Donnerstag, 18. Februar 2010
Can't get there from here
When folks visit me in Switzerland, they will say something about the States, but refer to it as "here". I do it when I'm in the States too. I'll say "Here we have..." or something similar. I was just in Berlin with my brother. He doesn't live there. I don't live there. During our week there, when referring to our perspective homes neither of us said "here". It doesn't sound like a big thing, but it struck me as odd.
Sonntag, 17. Januar 2010
too early?
I mean no disrespect to anyone by what I am about to write and wish that anyone who becomes offended recognizes this as my typical stream-of-consciousness gibbering (which I have been afflicted with since leaving Rhode Island, it seems).
When talking with Ivo last night about Haiti, I said that I was surprised by how many people were talking about Haiti. I don't mean to be-little the country in any way, but it has been suffering for a very long time, and this suffering is often unnoticed.
I thought back guiltily to a current events project in the 7th grade. That would have been 1991, just after the coup and capture of Aristide. Haiti was in the news and was the topic of my current events presentation that week. (Our history teacher made us read a newspaper article and write a summary and opinion on it, weekly.) I stretched my little 12 year old mind as far as it would go and then wrote that I thought that America should not come to Haiti's aid because there were Americans who needed aid every day and we should think of ourselves first. I'm inclined to feel guilty about having had this opinion, but my current knowledge of developmental psychology and an oft remembered story of one of my sister's high school classes remind me that this 12 year old paper was what it was. (The story that my sister told me was one of a civics class, or something, in which a fellow student proposed ending poverty by giving everyone a large sum of money. Shame, that in the past few years I have thought "This politician is no smarter about economics than that classmate of my sister's".)
Years and years later, when a New York times front page showed a Haitian woman making a cake from dirt and a bit of flour and water to feed her family, I was working at a diner on a college campus, where many of our patrons read the Times. There was much talk about Haiti and it was so sad and difficult to read in a place that served food. By the afternoon I hadn't eaten much and had heard the same conversation over and over again. A former waitress came in for a late lunch and I took the opportunity to sit and have a chat. She was listening in to a nearby table's conversation.
"My parents go to Haiti every few years to volunteer for an aid organization." she said
"That's wonderful!" I said.
"Well, yeah, but how they started this tradition is a bit ridiculous" she admitted.
It's like this: When her parents were preparing to marry, her father was in charge of booking the honeymoon. It was going to be a big surprise. She set out the things that she would need for a hot or cold place and he secreted them into a bag and they were off. They flew to their honeymoon destination, where her mother discovered, they would be staying in Haiti for two weeks. "Haiti?" She asked, shocked. "Yes." Her father beamed with pride. "You've always said that you wanted to go to Haiti!" "To TAhiti! Not to Haiti!!"
But they stayed and found that there was actually some good works that they could do and they return often as 2nd, 3rd, etc honeymoons.
This story pops in my head every now and again as a buoy against some of the more upsetting (and down-right hateful) things that I have heard on the subject of Haiti after the earthquake. It may be inappropriate or it may be helpful but hopefully it won't stop any important dialogue about this unique and suffering country.
When talking with Ivo last night about Haiti, I said that I was surprised by how many people were talking about Haiti. I don't mean to be-little the country in any way, but it has been suffering for a very long time, and this suffering is often unnoticed.
I thought back guiltily to a current events project in the 7th grade. That would have been 1991, just after the coup and capture of Aristide. Haiti was in the news and was the topic of my current events presentation that week. (Our history teacher made us read a newspaper article and write a summary and opinion on it, weekly.) I stretched my little 12 year old mind as far as it would go and then wrote that I thought that America should not come to Haiti's aid because there were Americans who needed aid every day and we should think of ourselves first. I'm inclined to feel guilty about having had this opinion, but my current knowledge of developmental psychology and an oft remembered story of one of my sister's high school classes remind me that this 12 year old paper was what it was. (The story that my sister told me was one of a civics class, or something, in which a fellow student proposed ending poverty by giving everyone a large sum of money. Shame, that in the past few years I have thought "This politician is no smarter about economics than that classmate of my sister's".)
