rob and Elaine were wonderful hosts.

Rob and I got to reminiscing about the similar trip we did as kids, at almost exactly the same ages as my gang; my dad took us boys when we were 12, 11, and 9 for a long weekend in New York. Some things were exactly the same this time, but others (Times Square, Battery Park, Grand Central Station) have gone from seedy to splendid -- and Ellis Island was abandoned back then, but is now a major attraction.

Another highlight of that earlier trip was a visit to John Barleycorn's Pub in Midtown one night. They had live Irish music, and at one point a guy sang a beautiful version of "Danny Boy". Beforehand my dad told us the story -- of a young Irish man going off to war, and his father knowing he wouldn't be alive for his son's return. He's telling his son he's proud of him, and he loves him, and goodbye. So simple, and so sad.

The song's story plus the soaring live rendition got all three of us boys crying. My dad appeared somewhat satisfied, I think, that an unspoken lesson had been learned: And that, my boys, is part of what it means to be Irish.  It's Guinness and St. Patrick's Day and all, but the story's richer than that, even if it's not always mirthful.

Why is that important?  Why do we want our kids to hang onto traditions, and remember that they're Irish, or German, or Polish, or Mexican, or whatever?  It's a complex question, I suppose.  Maybe we believe the values we were raised with and hold dear are intertwined with other aspects of the culture; maintain the food and the language and the dancing and the legends, and the values will accompany.  I don't know, but I feel the obligation.  (Even if it means occasionally eating boiled cabbage.)

Here in Chicago "staying Irish" is pretty easy to do, thanks to the critical mass of people, institutions, pubs, etc.  When you've got your choice of a half-dozen Irish dance schools within a reasonable distance, you know you're not in Peoria.  (There's also a steady-enough flow of people from the Old Country to keep the connection strong.)  Folks certainly take this all with varying degrees, from "St. Patrick's Day only" to "fanatic devotion to all things Green".  Our family is somewhere in the middle, a comfortable place to be.

John Barleycorn's isn't in New York anymore, as the whole block was torn down a few years ago for a new high-rise.  But I'll always remember that night long ago and that sentiment, and intend to pass some of that heritage on.

Oh Danny boy, the pipes, the pipes are calling

From glen to glen, and down the mountain side

The summer's gone, and all the flowers are dying

'Tis you, 'tis you must go and I must bide.

But come ye back when summer's in the meadow

Or when the valley's hushed and white with snow

'Tis I'll be here in sunshine or in shadow

Oh Danny boy, oh Danny boy, I love you so.

And if you come, when all the flowers are dying

And I am dead, as dead I well may be

You'll come and find the place where I am lying

And kneel and say an "Ave" there for me.

And I shall hear, tho' soft you tread above me

And all my dreams will warm and sweeter be

If you'll not fail to tell me that you love me

I'll simply sleep in peace until you come to me.

I'll simply sleep in peace until you come to me.

Pat

Don't Ask Why

It's weird here.

It's always been weird at home, though.  The Christmas card quotes are just the tip of the iceberg.  Maybe every house is this way (ours certainly was growing up)  -- I don't know.  If you asked "Why?" about every strange thing you'd drive yourself crazy.  To wit:

• There's a curly brown wig in Tupperware in the dining room.  I'm pretty sure it's a wig, anyway -- I poked it and it didn't move.  I think Fi wore this for her Irish dance demonstration at school on Friday.  (Tupperware?)
• The other residents here are a dog, a cat, two snakes, and four fish.  Friends of ours are out of town, so we're also taking care of their two gecko lizards and a fire-bellied toad.  When I go to PetsMart I have to get some combination of dog food, cat food, fish food, frozen mice, and live crickets.
• We have a set of refrigerator word magnets, encouraging random poetry.  Right now the fridge says "imagine|magic|monkey|music".
• I have some exercise equipment in my home office -- hand weights, a bench, etc.  Often when I go in there I see that the weights are off the rack and arranged in interesting forms around the room.  I suspect I have secretive house elves who have some interest in fitness, but short attention spans.
• At night Sparkles the Cat will sprint into a room at top speed, look around for a second or two, and then sprint right back out.  I have no idea what she's looking for, or running from, or running to.
• A certain 13-year old's favorite word combination is "sump pump".  Her voice always smiles when she says it, as the "ump" sounds play leap-frog.
• On weekends the boys take all of their pillows, blankets, and stuffed animals, pile them in Conor's room, and sleep on them on the floor -- they call it "the nest".  Lately they've been stuffing all of this inside their comforter covers, to create two "portable nests" they can drag around.
• Even though he weighs 55 pounds Elvis is convinced he's a lap dog, and doesn't understand why he doesn't fit on you on the chair.
• Strewn about the house are boys' pants, always with one leg inside out.  I haven't noticed yet if it's always the same leg.

So when I'm getting the winter blahs, or cabin fever, or whatever, I just imagine magic monkey music, and everything's a little better.  And a little weirder.

Pat

Urban Snark

I was young and hip, once.

Well, not really.  The fact that I use the word "hip" tells it all.  If you're 25 you'd sooner use a generic ringtone than describe yourself as "hip".

