I have never been happy with the English language as the global standard. A half-billion people get a pass on learning a second language, and everywhere else, those with a sufficient education in it will get a shot at middle-management in a foreign-owned conglomerate. It just seems a waste of human industry and creativity, but thus is the efficiency of capitalism, and I decry it.
Don't get me wrong, I am well aware that, as a teacher of English, I'm a beneficiary and fountainhead of this problem. I field questions and requests to teach from people in all walks of life, who sincerely and desperately want to improve their English as a means of improving their livelihood. I learn Turkish as a hobby, but these people need English... or think they do.
Spend a few months in Istanbul, and surely you will get a request to teach. A superficial look at the Istanbul Craigslist illustrates the demand for "teachers" of the language.
Fluency in a language is really, not as easy as most people think.
This happened a few years ago.
A room mate, who at the time was very interested in popular American hip-hop, yelled from his bedroom one evening a very pointed question: "Sean, what is this 'rim job' they are singing about?"
It's a fair question, and I was certain Erdem would encounter the phrase again. American pop-culture is littered with a wealth of scatological terms, and while Erdem's English is, grammatically speaking, near flawless, this wasn't the first time I had played consultant on matters of English jargon or slang.
I explained...
I encouraged him to note that it is a noun, not a verb, and provided verbal derivatives...
I even helped with a few example sentences, so he could practice correct use of the phrase...
Teaching moment, end of story.
Three days later, Erdem and I were on a bus together. It was mid-morning, and I have no memory of where we were heading, probably the Akmerkez. We caught a bus and sat in a forward section, where two pairs of seats face each other. Our stop was close to the bus terminal, and finding the seat and space to spread out wasn't difficult, but at the next stop, most of the seats filled up and a middle-aged woman sat down next to Erdem.
We had been quiet, still waking up, and suddenly Erdem's brain reanimated, as it were.
He let out a big laugh, and said, "Rim job, rim job, rim job. Isn't that kind of dirty?"
As he did so, I could see what he couldn't: the eyes of a horrified, middle-aged woman growing wider with each mention of the phrase. Apparently, she knew some American slang, too.
Showing posts with label Language. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Language. Show all posts
Saturday, August 22, 2009
Thursday, August 21, 2008
False cognates...
My job has taken me away from Istanbul, again, after a four day visit which involved a job interview sandwiched between visits to the Istanbul Police Office (where I applied for and received a residency permit).
Still not sure if I got the job.
I should talk about the residency application process, sometime, but this isn't the post where I want to complain about Turkey's bureaucratic difficulties of Ottoman proportions. I'll just say, I was glad my friends Gregg and Emrah came along. Their commentary made the affair a good deal more fun.
Monday, I took the midnight flight to Antalya (48 minutes), was received by a bewildered driver at the airport ("Sean" sounds distinctly feminine, when Turkish logic is applied to the phonemes. Read it "se-an"), was then driven to Club Salima (50 KM from the Antalya airport), and by 2:30 was settling into my room at a Mediterranean resort.
I was excited!
The veil of expectations, however, was lifted the following morning. Although waking up to the sounds of children, blowing whistles and singing to club music, at 10 AM (which is an early hour, these days), didn't do much for my confidence in a pleasant stay, I think it was a scantily clad, obese Russian family that finally enervated my hopes.
At Club Salima, I'm that guy who thinks the whole place is retarded (or insane, or absurd), and who invariably (I try not to!) exhibits disdain in every movement, spoken phrase, or dip in the sea.
I'm reminded of Bill Murray's character in Lost in Translation, because that is exactly how I feel.
It's been four days. I've gotten to know several of the staff, all good people who seem to have had their nerves frayed by a summer of working with the globe's neediest population: tourists. I've also met some Russian college kids, and though they don't speak any English, they were excited when I smiled at them, said "I like Russia", and gave them a thumbs-up. That, and I bought several rounds of vodka for the lot of 'em (and then suffered the worst hangover in years).
Today really tied it all together. Another beach-goer had seen me speaking Turkish with the staff, and then correctly surmised that I wasn't from around here. This Turkish man was doing his best to figure out what I was doing at a resort for Russians, Italians, and Germans, and tried a little of all three languages before settling into Turkish.
He asked me if I was an animatör.
