Magyarul

Last night we went to our Hungarian teacher's home to have a farewell dinner.  The dinner was delicious, naturally, and her family is all so sweet.  Then we walked around the castle (her flat is at the base of the hill) and took some pictures.  As we were leaving, she thanked us for being such good students: always on time, homework done, words learned.  We thanked her for putting another language into our heads.

It got me thinking about language.  I speak three languages, which is not much, but which is pretty good by American or Hungarian standards.  I'd like to speak many more, but I am realistic enough to know that I will probably get no more than one, maybe two more.

The thing about learning a foreign language is that it changes you.  The way you think, process ideas, and even use your own mother tongue are deeply affected by adding another language into the mix.  Because language is so much more than words and grammar, though those are certainly important.  Language is culture and history, too, and it completely impacts your personality to speak a different language.  The simple demands of changing your pronunciation and voice quality (intonation, how nasally you speak, volume) makes a huge difference in how you feel when speaking.  Try it: go speak angrily for a few minutes, and you will start to feel angry, whether you  have any reason to or not.  The same goes with any other emotion: show it, and you feel it.

When I speak English, I am who I am.  I suppose other people would be better at describing who I am in English than I am myself.  It's my default setting, so it's rather hard to analyze from the inside.  I do recognize that my English has changed a lot: I speak more slowly and clearly, and my American friends here often comment on my extremely crisp enunciation.  I have lost the "American slur" and a good number of British words have sneaked into my vocabulary.  Speaking English, the patterns and intonations of it, identifies me as what I am: American, young, female, optimistic, overly confident and also a bit insecure.

When I speak Spanish, I am someone else.  Now it takes me a few minutes to warm up and not have Hungarian words sneak into my Spanish, but once I get going I am loud and brash.  I speak quickly and the quality of my voice is harsher and more nasal.  When I speak Spanish, I naturally feel excited.  Because I currently do so much reading and so little every-day conversation in Spanish, my Spanish has become quite literary.  Spanish, to me, is the language of books and music, and also love.  My most profound romantic relationship thus far in my life took place in Spanish, and that has also affected who I am in the language.

When I speak Hungarian, I am still something of a bumbling idiot.  I misplace the modifiers in my sentences, my intonation is still too variable, and my vocabulary is rather limited in practice, no matter how extensive it is in understanding.  Because I am still rather nervous speaking Hungarian, I pitch my voice a bit higher.  As a result, everyone who knows me from Hungarian (and most people here who know me in English, but often hear me speaking Hungarian) think I am pretty much the cutest and sweetest thing ever.  Here they have an adult, albeit a young-looking (and actually young) one, speaking with the grammar of a kindergartner and the vocabulary of a second-grader, and it unsettles them.  As horrible as it sounds, this helps me get away with a lot: anything I don't understand, I just explain in Hungarian, and they cock their heads, give me a little smile, and forgive my mistake.  I get into things for free or at extremely reduced rates constantly when speaking Hungarian, always with that little head cock and smile.  My friends' parents adore me, thinking I am just adorable, and feed me and ask me questions, rewarding me with the characteristic Magyar head-cock-and-smile when I say something particularly amusing.

It used to drive me totally insane, but I think I will miss that little smile.

Nevertheless, I speak Hungarian now.  It's up there in my head wreaking havoc.  A few days ago, after Spain missed a particularly dramatic shot on goal, I snapped "Istenem!" at the TV.  I pet Balint's new dog, and asked her, "Mi van, guapa, huh?" all three languages blending and revealing me for, I guess, what I really am: a blend.  An amalgamation of everywhere I have been, everyone I have loved, every beautiful sight I have marveled at, and every word I have learned and uttered.

I am glad that crazy little Magyar is up in my head, being adorable and missing modifiers, wearing unnecessary socks and carrying tissues everywhere, kissing everyone on the face and letting men open doors for her.  I know she will fade away over the next year as first my inner American first comes to the forefront, fed by barbecue and relaxing on the deck, and then the dramatic española that lives in my mind become stronger, stamping around, crying at flamenco, and reading poetry in the sunshine.  Nevertheless, I hope to keep that little Magyar up there around as much as possible.  Frankly, I like her, and I would miss her if she were to leave.