It's time to start learning a new language
and I think I know which one
A few days ago I took the kids to our dental hygienist. While it was Yannai’s turn, Maya and I waited in the same room. The hygienist heard us talking and asked, “What language are you speaking?”
I said, “English. But we speak Russian too sometimes.” Then I added, “You also speak Russian, no?” We have been seeing her for years and although we communicate in Hebrew, I always assumed, based on her name (Rima), and maybe her accent, that she was a native Russian speaker.
But she said “No. I speak Georgian. My parents speak Russian but I was born here and they spoke only Georgian to me.”
It’s unusual to see a Georgian speaker my age (or a bit older) who doesn’t also speak Russian because, of course, before the collapse of the Soviet Union, Russian was forcibly taught in all Soviet Republics. But if she was born here, then obviously her parents had no reason to speak Russian to her.
When I got over my surprise, I said, very excitedly, “I know how to say one sentence in Georgian!”
“Oh yeah? Which sentence?” she said without taking her eyes or tools off my teenager’s teeth.
“Baq'aq'i ts'q'alshi q'iq'inebs.” (*insert an idiotic grinning emoji*)
“Oh. Well, nobody really uses this sentence.” She replied.
I knew that much. The sentence means "a frog croaks in the water" and the only reason I know it is because it’s a tongue twister often taught by Georgians to foreigners to torture them.
It’s a throat twister, to be more precise. The sound q' that appears in every word in this sentence is a uvular ejective stop.
Let’s unpack that.
Uvular consonants are articulated with the help of the uvula, that flappy thing hanging from the ceiling at the very back of your mouth that stares your dental hygienist in the eye when she cleans your back teeth.
The sound r in French, German, and Hebrew is called a uvular trill. It’s pronounced by placing the back of your tongue near the uvula and producing a vibrating sound, similar to when you gargle water.
A uvular stop, on the other hand, is articulated by pressing the back of your tongue against the uvula so that the airflow is blocked and then released. Now, a uvular ejective stop means that while the airflow is briefly blocked, your throat muscles are constricted creating pressure, which makes the subsequent explosion of air more pronounced.
Phew.
That was the technical explanation. The more humane explanation is to imagine that there is a breadcrumb stuck to your uvula and you’re trying, unsuccessfully, to remove it by making these coughing sounds that are only marginally appropriate in polite company.
I remember this sentence from my days at boarding school where my classmates were from all corners of the former Soviet Union and where it was everybody’s favorite pastime to teach me how to say hard-to-pronounce sentences in Georgian, Armenian, and Azerbaijani.
I know another phrase in Georgian: sami k’ak’ali. It means “three nuts.” The only reason I know that one (also from high school) is because in Russian (which all of us spoke) it sounds like “they pooped on their own.” (sami is the Georgian for ‘three’ but it sounds like the Russian word that means “on their own”; and k’ak’ali I assume means ‘nuts’ in Georgian but sounds like the Russian verb kakali “they pooped.”)
Fortunately, I managed to stop myself from saying this second phrase to Rima. If I did, I’d have to explain why I know it and then I would have to go and find a new dental hygienist.
Instead, I started thinking that maybe I should learn Georgian. I have been waiting for a sign from the universe as to what should be my next language. Until now, the universe kept sending me very reliable signs.
Maybe this is another one? My next appointment with Rima is on December 31st. I could make it my goal to learn enough Georgian by then to have an actual conversation with her. Maybe I could even enchant her enough with my Geogian skills to stop her from sighing so heavily when she talks about the brown spots on my teeth?
It could be like the pinnacle of this year-long journey: On the last day of the challenge, she was finally able to say her usual lie “I floss every day!!!” to her dental hygienist in her native tongue.
Plus Georgian has a cool script.
But it didn’t feel like a sign. For some reason, the idea of having a conversation with my dental hygienist didn’t excite me enough to serve as an impetus to start learning a new language.
Besides, we’ve already established that even though I sometimes use the idea of talking to people to inspire me to learn a language, I rarely go on to have actual conversations with them. Because talking to people is scary. Regardless of whether or not they’re wielding sharp tools threatening to remove plaque from your teeth.
In other words, the universe is not sending me any signs.
Perhaps, the universe is just patiently waiting for me to finally start learning Palestinian Arabic.
Tanya, thank you for all the fun in your posts—!!!
This made me reach for my little book of Hebrew poetry (Jewish poets of Spain, including Yehuda Halevi) translated into Georgian. Yes: it really is cool script. No, with the exception of the Hebrew on the cover, I cannot read it at all. I was given the book by a Jewish member of Georgia's parliament during a visit to Tblisi back in the mid 90's. I love how this poetry made it all the way from 10-12th century Spain to post-Cold War Georgia, in Georgian, and then was gifted to an American-born Jew who now keeps it next to his desk in Israel.