Years and years later, when a New York times front page showed a Haitian woman making a cake from dirt and a bit of flour and water to feed her family, I was working at a diner on a college campus, where many of our patrons read the Times. There was much talk about Haiti and it was so sad and difficult to read in a place that served food. By the afternoon I hadn't eaten much and had heard the same conversation over and over again. A former waitress came in for a late lunch and I took the opportunity to sit and have a chat. She was listening in to a nearby table's conversation.
"My parents go to Haiti every few years to volunteer for an aid organization." she said
"That's wonderful!" I said.
"Well, yeah, but how they started this tradition is a bit ridiculous" she admitted.
It's like this: When her parents were preparing to marry, her father was in charge of booking the honeymoon. It was going to be a big surprise. She set out the things that she would need for a hot or cold place and he secreted them into a bag and they were off. They flew to their honeymoon destination, where her mother discovered, they would be staying in Haiti for two weeks. "Haiti?" She asked, shocked. "Yes." Her father beamed with pride. "You've always said that you wanted to go to Haiti!" "To TAhiti! Not to Haiti!!"
But they stayed and found that there was actually some good works that they could do and they return often as 2nd, 3rd, etc honeymoons.
This story pops in my head every now and again as a buoy against some of the more upsetting (and down-right hateful) things that I have heard on the subject of Haiti after the earthquake. It may be inappropriate or it may be helpful but hopefully it won't stop any important dialogue about this unique and suffering country.
Dienstag, 5. Januar 2010
...if you just smile
Olivia Judson has a theory that language may affect mood. She wrote about it on her blog at the NY Times. Many of us know that smiling can affect mood, so she wants to know if languages in which the mouth is positioned in a smile or frown more often would affect mood. The same way that saying "Cheese" makes you smile and the french "fleur" makes you pout. The theory has not been tested, but I would be interested to know.
When Ivo and I were first dating I was surprised to notice that when he spoke Swiss German, his voice was deeper than when speaking English. My first theory was that he'd been nervous when first speaking English as a student and had thus learned it in a nervous or higher register. My theory was disproved, however, when I discovered that I too spoke Swiss German with a bit of a deeper voice as well. So now I don't know what the cause is, unless it's the languages themselves.
Perhaps not even just the language but the social circle. At a book club last month we discussed the fact that there was a slur in our book that the Chinese characters used for white people. It referred to their noses. This got a started about the term "Honky" which is also used by the Palawa in Tasmania, to refer to white people, who stereotypically speak through their nose. I find this all fascinating as a woman who spends her time mumbling. I'd like to think that I speak like those people from whom I've learned my language, but I don't.
I race through sentences in all of the languages that I have learned and tend to mumble or speak softly at times. Speaking softly was born of an idea that "a mistake made quietly is not a mistake". Ivo once remarked that most people were unaware of how good my language was coming along, because they'd never heard me speak it at an audible level. Oh, if only it were in my languages learned in later life that I did this, but no! Even in my mother-tongue I tend to default to: a mistake made quietly is not a mistake.
I am now speaking in English to my niece A.J. as much as possible. This may not seem tricky and, truly, it is almost automatic for me to speak with a child or an animal in my mother-tongue. It only becomes difficult when I am switching back and forth and back and forth between saying silly things to A.J. and speaking to people around me in another language. She has, of course, been hearing Bern-Swiss-German for almost a year now and science may have you believe that she even cries at a certain pitch so as to parrot the rhythm of her mother's tongue. Nevertheless, I am convinced that she is coming along in her English amazingly well. I have no real evidence for this, but I've chosen to take a few of her cues as clues. For example, from the age of one week, whenever I speak to her in English, she always makes an "ooo" face. I'm not saying that mine is a language with an inordinate amount of "ooo" sounds, but the fact her face arranges itself in this way when I am speaking to her in English suggests a certain cause and effect. Also, she typically reacts to my English with one of those baby smiles with the squinty eyes and turns of the head.
