Lately, the benefits of bilingualism seem to be cropping up everywhere from mainstream news to a host of new blogs and websites. For many of us from multi-cultural backgrounds, the choice to raise our kids with two or more languages usually comes from a desire to have them be able to communicate with family as well as developing a deeper understanding of their cultural heritage. The IQ, creativity, resume et al advantages are just icing on the cake. But for those parents who aren’t bilingual themselves but want to reap the benefits of bilingualism for their children, the key question is what language should they choose?
If there is one thing I’ve learned in my attempt to raise my girls trilingual, it’s the undeniable importance of hearing the language spoken around them and by that I am referring to actual people, not multi-media.
I was once told by a friend, who is renowned for his thorough research, that children learn much of their language from watching others speak together rather than the actual exchanges between parent and child. I’ve never taken the time to verify this academically but I will say that in practice, I’ve definitely found it to be true in our household.
We use the OPOL approach: I speak French to my daughters, my husband speaks Spanish to them and they hear English spoken between us. We were living in NYC for the first 2+ years of P’s life. When she was 15 months old, my husband became the sole carer for her. This lasted until we moved to Singapore about a year later. She heard Spanish from him day in and day out and yet when the time came to speak, English was her choice of language.
Of course there are a number of factors that affected this and for a long time I ascribed English’s dominance to these various reasons. Our move to Singapore where English is the official language of education and business only reinforced it. However, our recent move to Bangkok has led me re-consider the influences on her lingual development. For example: She now barely sees her father due to his grueling work schedule and for much of the last 18 months, he has spoken more English to her than Spanish. We had a couple over for one afternoon who spoke Spanish to my husband and a mix of French and Spanish to their son and by the time they left the house, P was attempting to answer her father in Spanish and much more willing to speak French to me.
Now living in Thailand, the girls hear Thai all the time. The Thais are notoriously behind their South East Asian counterparts when it comes to speaking English, which translates into more environmental Thai and a genuine effort on my part to learn and use conversational Thai. In addition, our wonderful Burmese Helper (Interesting to note that all the people I meet from Myanmar refer to themselves as Burmese) speaks fluent Thai and very little English. P, who up until recently didn’t really show much of an interest in her other languages other than necessity, has now suddenly become extremely aware of Thai and often says she would like to speak more Thai. She also has a renewed interest in Spanish helped by her super-Papa who has climbed back unto the OPOL wagon.
I know I should be overjoyed, and to a certain extent I am since, coupled with this new-found desire, she seems to be demonstrating a genuine interest in languages overall and how they can each be useful in their own way. But I can’t help but feel sad at times that we aren’t somewhere we can immerse her in Spanish more readily.
As we are settling into our life in Bangkok, we have started to try to find a Latin community in which to embed ourselves. This has proven to be quite a challenge. At the same time, I was sent a fun info-graphic on the state of bilingualism in the United States and it really drove home both the opportunity I missed in perfecting my own Spanish while I lived there, as well as giving up a rich Latin community for my girls.
In the same week I received the info-graphic, I was sent an article on 10 reasons why every child should learn to speak Spanish. Now I feel I should mention some caveats here since this is clearly a US-centered article and many of the reasons listed are general benefits of bilingualism vs. benefits specifically associated with Spanish. Also worth note is that Spanish is not the official language of the United Nations but one of six, the other five being Arabic, Chinese (presumably Mandarin), English, French and Russian. That said, the article, coupled with the info-graphic makes a strong case for choosing Spanish as your child’s second language in the US. More importantly, it is a reminder to look at the resources around you such as immersion programs and the cultural makeup of your community before making this kind of choice. Maybe Mandarin and Hindi are the languages of the future global economic super powers but if you don’t have ample support available, another tongue may be a better choice.
If you are going to plant the seed, you may as well try to have the best soil, light and water conditions available for growth! And now I must return to stalking innocent Spanish speakers on the streets of Bangkok.
Colours: Differing Points of Hue via BBC
This is a really interesting article on how we perceive colours and how they emerge in cultures. Black and white come first, then red. You won’t find a culture that recognizes blue without recognizing certain other shades and colours first. This and many other interesting tidbits can be found in this wonderful piece.
