self

If you’ve ever read Self by Yann Martel (and I suggest you do), you’ll know that he uses different languages in a way that indicates both familiarity and disconnect at the same time. When I hear “not English”, my ears attempt to pick out similar English sounding cousins. It’s possible for me with some languages like French, Spanish, Italian and German. But with Amharic, particularly when I first got here, I couldn’t even identify any long lost, twice-removed cousins.

Martel splits the page in to columns. On one side is the continued English dialogue/narrative familiar to the reader while the other column switches to another simultaneous dialogue in Hungarian, Spanish or French. As I read the English half, I continually glance over, looking for familiar characters sometimes understanding (if it’s French), sometimes not (Hungarian).

Being constantly surrounded by a foreign (although slowly more customary) language makes me feel like a split page from Self. I am the page. I am a whole person but...

My own English dialogue runs continually through my brain but I am sometimes able to tune into the other continuous dialogue that constantly flows around me. The sounds and intonations of Amharic are familiar and almost comforting so much so that when I was in Dubai alone, I purposefully walked close enough to Ethiopians to hear those distinct lilts and tones.

I can feel disconnected. After some time alone at home – reading or watching a movie – I leave the house and there’s a distinct, almost audible click in my brain that reminds me of where I am and that my ever-developing Amharic may be required. Sitting at a table full of Amharic-speaking friends, knowing they’re speaking and so therefore I should somehow understand but only managing to blink at the joke can instantly induce loneliness.

I recently realized I no longer casually overhear conversations. It’s become mere words that I catch, which means I’m almost continually in my own head. I know this place is changing me, changing my synapses in other ways but language-wise, I’m waiting for my brain to adapt. It will force itself to catch up.

On a random street, I recognized my name in Amharic script. It’s those little gleeful moments that I hope will string together to create a woven page.