Ivo can be our control group for my theory. When he speaks to A.J. she typically sticks out her tongue. It's not an insult or anything. It appears as though Uncle Ivo's speech seems to make A.J. want to explore that particular control of that particular body part.
Of course, A.J. is only 5 weeks old and it is entirely possible that whenever her eyes are open and she is interacting she is simply hungry and thus moving her mouths in nursing ways. The grin may also not be from my language but my mouth that can't help but smile stupidly at her while speaking to her in my language. I, however choose to believe that she will love English and will smile because of it.
When Ivo and I were first dating I was surprised to notice that when he spoke Swiss German, his voice was deeper than when speaking English. My first theory was that he'd been nervous when first speaking English as a student and had thus learned it in a nervous or higher register. My theory was disproved, however, when I discovered that I too spoke Swiss German with a bit of a deeper voice as well. So now I don't know what the cause is, unless it's the languages themselves.
Perhaps not even just the language but the social circle. At a book club last month we discussed the fact that there was a slur in our book that the Chinese characters used for white people. It referred to their noses. This got a started about the term "Honky" which is also used by the Palawa in Tasmania, to refer to white people, who stereotypically speak through their nose. I find this all fascinating as a woman who spends her time mumbling. I'd like to think that I speak like those people from whom I've learned my language, but I don't.
I race through sentences in all of the languages that I have learned and tend to mumble or speak softly at times. Speaking softly was born of an idea that "a mistake made quietly is not a mistake". Ivo once remarked that most people were unaware of how good my language was coming along, because they'd never heard me speak it at an audible level. Oh, if only it were in my languages learned in later life that I did this, but no! Even in my mother-tongue I tend to default to: a mistake made quietly is not a mistake.
I am now speaking in English to my niece A.J. as much as possible. This may not seem tricky and, truly, it is almost automatic for me to speak with a child or an animal in my mother-tongue. It only becomes difficult when I am switching back and forth and back and forth between saying silly things to A.J. and speaking to people around me in another language. She has, of course, been hearing Bern-Swiss-German for almost a year now and science may have you believe that she even cries at a certain pitch so as to parrot the rhythm of her mother's tongue. Nevertheless, I am convinced that she is coming along in her English amazingly well. I have no real evidence for this, but I've chosen to take a few of her cues as clues. For example, from the age of one week, whenever I speak to her in English, she always makes an "ooo" face. I'm not saying that mine is a language with an inordinate amount of "ooo" sounds, but the fact her face arranges itself in this way when I am speaking to her in English suggests a certain cause and effect. Also, she typically reacts to my English with one of those baby smiles with the squinty eyes and turns of the head.
Ivo can be our control group for my theory. When he speaks to A.J. she typically sticks out her tongue. It's not an insult or anything. It appears as though Uncle Ivo's speech seems to make A.J. want to explore that particular control of that particular body part.
Of course, A.J. is only 5 weeks old and it is entirely possible that whenever her eyes are open and she is interacting she is simply hungry and thus moving her mouths in nursing ways. The grin may also not be from my language but my mouth that can't help but smile stupidly at her while speaking to her in my language. I, however choose to believe that she will love English and will smile because of it.
Sonntag, 27. Dezember 2009
I am a scardy cat.
When I was chaperoning a camping trip this spring, we went to a rope park. Having never been to a rope park, I got the group of children who were most afraid. This meant that we would start at the absolute easiest level and see how far we could get. By the 5th rope, 3 of my group members had needed to climb down a ladder, so frightened were they of the, so-called, yellow-course. In truth, I too was terrified, but my legs ceased to shake when any of the teenagers looked my way. "Isn't this fun?!" I would call, and it was.
