It's Understandable

Some thoughts on communicating when you have no idea what's going on

Learning new things is hard. Learning new things when you don’t understand much of the language is extra hard.

Just over a week ago, M. started school. There was some confusion as to where she was going to attend, but she ended up in a great place where she feels at home. On her first day, she was up with the alarm, putting on her clothes and excited about her new lunch box and water bottle.

It was a proper September day: bright, breezy, and cool. We walked and talked along the way, noticing the lights and shadows, chatting about a playground we liked and our plans for after school. She appeared upbeat and optimistic. We greeted her teacher at the classroom door, and she gave me a big hug before going in.

When I picked her up that afternoon, she was happy. She told me about her day and whose names she had learned. As we continued walking, she said, “I cried a bit when you left, Mama. I wanted one more hug.”

“Oh, I’m sorry; I didn’t realize that,” I said. “What happened after?”

She shrugged. “Not much.”

Later that evening, her teacher sent me an email. She told me how after M. started crying, the whole class sat in a circle and, in English, one by one said, “My name is…and I like…” M. was last, and she “very bravely” (the teacher’s words) said, “My name is M., and I like sharks.” I was so encouraged by the teacher’s thoughtfulness (not to mention delighted that M. felt safe enough to share–she really does love sharks).

Since then, M. and I have talked more about her experiences at school. Not understanding the language is the hardest part for her. More recently, she was in tears when some students from another class approached her and she didn’t know what they were asking. Naturally, she wants to know what’s going on, and it is terrifying when nothing makes sense and you can’t express yourself.

A few days later, I cycled to the local government office to hand in a registration form for M.’s school (there are so many forms in Germany, and most offices prefer/require a physical copy). The Rathaus was an old, stone building, imposing in its size and doubly intimidating after I went inside. It was cool and grey, with people’s voices echoing somewhere up ahead. The information board in the atrium offered little guidance, but I noticed that school-related departments were on the fourth floor.

I climbed the wide stone staircase, only to find two long, silent hallways lined with wooden doors. Unlike offices in Canada, there were no windows in the doors, just solid wood entryways as far as I could see. It felt like something out of a horror movie, and I had no idea where I was going.

At one point, a woman with an air or authority looked at my form and directed me to a short hallway with a small metal door at the end. The door looked like it led to a fire escape or a secret lair. That couldn’t be where she meant, so I kept looking. When she again found me wandering the halls, she repeated the same words to me (only louder this time–it didn’t help, go figure), and motioned for me to go through the metal door. So I did.

The metal door led to another long hallway lined with more solid wood doors. I was sweating. My mask was uncomfortable, and my bag was heavy on my shoulder.

When I eventually found the door that I thought was the right one (there were little signs next to each door, indicating the person’s name and their department), I knocked and then opened the door to find a bright, spacious office, and a scowling woman behind a desk. She reluctantly put on her mask and came to see my form. She said a bunch of things to me in fast-paced German, none of which made sense to me, but I fully understood her irritated tone. She ushered me out of the office and took the form with her. She closed the door.

This is where I almost cried for the first time that week. I felt like I had been scolded by the school principal. My throat was scratchy, my eyes welled up, and my cheeks were hot. As I waited, I looked out a window to the blue sky and the buildings beyond, and I made a promise to myself: as soon as this part is over, you can get a coffee from the cafe you saw on your way here. I work very well with rewards systems.

After a few minutes, the same woman came out of her office and from what I understood, explained that I needed to deliver the form to the school. Her tone and demeanour had changed completely. She spoke evenly, her body language was more open, and even with her mask on, I could tell that she was smiling, if slightly. I’m not sure what happened, but somehow, the encounter turned out ok (and the coffee afterwards was delicious).

I think about communication a lot. And it’s not just because I teach the subject. From a young age, I paid attention to language, to people’s accents (there were many around me), to word choice, to body language. If we were driving, I read every sign we passed, and I tried to make words and patterns from the license plates I saw along the way. I heard lines of story in my head. I still do all of this, often without realizing it.

Communication is so much more than language, of course. It involves facial expressions, tone of voice, body language, context, mood, personal biases, and cultural values and norms. Even when you understand the language perfectly, communication is challenging and misunderstandings happen all the time. But when you don’t understand the language, getting a simple message across (and trying to understand the response) is a lot of work. You have to “read” everything more intensely: the mood of the other person, the feeling in the room, the pauses, and facial expressions. You may recognize some words, yes, but you’re not sure how they fit together. It can be a painfully vulnerable and lonely experience, not to mention an exhausting one.

The next day, I found myself close to tears again, sitting in a circle in M.’s classroom. It was parent night, and we had just finished an ice-breaker activity that I had messed up twice. The teacher was explaining something I didn’t understand and then asked me to introduce myself. Twenty-five faces, the parents of M.’s classmates, stared back at me. I said something in German, and one of the parents said, “you can explain in English, if you like.” And with relief, and some embarrassment, I said a few sentences about who I was (I genuinely had no idea in that moment, but I think I said I was a teacher) and why we were in Berlin. As the meeting continued (for two sweaty hours, all in German, of course) the mother sitting next to me whispered some translations and smiled. Turns out, she was my parent sponsor. Every new family gets assigned a parent volunteer to help familiarize the new family with the school community, and we had sat next to each other without realizing it.

At the end of the meeting, other mothers greeted me separately and welcomed me to the school. They offered help and support, asking what part of Canada we were from, inviting me out for a drink with some of the other parents, and encouraging me to contact them if I had questions. Again, I thought I was going to cry, but this time for different reasons.