This also gives me a chance to link back to what is probably my favorite post from my un-prolific history of blogging: How Well Do You Know Your Colours? I promise the post is better than the title.
As always, I love to hear people’s thoughts, trials and tribulations, and well any interesting gossip is always welcome. Off to see if my pork roast is pink or white.
The Worst Birthday Cake EVER.
Baking is an exact science, which is why you should be impressed by your yummy-mummy friends who bake —especially those with infants and toddlers since they are likely overworked, under-slept and in constant demand.
Try following a recipe suffering from sleep deprivation acquired steadily over months at a time. Then factor in a toddler who can’t stop pressing the button on the water cooler creating your own indoor water park while your four-year old is saying
mommy, mommy, mommy.
Mommy
MOMMY!
I NEED you
I WANT you
And the dreaded
Please WIPE me, I did a PooPoo!
Sometimes I think I ought to check behind their ears for gills given their ability to talk incessantly without ever seeming to stop for a breath.
Sure by all means compliment your friend who served you a roast chicken. Maybe it was a little over cooked but some gravy or a dash of salt will mask many errors. Failing that, copious wine during dinner does the job. But APPLAUD the friend who bakes you brownies, cookies or a cake.
Because this is what could have so easily happened:
It is Saturday and it is my husband’s birthday. He has just come back from a trip and I’ve already failed on many fronts to make it special. I am pretty sure I am in no condition to make anything complex so I tell my 4-year-old that we are going to make Papa some really special cookies for his birthday. She just looks and me and shakes her head.
Non! He NEEDS a cake. We have to make him a birthday cake.
I tried, I really did. I prepared all the ingredients. I set everything up in order. I had my recipe book in front of me and repeatedly referred back to it. Things seemed to be going well. The cake batter looked good. The husband was sent out to buy last-minute heavy cream for the chocolate ganache for his cake. (Please no comment here).
I poured the batter into my perfectly battered cake dish. P was shouting with delight, making up some sort of cake-baking song. I set the timer for 25 minutes and quickly made the ganache.
- Twenty five minutes later, the toothpick is definitely WET.
- Thirty Minutes – Same
- Forty Minutes – SAME
- Fifty Minutes – SAME!!
I try with a knife instead persuaded that the toothpick is the problem. Deluded, I know.
Wet Wet Wet.
And then like an amnesiac having a sudden flash of her former life. I remember that the recipe calls for cooking it in two batches to make a two tiered cake. Holy Molasses, how did I forget that?
Another 25 minutes go by and I’ve pierced this cake so many times, It is more sieve than sponge. A last attempt and the knife looks clean. I start to feel relieved, even impressed that I’ve managed to pull this off and no one will be the wise. Little did I know that I happened to hit one cooked part. With hindsight, probably cooked from all the piercings. As I un-mold the cake I find a part where the batter looks rather doughy. Christ, are you kidding me?
The voice inside my head:
Shite, it STILL isn’t completely cooked. How is that possible?
Wait, no, it’s ok. The icing will cover it. The kids won’t know the difference. It’s kind of like raw cookie dough. I love raw cookie dough. I wish I had raw cookie dough right now instead of this stupid cake
Wait, am I going to poison the kids? Didn’t they say that raw cookie dough was dangerous? They could get salmonella or something? How fresh are my supposedly organic Thai eggs? Do I risk it? Will I get stuck in the legendary Bangkok traffic in a cab with two vomiting kids? I know, how about I stick it in the microwave…
Three random microwave cycles later since I am clueless as to how one uses a microwave for anything other than popcorn.
It is as raw as it was before and the rest of the cake is looking increasingly dry like the Sahara. How the fuck did I get myself into this situation? I didn’t even want to make a fucking cake! Ok ok… stop, breath, think. I know, I’ll use the heart & star shape cutouts and make mini-cakes and ice those. This is going to work out.
The cake is of course way thicker than the shapes; it is after all a double-tiered cake in one. I persevere. I am determined to salvage my unwanted cake sans-meltdown. I use chopsticks to push the shape rims down. It’s a disaster. The edge at this point is so dry it starts crumbling away. I keep at it. I am savaging this cake. This cake looks like an antelope being torn apart by her second round diners. Don’t believe me? Look for yourself:
The mini-cakes, well they were pretty disastrous too as they were small and crumbly and impossible to ice. I just ended up putting large dollops of dark chocolate ganache on top —the one thing that turned out ok— and let the kids and my husband smear it across their faces while I downed a pint-sized glass of red wine.