I remembered how my mother had hidden her fear of dogs from us when we were children. The first time (of a plethora) a dog's bark left my mother clinging to my arm chanting her unconvincing "Nice doggy. Good Doggy. Go away." I was shocked. I had not an inkling that she had this fear. It turns out that she had purposefully hidden it, so as not to pass it on to us. When we were small my mother would stand still and not react. When we would be excited by the dog she would remind us of the etiquette of not approaching the dog without first asking the owner. I am forever grateful for this. I continue to follow those rules (made easier by German, in which "can I pet HIM?" is always correct, regardless of the dog's gender) and have met some lovely dogs as a result.
In this spirit I pushed fear aside and swung from rope to rope, "flew" with the clamp sliding down a wire and had a tremendously good time. Likewise, after the rope park I cheered my new group on as we "mountain-scootered" (like those push-scooters on steroids) down a mountain back to camp. One of my kids was lightly-injured but remained in good spirits, held aloft by the excitement of the group, and trusted me and my bad french when we reached the first-Aid station at the bottom of the mountain.
In summer, when Ivo and I found ourselves in a part of Schwarzwald popular among old-fogies, we thrilled to find that there was a rope park by Titisee. "It's so much fun Ivo! I can't wait!" I truly meant this. I was not acting excited to assuage Ivo's fears. We were both looking forward. Ivo, with curious excitement and I, with memories of the fun in Charmay. It was raining and the ropes were slick and our park guide told us that we would need to start on the easy course and progress from there. Sadly, the super-difficult course could not be done in the rain.
I couldn't finish the easy course.
I was paralyzed at one point. My legs simply wouldn't move. I focused all of my energy on one foot "You can do this!" I reminded the foot. It didn't budge. Without a pubescent audience to convince I succumbed to the knowledge that falling is painful and probable and I am mortal. I was crushed. So disappointed. Ivo and I have since made plans to visit the rope park in Luczern. This time we'll bring his god-daughter so that I can enjoy the whole park.
This week I was back in snowboarding class and I my other class-members were teens. One of the boys was a natural but the other was terrified. Thanks to him, I was able to curve and break and slide and traverse. Then he broke his wrist. My teacher said that it was self-fulfilling prophecy. In truth the boy wasn't going fast or anything. He'd completed a turn, stopped his board and then toppled onto his own wrist. Snap. In the time that remained of that class, as he was happily drinking Ovalmaltine and having his cast wrapped I was motionless on a mountain unable to put my weight on my front leg and drive. When I did it felt too fast and I would instantly curve and stop parallel to the mountain. The next day there was a new scared student and I was again able to move.
Luckily there are always enough new folks on the mountain. Yesterday when boarding alone I drew inspiration from the teeny children being yelled instruction from their parents in a number of various languages (ah Christmas time). I only wish that there were another way.
Meanwhile it's almost New Year. There are things that I want for myself, ways that I'd like to do things, things that I would like to leave behind. If it's only by example that I am able to challenge myself, I think that I have that motivation. Curled up on my chest is a little warm bundle named Anouk and I am in love with her. She's begun to smile and shares it with me when I dance with her or in front of her to James Brown. She soaks in my English as I whisper stories to her. The language of her Tata Jessy is just as much gibberish as the Swiss German of the rest of her family, but I hope that it all gets organized in her brain at a similar pace. I look at her sweet face and multiple chins and want so many good things for her. The world has bad things in it, like falling from a rope or breaking a wrist, but I plan to be a big ol' good thing in her world. I will leave behind the things I want to leave behind and do things the ways that I want to do them and my niece will never suspect that it was an effort, I hope. I want to be one of the women who show her that things can be done.