But I did live in Lincoln Park, and go to cool bars and restaurants, and see bands at the Vic, Metro, and the Double Door.  With a corporate job and a short haircut I wasn't an insider, but I had a rough idea where the inside was.

Now, of course, I don't have a clue.  Walking around the old neighborhood on the occasional nostagia tour is like walking on Mars, and the Martians know you're not from those parts.

For ages the area code for northeastern Illinois was 312, but in the late '80's it was restricted to Chicago, and everything outside of the city was converted to 708.  That became a derogatory term for anything too suburban: "Oh, he's a nice guy, but he's pretty 708..."  I call this general attitude Urban Snark, summed up by the sentiment "We're cooler than you, but we don't care, as long as you do."

And I haven't cared too much, for years, as evidenced by my general lack of black clothes, or gel in my hair.  But one aspect of Urban Snark culture I'm amused by is the t-shirts with the dry or ironic messages, some of which really crack me up.  Some examples:

• A picture of a steak, with the saying "Meat is Murder.  Tasty, Tasty Murder".  I'm not sure if this is meant to offend vegetarians, meat-eaters, or everyone.
• A graphic of a Wheel of Fortune board, showing the letters " ALC_H_L ", and the punchline underneath: "Sometimes alcohol is the answer."
• "Pogue Mahone", sometimes spelled "Pog Mo Thoin", usually in an Irish script.  It's Gaelic for "Kiss My Arse."
• A shirt with a simulated "Hello My Name Is" sticker on it -- written in script is "Inigo Montoya/you killed my father/prepare to die".  Just because the movie "The Princess Bride" is hilarious.
  
• "Some days, it's not even worth chewing through the restraints."
• "National Sarcasm Society.  Like we really need your support."
• "I'm the grammar snob about whom your mother warned you."

I don't think of myself as a message-wearer, but I suppose everything you do, say, or wear sends a message.  The other t-shirts that have intrigued me are throwbacks to '60's-'70's youth culture, with pictures of the Quisp cereal mascot, or George Jetson, or Underdog, or Tab soda, that today's kids wouldn't recognize.  Hmmm...if I wore that then I'd be the insider, and the joke would be on them!

Oh, wait -- I'm not supposed to really care, am I?  Darn, this whole attitude thing is tricky.

So I'll still venture down into Lincoln Park, Wicker Park, or Bucktown on occasion, and probably make at least a little effort to blend in.  But I'm not putting stuff in my hair.

And now you know what to get me for Christmas.

Pat

Cheerio!

I'm off to London later today for business, back on Wednesday.  Sheila (Rachel's neice) will stay here with the kids, Meaghan's got the after-school shift as always, and everything should be fine.

One of the enjoyable aspects of my various jobs with Abbott-TAP-Takeda over the years has been the international travel.  I think I've averaged about 2 trips per year, each normally 3-5 days -- that's not too much, so it's always been a nice change of scenery.  I get to practice my "cross-cultural skills", as we ex-Peace Corps people say, understanding and connecting with whomever I'm doing business with.  That often includes learning a little bit of the language.

In one of my early jobs with Abbott I was on a team of engineers and chemists responsible for scaling up the manufacturing process for a new antibiotic.  The plant was going to be built in Italy, outside of Rome -- we helped design the plant, and were preparing to be there for the startup.  Our department secretary spoke Italian, so she taught us a word or phrase each day to help us when in Italy.  We learned the basics (numbers, simple verbs and common nouns, etc.), and some frivolous stuff ("Vadano Orsachiotti!" means "Go Cubs!").  We also learned the technical lingo we might need in the plant; my favorite phrase, which I'll always remember, was "Non capisco -- ha funccionato bene nel laboratorio..."

That means "I don't understand -- it worked fine in the lab..."

I wound up making several trips there, staying in Rome and even squeezing in a little tourism.  The 50-100 words I learned did come in handy, and (given my modest training with French and Spanish) I found Italian pretty easy.

Other projects have taken me to Japan, Korea, China, Canada, England, Germany, Switzerland, and Hungary.  For each non-English place I learn at least some basics, like "Hello", "Excuse me", "Thank you", and "Cheers!"  (In hindsight it seems odd that I learned to say "I don't speak Hungarian" -- "Nem TOOD-yawk MOD-yor-ool" -- as if that wouldn't be painfully obvious...)  Sure, the Asian languages are almost impossible to really learn (ditto for Hungarian), but memorizing and using 5-10 words shows at least a little effort, and an interest in the culture, and is always greatly appreciated.

The same principle applies here in the States, I think -- especially in or near big cities, with so many immigrants around.  Saying "Thank you" to a Polish friend ("jen-KOO-yuh") or "Good Morning" to your Romanian contractor ("BOO-nuh dee-mee-NYAH-tzuh") is a way of making a little connection, and we need more of that.

Spanish is a little more sensitive, given the concerns about America's cultural identity, but I still use the occasional "Buenos dias!" or "Gracias!" when appropriate.

So I'm off to England for the first time in years, and my British English is a little rusty.  Cor, I'll be knackered when I land, all at sixes and sevens, but London's jolly good, so I'll soon be chuffed, and Bob's your uncle.  Or something like that.

Pat