I didn't understand, what could give him the impression that my line of work involved drawing, much less drawing cartoons. So, I offered him the side-to-side head shake and shrug, which in Turkish means, "I don't understand".
Again, "are you an animator? Do you do animation here at the resort?"
I told him "no", but also asked that he explain. The mimes that this request provoked took me off guard, as the man began jumping from side to side, jazz-hands in the air, smiling like a fool.
Then he said "animation man", several times, and it clicked.
A Turkish animatör is an entertainer.
Still not sure if I got the job.
I should talk about the residency application process, sometime, but this isn't the post where I want to complain about Turkey's bureaucratic difficulties of Ottoman proportions. I'll just say, I was glad my friends Gregg and Emrah came along. Their commentary made the affair a good deal more fun.
Monday, I took the midnight flight to Antalya (48 minutes), was received by a bewildered driver at the airport ("Sean" sounds distinctly feminine, when Turkish logic is applied to the phonemes. Read it "se-an"), was then driven to Club Salima (50 KM from the Antalya airport), and by 2:30 was settling into my room at a Mediterranean resort.
I was excited!
The veil of expectations, however, was lifted the following morning. Although waking up to the sounds of children, blowing whistles and singing to club music, at 10 AM (which is an early hour, these days), didn't do much for my confidence in a pleasant stay, I think it was a scantily clad, obese Russian family that finally enervated my hopes.
At Club Salima, I'm that guy who thinks the whole place is retarded (or insane, or absurd), and who invariably (I try not to!) exhibits disdain in every movement, spoken phrase, or dip in the sea.
I'm reminded of Bill Murray's character in Lost in Translation, because that is exactly how I feel.
It's been four days. I've gotten to know several of the staff, all good people who seem to have had their nerves frayed by a summer of working with the globe's neediest population: tourists. I've also met some Russian college kids, and though they don't speak any English, they were excited when I smiled at them, said "I like Russia", and gave them a thumbs-up. That, and I bought several rounds of vodka for the lot of 'em (and then suffered the worst hangover in years).
Today really tied it all together. Another beach-goer had seen me speaking Turkish with the staff, and then correctly surmised that I wasn't from around here. This Turkish man was doing his best to figure out what I was doing at a resort for Russians, Italians, and Germans, and tried a little of all three languages before settling into Turkish.
He asked me if I was an animatör.
I didn't understand, what could give him the impression that my line of work involved drawing, much less drawing cartoons. So, I offered him the side-to-side head shake and shrug, which in Turkish means, "I don't understand".
Again, "are you an animator? Do you do animation here at the resort?"
I told him "no", but also asked that he explain. The mimes that this request provoked took me off guard, as the man began jumping from side to side, jazz-hands in the air, smiling like a fool.
Then he said "animation man", several times, and it clicked.
A Turkish animatör is an entertainer.
Tuesday, August 12, 2008
Cool...
I found this on the blog of a friend in Japan, and decided it's worth sharing.
It is a memory-enhancing method, that Chris is applying to language learning.
I'm going to try this out.
Update:
Actually, I'm going to use the free and open source version of the same program.
It is a memory-enhancing method, that Chris is applying to language learning.
I'm going to try this out.
Update:
Actually, I'm going to use the free and open source version of the same program.
Sunday, August 10, 2008
My first good haircut in Turkey...
... was followed immediately by my worst, by about six weeks.
I wish I had a camera to show it off, but then, I was actually so embarrassed by it, that I took the long way back to the hotel, through an alley from the barber's, and then, a construction site. I doubt it would have occurred to me to take a picture. I have found a limit to my self-deprecating sense of irony.
I don't know why I can't get a good haircut here, generally, because I have the vocab and always explain what I want. In June, I went to a place near the hotel, and felt dumb for doing so when I was charged 20 YTL for the cut. On reflection, in the mirror, I realized that the barber had done a perfect job: not too short, not cut like a soldier's hair, layered on the sides, reasonable bangs... it was... nice to look at, fitting my personal aesthetic and demanding no attention whatsoever.
Until, it needed to be cut again.
I figured, I had gotten what I paid for, the haircut I wanted.
Never before had I had that in Turkey. I even once cut my hair myself, with a beard trimmer, because I couldn't rationalize paying 5 YTL for another Amerıkalı saç tıraşı, the 'American haircut', the one that makes me look like I'm a Marine. Lately, I've been in the habit of fixing each trim at home with the same beard trimmer.