I remembered how my mother had hidden her fear of dogs from us when we were children. The first time (of a plethora) a dog's bark left my mother clinging to my arm chanting her unconvincing "Nice doggy. Good Doggy. Go away." I was shocked. I had not an inkling that she had this fear. It turns out that she had purposefully hidden it, so as not to pass it on to us. When we were small my mother would stand still and not react. When we would be excited by the dog she would remind us of the etiquette of not approaching the dog without first asking the owner. I am forever grateful for this. I continue to follow those rules (made easier by German, in which "can I pet HIM?" is always correct, regardless of the dog's gender) and have met some lovely dogs as a result.
In this spirit I pushed fear aside and swung from rope to rope, "flew" with the clamp sliding down a wire and had a tremendously good time. Likewise, after the rope park I cheered my new group on as we "mountain-scootered" (like those push-scooters on steroids) down a mountain back to camp. One of my kids was lightly-injured but remained in good spirits, held aloft by the excitement of the group, and trusted me and my bad french when we reached the first-Aid station at the bottom of the mountain.
In summer, when Ivo and I found ourselves in a part of Schwarzwald popular among old-fogies, we thrilled to find that there was a rope park by Titisee. "It's so much fun Ivo! I can't wait!" I truly meant this. I was not acting excited to assuage Ivo's fears. We were both looking forward. Ivo, with curious excitement and I, with memories of the fun in Charmay. It was raining and the ropes were slick and our park guide told us that we would need to start on the easy course and progress from there. Sadly, the super-difficult course could not be done in the rain.
I couldn't finish the easy course.
I was paralyzed at one point. My legs simply wouldn't move. I focused all of my energy on one foot "You can do this!" I reminded the foot. It didn't budge. Without a pubescent audience to convince I succumbed to the knowledge that falling is painful and probable and I am mortal. I was crushed. So disappointed. Ivo and I have since made plans to visit the rope park in Luczern. This time we'll bring his god-daughter so that I can enjoy the whole park.
This week I was back in snowboarding class and I my other class-members were teens. One of the boys was a natural but the other was terrified. Thanks to him, I was able to curve and break and slide and traverse. Then he broke his wrist. My teacher said that it was self-fulfilling prophecy. In truth the boy wasn't going fast or anything. He'd completed a turn, stopped his board and then toppled onto his own wrist. Snap. In the time that remained of that class, as he was happily drinking Ovalmaltine and having his cast wrapped I was motionless on a mountain unable to put my weight on my front leg and drive. When I did it felt too fast and I would instantly curve and stop parallel to the mountain. The next day there was a new scared student and I was again able to move.
Luckily there are always enough new folks on the mountain. Yesterday when boarding alone I drew inspiration from the teeny children being yelled instruction from their parents in a number of various languages (ah Christmas time). I only wish that there were another way.
Meanwhile it's almost New Year. There are things that I want for myself, ways that I'd like to do things, things that I would like to leave behind. If it's only by example that I am able to challenge myself, I think that I have that motivation. Curled up on my chest is a little warm bundle named Anouk and I am in love with her. She's begun to smile and shares it with me when I dance with her or in front of her to James Brown. She soaks in my English as I whisper stories to her. The language of her Tata Jessy is just as much gibberish as the Swiss German of the rest of her family, but I hope that it all gets organized in her brain at a similar pace. I look at her sweet face and multiple chins and want so many good things for her. The world has bad things in it, like falling from a rope or breaking a wrist, but I plan to be a big ol' good thing in her world. I will leave behind the things I want to leave behind and do things the ways that I want to do them and my niece will never suspect that it was an effort, I hope. I want to be one of the women who show her that things can be done.
Freitag, 18. Dezember 2009
clean water
When I was living in Philadelphia I helped a nice fella make a commercial. While we were filming (with a crazy old WWI-era camera) the camera man got word that, due to rain, the sewers in Brooklyn backes up and that his friend's cat was covered in poo as a result.