The award for worse cake ever can be sent to my attention at Baan Suan Maak, Bangkok 10120. And next time a parent-friend bakes for you, double up on your appreciation please.
Sand & Pancakes
Me: ‘Would you like some honey on your pancakes?’
I knew there was only a tiny bit of maple syrup left and I was hoping to save it for myself. If I am going to consume the calories, I want to really enjoy them, which can only be done with good maple syrup.
P: ‘Non, je veux du sirop de sable.’ [No, I want sand syrup]
I know at this point I am supposed to correct her by using the right word myself as in:
‘D’accord, voici le sirop d’ÉRABLE’ [Sure, here is the maple syrup]
…while poring maple syrup on her pancakes.
But like my father who refused to correct my mother’s ‘frenchisms’, some things are just too cute to correct. I know that just as she learned that she wanted to sit on my lap and not my lacks, she will self-correct. I hope she will forgive me for dragging out the process for my own gratification.
Milk, Wheat and Word Construction.
I was at a loss for words as I pondered what to write for the Bilingual Carnival hosted this month by Gato and Canard. I decided to join the corporate ranks and experiment in the art of outsourcing —read I contacted our host to ask her if there was anything in particular she would be interested in. She responded that she would like a post on WORDS. Yes I found this funny given I had none in my mind but then something happened. I remembered a post I’ve wanted to write for the last eight months but have never been able to get around to, until now.
When we visited some of my family in France last summer, I had huge hopes and perhaps even expectations —always a dangerous thing— of how my oldest daughter’s spoken French would emerge. Despite only spending just under 3 weeks and having her Spanish-speaking father and English-speaking Grandfather around, I felt confident that given her understanding of French, the words would suddenly come spilling out.
I can assure you this did not happen. Fortunately the disappointment was lessened by my enjoyment of a particularly cold summer —we live in the tropics so this is good news to me— coupled with other family dramas that moved language acquisition right to the bottom of my list of worries. But before my attention was absorbed with more pressing matters, I did manage to jot down one of my favorite linguistic anecdotes to date.
Towards the end of our drive from Paris Charles de Gaulle to southern Normandy where we were initially staying, we passed a number of wheat fields. Having lived in New York City, Singapore and traveled to Mexico where the only fields my eldest had seen were brown, of shopping malls and a blue-green one of agave. I was excited to point out the fields of wheat and explain what they were. My relationship with nature and particularly my understanding of where food comes from had nearly always originated during my summer holidays in France as a child; I looked forward to sharing this with P.
Me: “Regarde le champ de Blé!” [Look at the wheat field!]
P: “du lait?” [milk?]
Me: “Non, du BLÉ” [No, wheat]
P: “oui LAIT!” [ yes milk]
Me “Non, B-B-B + lé. BLÉ” [No + attempt to sound out wheat in French]
P: “Oui, B-B-B + lait”
Me, now ecstatic: “OUI! BLÉ!”
P: “OUI! B-B-B- MILK!”
Ok, I can see how that would make sense to her.
Word construction is a funny thing. Most of us don’t think about it much except perhaps during SATs, in the US anyway and maybe when our children start speaking. But there is a whole other level of fun that happens with many multilingual kids as they work to tease out sounds, words and separate languages.
I hope you will share your favorite creative word or sentence construction!
Smacking the Dough to Perfection: A Culinary Digression.
It’s not that I am lazy, though I haven’t ruled that out entirely. And I really don’t like rushing things (Go Slow!) but I also don’t like spending more time than is necessary especially with two young banshees running around the place. I also have an extreme aversion to most things pre-made and pre-packaged, especially when they are simple to make.
With that, I am going to share my mother’s secret pastry recipe. While her mother and siblings all started buying pre-made ‘pate a tarte’ my mother who had much more on her plate (i.e. working full-time, keeping house with no help and bringing up three kids) would never compromise on quality and taste. Here is one of her many wonderful ‘shortcuts’:
INGREDIENTS:
- 125 grams of butter
- 250 grams of flour
- Generous pinch of salt
- Splash of milk as needed
UTENSILS
- A saucepan
- A wooden spoon
- A quiche dish
- Your hands
- Melt the butter in the saucepan under low heat. Cut into even pieces to speed up melting.