Nothing against Marines... I just don't want to look like one.
This, I always thought should be simple, but over and over again, I got the same result, no matter what I asked from a barber. If I insisted my hair be kept long, or asked for "just a trim off the top", the result was always the same. Sometimes, barbers would even sneak up on me, and achieve the crew-cut effect with scissors, what the electric clippers could do in a quarter of the time. Just so long as they gave me the Amerıkalı saç tıraşı, which must be what they thought I really wanted, even though I never said it.
Thus, I was so happy with my haircut of eight weeks ago, that I returned to the same barber, fully prepared to pay another 20 YTL. I don't care if that's too much, or even if they were ripping me off. You must understand, in my quest to maximize utility, my lowered expectations had finally found an appropriate balance of price and quality.
Something went wrong...
The barber who had cut my hair previously was busy, but we made eye contact on my arrival. I read in his gaze that I could trust the other barber to do the same, fine job he had done, the job I would ask for after sitting down, and the job this new barber actually began doing. In fact, it is the same, fine job, of the first barber, but with a tragic or ironic twist.
Actually, with a totally tragic faux-hawk twist.
One must understand, the Turkish barber shop culture is about comfort. The barber didn't just trim my hair. He shampooed and conditioned my hair, twice. He massaged my face and shoulders with lemon cologne. He lulled me into a sense of security, a feeling of comfort, and I let down my guard. Then, while my eyes were closed, he attacked me with hair gel, a blow drier, and then hairspray.
Having not used 'product' on my hair, since high school, I thought, "let's see how the pros do it".
There is a logical fallacy in abdicating one's habitually simple desires to the whims of 'experts'. These same experts lead the way in fashion trends that I never follow, advertising campaigns for products I never buy, and are the same people who brought us Crystal Pepsi.
The mistake was short-lived. Though I didn't have the courage to tell the barber to wash it all out, ten minutes later, I was in my hotel room doing just that.
Getting what you want, even if it isn't that complicated, can truly be an adventure in a foreign country. From now on, I'm trusting my hair to the beard trimmer.
I wish I had a camera to show it off, but then, I was actually so embarrassed by it, that I took the long way back to the hotel, through an alley from the barber's, and then, a construction site. I doubt it would have occurred to me to take a picture. I have found a limit to my self-deprecating sense of irony.
I don't know why I can't get a good haircut here, generally, because I have the vocab and always explain what I want. In June, I went to a place near the hotel, and felt dumb for doing so when I was charged 20 YTL for the cut. On reflection, in the mirror, I realized that the barber had done a perfect job: not too short, not cut like a soldier's hair, layered on the sides, reasonable bangs... it was... nice to look at, fitting my personal aesthetic and demanding no attention whatsoever.
Until, it needed to be cut again.
I figured, I had gotten what I paid for, the haircut I wanted.
Never before had I had that in Turkey. I even once cut my hair myself, with a beard trimmer, because I couldn't rationalize paying 5 YTL for another Amerıkalı saç tıraşı, the 'American haircut', the one that makes me look like I'm a Marine. Lately, I've been in the habit of fixing each trim at home with the same beard trimmer.
Nothing against Marines... I just don't want to look like one.
This, I always thought should be simple, but over and over again, I got the same result, no matter what I asked from a barber. If I insisted my hair be kept long, or asked for "just a trim off the top", the result was always the same. Sometimes, barbers would even sneak up on me, and achieve the crew-cut effect with scissors, what the electric clippers could do in a quarter of the time. Just so long as they gave me the Amerıkalı saç tıraşı, which must be what they thought I really wanted, even though I never said it.
Thus, I was so happy with my haircut of eight weeks ago, that I returned to the same barber, fully prepared to pay another 20 YTL. I don't care if that's too much, or even if they were ripping me off. You must understand, in my quest to maximize utility, my lowered expectations had finally found an appropriate balance of price and quality.
Something went wrong...
The barber who had cut my hair previously was busy, but we made eye contact on my arrival. I read in his gaze that I could trust the other barber to do the same, fine job he had done, the job I would ask for after sitting down, and the job this new barber actually began doing. In fact, it is the same, fine job, of the first barber, but with a tragic or ironic twist.
Actually, with a totally tragic faux-hawk twist.