I recently learned more about this from New York Times reporter Charles Duhigg. He's also got a new bit about "clean" water in the US. It's shocking and upsetting and instantly reminded me of an incident in the Kindergarten where I worked:
I believe in not scaring children with environmental knowledge, but teach conservation as I would everything else. We don't hit, toilet words belong in the toilet and we don't waste water or leave on lights when we're not in the room.
"Please turn off the water while you're brushing your teeth." I told the children. On one afternoon a child asked "why not?" and I said "we don't want to use more than our fare share of water." Then came another teacher, ready to undermine me "Oh, in Switzerland, we've plenty of water."
Ugh. I start to get very scared and nervous and I don't want to push that on children, but I do want them to understand the gravity of small choices and that they don't wind up like this lovely woman who I respect but who may not be an environmental expert. Until then, I meditate on a day in the woods outside Philadelphia strolling through a super cold brook.
Sonntag, 13. Dezember 2009
excuse me if I am confused.
Let me just set down my Bügeleisen from my Bügeln and hang the Bügelwäsche up on the Bügel. Oh, I need to adjust my glasses as well, better move the Bügel. And I'll put my saw down using the Bügel.........
There are times when I chuckle to myself thinking about the dance that one does in a new language. Pick up a word put it in your mind, later on fit a similar word nearby, later still slap yourself on the head for having known the word, but not all of the applications.
Now that I have met my niece Anoushka which means that she has now met the English language (she did not hear it in Utero, except maybe when her mama was watching films). While I speak softly in her ear, I ramble on in my Language: The curse of the great bambino, the stories of Halloween and Thanksgiving, etc, and her mother pats her head and says "Was sait si für Sheiss? Huh? Was ist das für Unsinn? Komisch Englisch." (What kind of shit is she talking? Huh? What kind of nonsense is that? Crazy English)
I likewise would like to speak German or Swiss geman with any children that my siblings may have, but it isn't my mother-tongue and would be unwise. Perhaps Ivo will. Our children will be able to speak both languages but the mothers of any future nieces or nephews I might have, will not be able to understand the languages that I (or Ivo) would be using to tell them stories.
This Thanksgiving while playing with a young boy and some cars, I explained that Ivo would call the green car's color "grün". This made total sense to him. "What is red for him?" I told him. Children and language is nothing new for me, but I've never considered families in different continents and language.
This must be why I dreamt last night that I was trying to convince my sister and brother-in-law, as well as my brother and sister, to learn the language of Esperanto, that all of our children may speak the same language. I awoke feeling dumb and selfish. I'm sure that this is all a far smaller molehill than my subconcious would have me believe.
There are times when I chuckle to myself thinking about the dance that one does in a new language. Pick up a word put it in your mind, later on fit a similar word nearby, later still slap yourself on the head for having known the word, but not all of the applications.
Now that I have met my niece Anoushka which means that she has now met the English language (she did not hear it in Utero, except maybe when her mama was watching films). While I speak softly in her ear, I ramble on in my Language: The curse of the great bambino, the stories of Halloween and Thanksgiving, etc, and her mother pats her head and says "Was sait si für Sheiss? Huh? Was ist das für Unsinn? Komisch Englisch." (What kind of shit is she talking? Huh? What kind of nonsense is that? Crazy English)
I likewise would like to speak German or Swiss geman with any children that my siblings may have, but it isn't my mother-tongue and would be unwise. Perhaps Ivo will. Our children will be able to speak both languages but the mothers of any future nieces or nephews I might have, will not be able to understand the languages that I (or Ivo) would be using to tell them stories.
This Thanksgiving while playing with a young boy and some cars, I explained that Ivo would call the green car's color "grün". This made total sense to him. "What is red for him?" I told him. Children and language is nothing new for me, but I've never considered families in different continents and language.
This must be why I dreamt last night that I was trying to convince my sister and brother-in-law, as well as my brother and sister, to learn the language of Esperanto, that all of our children may speak the same language. I awoke feeling dumb and selfish. I'm sure that this is all a far smaller molehill than my subconcious would have me believe.
