Puhutko Suomea?
@ 3:35 pm At least for the past year, I have been fairly strict about a self-imposed rule that I follow. You see, I don’t often get many chances to practice my Finnish anymore, so besides the hour and a half of my weekly “textbook” Finnish class, (a different language entirely from spoken language, I might add) I really don’t ever use it. That is why, when I go to a store, the bank, a restaurant, etc., I have to speak Finnish. If they switch over to English, then whatever, I tried, and sometimes I continue in Finnish. This works fairly well most of the time, even when I know I am making errors; maybe my scrappiness is seen as some strange form of sisu, struggling onwards, in spite of my lack of awareness of the distinctly different sounds produced by double consonants vs. single consonants. I still cannot differentiate my own speech with words like “kukka” and “kuka.”
Something strange happens when you are constantly surrounded by a language that you don’t understand. Sometimes you become overly defensive, relying too heavily on body language, and you may become paranoid, imagining everyone is laughing at you or reveling in the stupidity of the inept “kielitaidaton.” Even when you are in sticky or important situations where you insist you don’t understand or speak Finnish, the sometimes stubborn persistence you encounter, of people continuing to speak Finnish, almost willing you to, (it’s so easy if you just listen, idiot,) can sometimes be maddening and calls for desperate measures. I have had too many extreme experiences to always be open minded that people are going to consistently be patient and understanding with you as a person learning a language, and it leaves me a little weary when every time I speak Finnish I feel like I am about to step in a huge pile of dog, well, you get the idea.
Recently, at a birthday party, I asked the bar tender, “Hei. Saisinko yks Lonkero, ja yks cokis, kiitos.”
“Yeah, let’s just do this in English, okay. It’s easier for everyone,” the guy said, a little too gruffly.
Astonished at how rude he was, I asked him if he was the only bartender.
“Yep, you have to deal with me,” he said, laughing.
“Right, that’s okay, I think I’m not really thirsty tonight anyway.” I said, refusing to support jackass behavior.
I puffed off, ready to either scream or cry. I told my astonished friends, who were ready to rip this guy a new one, when I saw him leave the bar and head over towards me.
(Step in dogsh*t feeling, insert here, mixed with sheer panic.) Now what, I thought.
“Hey did I offend you or something?” he asked, with the concern of a robot.
Honesty is the best policy, so here goes, I thought.
“Yeah, you did.” I started. “Look, I’m trying, and I’m sorry if I made a mistake or if my accent is off or whatever, but I am trying to speak your language and you didn’t have to be so rude!”
“Ah, the Finnish?” he asked.
“Yeah, my Finnish,” I answered.
“You see, I don’t speak Finnish, I am French, and I speak French, and English, is it a problem?”
(Dogsh*t feeling times ten. A mountain of it.)
“OH! I’m so sorry,” I said, my face a beetroot now. “I didn’t realize, I thought you were making fun of me!”
“No I’m sorry,” he says, and offers, “ Hey, what do you want to drink? Whatever you like, on the house,” he insists.
“I’m really, really, sorry,” I continue.
“It’s okay,” he says. “Those Finnish guys can be real assholes when you don’t speak the language, eh?”
Pretty rich coming from a French guy, I think, I can’t help erupting into laughter, the tension of embarrassment is just too much now.