One must understand, the Turkish barber shop culture is about comfort. The barber didn't just trim my hair. He shampooed and conditioned my hair, twice. He massaged my face and shoulders with lemon cologne. He lulled me into a sense of security, a feeling of comfort, and I let down my guard. Then, while my eyes were closed, he attacked me with hair gel, a blow drier, and then hairspray.
Having not used 'product' on my hair, since high school, I thought, "let's see how the pros do it".
There is a logical fallacy in abdicating one's habitually simple desires to the whims of 'experts'. These same experts lead the way in fashion trends that I never follow, advertising campaigns for products I never buy, and are the same people who brought us Crystal Pepsi.
The mistake was short-lived. Though I didn't have the courage to tell the barber to wash it all out, ten minutes later, I was in my hotel room doing just that.
Getting what you want, even if it isn't that complicated, can truly be an adventure in a foreign country. From now on, I'm trusting my hair to the beard trimmer.
Tuesday, July 1, 2008
Kisses...
There are lots of details about a language that you just can't learn in a class. I'll make time to explain the multitudinous imprecations of the Turkish language later... maybe.
Anyhow, something I've run into a great deal lately, is the Turkish variation of SMS/EMail-speak. When I first encountered this sort of thing in English, I think I was thirteen. "BRB", "LOL", and "AFK", are all early examples that come to mind. After I moved to Turkey and acquired my first cell phone in 2004 (I know, much later than most), I remember getting messages from English-speakers to this effect: "Nice 2 c u 2day. Lets meet b4 class 2morow."
The Turkish effort is much the same, with numbers replacing certain sounds. However, in the race to simplify and truncate into the available 160 characters, I've noticed that vowels, silent letters, and even suffixes start to disappear. This happens mostly in the future tense, where Turkish picks up some long verb suffixes, but to give you a sense of what this looks like, I tried to compose an analogous example in English:
"Hey! Hwr u 2day? MayB go watch the match 2night, wna come? If not, lets meet 2mrow 2 drink T. By! :P"
I think, if you were learning English as a second language, the extent to which this can be confusing would be clearer.
It is obviously a very informal way of communicating, something only done with people familiar to the sender. I find the most interesting phenomenon in all of it, is the intersection of gesture and the text message, and I've noticed the word "öptüm" close a number of communiques.
After Turks meet with friends or family, the familiar good-bye is generally a kiss to both cheeks exchanged over a handshake or hug. After hearing a friend end a phone call this way, I realized that it is even common to end remote communications with a "kiss".
Any of the following phrases will do:
öpücük(ler)- kiss(es)
öptüm- I kissed
öpüyörüm- I kiss/am kissing
öpücük gönderiyorum- I'm sending a kiss
Anyhow, something I've run into a great deal lately, is the Turkish variation of SMS/EMail-speak. When I first encountered this sort of thing in English, I think I was thirteen. "BRB", "LOL", and "AFK", are all early examples that come to mind. After I moved to Turkey and acquired my first cell phone in 2004 (I know, much later than most), I remember getting messages from English-speakers to this effect: "Nice 2 c u 2day. Lets meet b4 class 2morow."
The Turkish effort is much the same, with numbers replacing certain sounds. However, in the race to simplify and truncate into the available 160 characters, I've noticed that vowels, silent letters, and even suffixes start to disappear. This happens mostly in the future tense, where Turkish picks up some long verb suffixes, but to give you a sense of what this looks like, I tried to compose an analogous example in English:
"Hey! Hwr u 2day? MayB go watch the match 2night, wna come? If not, lets meet 2mrow 2 drink T. By! :P"
I think, if you were learning English as a second language, the extent to which this can be confusing would be clearer.
It is obviously a very informal way of communicating, something only done with people familiar to the sender. I find the most interesting phenomenon in all of it, is the intersection of gesture and the text message, and I've noticed the word "öptüm" close a number of communiques.
After Turks meet with friends or family, the familiar good-bye is generally a kiss to both cheeks exchanged over a handshake or hug. After hearing a friend end a phone call this way, I realized that it is even common to end remote communications with a "kiss".
Any of the following phrases will do:
öpücük(ler)- kiss(es)
öptüm- I kissed
öpüyörüm- I kiss/am kissing
öpücük gönderiyorum- I'm sending a kiss
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