It’s common to associate intelligence with good communication skills. When we meet someone who speaks easily and fluently, we assume that person is intelligent and well-educated. The same is true for written communication.
All my childhood and teenage years, I lived under the misconception that my mother was not that bright. This is not unique—most of us felt way in our youth: Rebellious, wanting to grow up quickly and be independent; resisting our parents’ (boring) patterns, (bad) habits, (antiquated) ideas, and (surely psychologically damaging) teachings; bristling at (overly severe) correction and (surely undeserved) punishment; and just plain thinking they are not (NOT) cool.
Mom and I had additional challenges: The cultural gap was one. Even greater, however, was my mother’s lack of complete, crisp fluency in English. The cadence, speech patterns, and accent most Americans found cute and charming—what made her a Brazilian Lady—I perceived as undeveloped and unintelligent.
Denizens of the Inland Empire saw my mother as a transported tropical creature with a beautiful face and exotic voice, but I saw my mother through dunce-colored glasses.
"Fluency" by Andrea Bonifacio
I didn’t perceive something exotic or cute. All I heard was grammatical hiccups and embarrassing mispronunciations. And she didn’t even try to sound American—she brushed off my adamant grade-schooler’s know-it-all corrections like a bit of dust off her sleeve.
The notes she wrote in Christmas cards and the letters she wrote while I was in college only made it worse. I found them difficult to read: Grammatically messy; laden, loving, and loopy; saturated with saudade.
Handwriting
Since these letters seemed to always say almost the same things anyway, I got in the habit of not reading them too closely—especially since they always ended with “may the Dear Lord bless you” in some form or another, and at the time I had absolutely no use for that. You could park that truck outside, thanks.
It was beyond me to perceive how her wisdom in managing a household, raising children, and working through marriage challenges and tumults in a country far from her home were linked to a particularly bright brain. How could someone who communicated so poorly be all that smart?
It did not help that I was biased towards book-learning; taking advanced classes in almost every subject in school; reading, writing, and drawing over the summers instead of playing in sports or going to the mall. My head was full and my ignorance heaped up.
I think my first reality check about this came from my first boyfriend (God can send any type of messenger to get the word across…), a guy whose relationship with his own parents was highly adversarial. More than once, he chided me for imitating my mother. At the time, I was getting really good at doing impersonations, and she was one of my favorites. He laughed when I imitated my teachers, or movie stars, or the president, but whenever I parroted Mom, he’d me a quick, curt look and shake his head. That was all I needed. I’d stop, apologize, and change the subject.
That relationship didn’t last, but the scolding stuck. And I began to think differently, if not about my mother, then at least about how I was acting towards her. Eventually, I began to act differently as well.
Since that time, I’ve met plenty of educated idiots and heard the fluent communication of many well-versed morons. Plus, being done with college (for now), I’ve had my head out of full-time bookishness for decades. I thought I knew better: Don’t judge a person by the way they speak. But recently I found I still had more to learn.
When I was home this past Christmas, I forced my mother to speak Portuguese with me. I do this as much as I can, knowing I need the practice (we both do), and because I enjoy it. When we begin, she stumbles on her words just like I do. But we help each other, teaching and re-teaching where needed, and we get better as we go.
At one point, driving around the city running pre-holiday errands, we were talking in Portuguese about the relative safety of Americans traveling in Brazil. As she described her point of view on this and I sat and listened, it suddenly struck me: She is fluent in this language. Once past the warm-up point, she speaks fluidly, without grammatical problems or mispronunciations; the words flow with ease and the thoughts are expressed simply, easily, wisely.
"Fluency" by Andrea Bonifacio
She sounded—seemed—like an entirely different person. She was a different person, for a few moments, in my eyes. I saw her in her life there, in that country, with her family. I had a glimpse of the person she was in Brazil, speaking and interacting and enjoying life, without the cultural and communication stumbling blocks that came with life in the States. I could see her as more than my mother, my niece’s grandmother, and my father’s wife; more than a Brazilian transport; more than a good Catholic—she was deeper, completely multi-faceted; observant, funny, and yes, very smart.
Until then, I’d seen her pre-American life as a trompe l’oeil, but now I suddenly perceived it as a three-dimensional, five-sensory experience I barely knew anything about.
A moment later, she realized she needed to turn left on Alberta to reach the entrance to the Safeway parking lot. “I don’t want to miss the turn….” English spoken, spell broken.
But the revelation had already hit me: I was humbled. I didn’t know I had that humility coming. I thought I knew who she was and I thought I had grown in my view and understanding of her, but what I knew was still only part of the story. And I was grateful. Because in that moment I began to see a bigger, truer picture than I’d seen before, and though there still may be walls in the way, my learning her language is tearing them down.
… … …
I’ve often wondered, what do I sound like, stumbling through Portuguese? Sometimes I think I’m swimming, but maybe I’m still just splashing through puddles. Especially at first, I’m sure I sounded like this:
"Foolency" by Andrea Bonifacio
For almost a year now, I’ve been attending a Brazilian church in Queens. I pray there, I worship there, and I sing there, with my Brazilian family of faith. And I practice Portuguese with them, speaking and listening, questions and answers. I focus as much as I can on basic aspects of communication, just getting the conjugations right, the tenses, and the vocabulary. But I also hear a lot of accents and idioms, and I end up mixing in different pronunciations—paulista, or carioca, or do norte—depending upon whom I’ve been practicing with. I must sound rather strange—like a Southerner, a Californian, a Midwesterner, and a Bostonian all rolled into one.
And beyond that, I wonder: If my perception of my mother’s whole person was influenced and shaped by how she spoke to me, what must I seem like to Brazilians? Uneducated? Silly? Not that bright? When I go to visit my family, can I get by on the American Lady persona? And do I even want to?
But I can’t let myself be concerned about that—just getting the ideas across is work enough.
"No Foolency" by Andrea Bonifacio
Just getting that main flow right—communicating—is what I need to do. Regarding this, what’s great about this church is that it is multi-cultural. No grammatical sticklers here—everyone’s learning everyone else’s languages. We have to, and we enjoy it.
I’m thankful that because of this, they already have fewer walls than I did. And as long as the message is sound, I trust the perception of the messenger will be sound as well.
"Ordem e Progresso" by Andrea Bonifacio
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“Now go; I will help you speak and will teach you what to say.” –Exodus 4:12
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Beijos,
Andrea
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