- When melted, remove from heat.
- Mix in the flour & salt with wooden spoon. You really want to have your milk ready and open by your side here.
- THE TRICKY PART: As the flour starts to absorb the butter, you add a splash of milk. It needs to be enough to bring it all together without it being too wet. Better to put too little to start and add a second splash then too much. I needed to add a wee bit more milk as was a tad too crumbly. You want to handle the dough as little as possible so don’t spend too long on this; the whole process should take less than a minute.
- Et Voila! you have your ball of dough. Quickly slap it down into the middle of the quiche/tarte dish. That’s right NO ROLLING PINS! Now you get why I love this recipe.
- Time to get your frustrations out. Smack the dough out working from the center towards the edge and turning your dish slowly a round so you work it out gradually.
- Set your OCD aside. Do not worry if you spread it too thin and it splits. You can just pull a little from the edge and patch the hole. If you don’t manage to get enough dough on all the borders you can just shift bits from one edge to the other. All imperfections will be hidden. I promise.
- Final step is optional: decorative fork markings around the edge.
No I am not referring to a sudden Gallic change of heart towards pasteurized milk and turning le steak tartar into le burger. That wouldn’t be evolved, just paranoid.
I am talking about the amazing ability of dormant skills to switch on like genes under the right conditions. It’s how even if your child refuses to speak to you in the tongue you have tirelessly dedicated yourself to, spending countless amounts of discretionary income, which isn’t really discretionary since it should be paying off credit card bills, school loans and the IRS, on books, toys and language reinforcing trips. It’s the hours you spent after your toddler is asleep neglecting laundry, work, and soap scum around your tub while looking up words from your child’s favorite book —one of the few not in your chosen language— because you just don’t know how to say digger, spade, otter and jungle gym in your supposed mother tongue so translating on the fly is not an option. (Richard Scarry why aren’t more of your books available in other languages? Hmm probably because no one else knows those words either…)
I digress.
The flick of the switch can happen at any point. For some it’s right away, like babies who just learn how to sleep by themselves. It isn’t that the parents have done anything better than you, they just lucked out in the baby lottery. It happens during a summer visit to Granny’s when you are sneaking away for a nap and the child really wants a chocolate biscuit. It happens when your new neighbors speak the same other language than you and since you have no money for a babysitter or extra help or any family in a 80 mile radius, that all your social life revolves around ‘couples’ evenings with the kids and portable cribs. It happens when at 15, when she realizes her multilingualism will help get that cute boy’s attention. Or in my case it happens when I agree to move to the other side of the world so I can afford to send my kid to the French Private school.
And it is finally paying off. It has been really interesting to watch the emergence of P’s French on high-speed. The last 5 weeks have sort of played out as follows:
End of Week 1: P comes home and seems happy at school. I attribute that to her understanding French even if she didn’t speak it and the fact that almost everyone around her understands English. Teacher emails me asking me to please try to encourage her to speak French, a suggestion I mostly ignore though I am careful not to slip into English at any point during this transition.
End of Week 2: Not much difference though P seems to repeat the odd French word I say burying it deep within an English sentence.
End of Week 3: Frequency of repeated French words increase including ones she is picking up at school. Still the English sentence rules. A few short French Phrases start emerging, things like “Non! C’est a moi!”. Hello survival of the fittest.
End of Week 4: Her sentences are increasingly half French, half English. I begin to feel the balance of power shifting.
End of Week 5: I nearly fall of my chair when in mid battle with her sister, Pacifique turns to me in desperation and yells “Maman met ça dans ma chambre s’il te plait” while handing me some prized possession. [Maman, please put this in my room]. I feel like once the motor is running, she is more likely to initiate conversations with French
End of Week 6: An English-speaking friend comes to visit. I speak more English at home. I inadvertently speak more English to her and immediately I hear more English out of her mouth. It is a delicate dance, but I am starting to understand the steps.
So relax, It will happen. Maybe right away, maybe not for another decade, but it WILL happen.