Mittwoch, 2. Dezember 2009
I am grateful.
I'm so darned grateful. How appropriate that it was just Thanksgiving.
We had a terrific time in the States and I like to think that I didn't revert back into the immature youngest sister that I was time and time again when visiting my mom and sibs. Though Ivo pointed out that I said "I'm sorry" more than was necessary. But a-hah! Because the way one says "Thank you" in Japanese is "I am sorry". Where is, in German, the word "danke" is from the word for thinking. "(Ich) danke schön" literally: I think pretty. I love that.
When I say that I've been to visit my family, there is a typical exchange that follows:
conversation partner: Oh? Do you have brothers and sisters?
(conversation partner is attentive)
me: I have. A brother and sister.
cp: older or younger?
me: older sister. twin brother.
cp: Twins?!?! Do you feel his pain or have a secret language?
me: ummm, not really.
Lucas and I have never had a secret language, but we had a special way of starting a conversation for a while. Sadly, no longer. It used to be, that Ivo and I would greet Lucas with a friendly "How's your tree?"
You see a tree grew in Brooklyn, just outside my brother's apartment. It was planted there a few summers ago. Ivo and I came into town when it was still new. We arrived with Lucas, who'd been out of town for the weekend. We approached his building and heard him groan "Oooh noo. The tree!" It seems that it had been planted too shallow and that the city wasn't giving it enough water. Lucas made short work of that. Or rather, long, stair climbing work. He put down his bags and brought down the milk jugs filled with tap water that he had for this purpose. For a few years this went on. Asking him "How's your tree?" has proved to be a great conversation-starter. You see, no matter what else might be negative in his life, it appears less so in comparison. After the gloomy tree report, everything else seems a little less bad. The tree is no officially dead as is our perfect conversation-starter.
This isn't necessarily a twin-communication, though. After all, Ivo used it too and he and Lucas aren't twins. Plus the fact that Kendra and I had a similar opener a few years ago. "How's your guts?" is not unlike "How's your tree?"
We had a terrific time in the States and I like to think that I didn't revert back into the immature youngest sister that I was time and time again when visiting my mom and sibs. Though Ivo pointed out that I said "I'm sorry" more than was necessary. But a-hah! Because the way one says "Thank you" in Japanese is "I am sorry". Where is, in German, the word "danke" is from the word for thinking. "(Ich) danke schön" literally: I think pretty. I love that.
When I say that I've been to visit my family, there is a typical exchange that follows:
conversation partner: Oh? Do you have brothers and sisters?
(conversation partner is attentive)
me: I have. A brother and sister.
cp: older or younger?
me: older sister. twin brother.
cp: Twins?!?! Do you feel his pain or have a secret language?
me: ummm, not really.
Lucas and I have never had a secret language, but we had a special way of starting a conversation for a while. Sadly, no longer. It used to be, that Ivo and I would greet Lucas with a friendly "How's your tree?"
You see a tree grew in Brooklyn, just outside my brother's apartment. It was planted there a few summers ago. Ivo and I came into town when it was still new. We arrived with Lucas, who'd been out of town for the weekend. We approached his building and heard him groan "Oooh noo. The tree!" It seems that it had been planted too shallow and that the city wasn't giving it enough water. Lucas made short work of that. Or rather, long, stair climbing work. He put down his bags and brought down the milk jugs filled with tap water that he had for this purpose. For a few years this went on. Asking him "How's your tree?" has proved to be a great conversation-starter. You see, no matter what else might be negative in his life, it appears less so in comparison. After the gloomy tree report, everything else seems a little less bad. The tree is no officially dead as is our perfect conversation-starter.
This isn't necessarily a twin-communication, though. After all, Ivo used it too and he and Lucas aren't twins. Plus the fact that Kendra and I had a similar opener a few years ago. "How's your guts?" is not unlike "How's your tree?"
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