Why Vietnamese?

Most courses in college need no explanation--microeconomics, psychology, Latin literature, 18th century art, chemistry. But Vietnamese always brings with it a story, a burning reason as to why any student would think to suffer through it. Even other East Asian languages do not receive the same wide-eyed "Why?" from students.

My reasons for learning Vietnamese morph as I grow academically. I studied in Hanoi the semester after I graduated high school because I yearned for the unfamiliar: to speak an Asiatic language with tones, to learn the environmental concerns of a tropical region and the economic issues of a third world country, to live with a family and listen to their stories, to participate in lively celebrations and rituals, to experience a communist society, and to sympathize with a history of an underdog trying to prove itself and a lingering series of identity crises.

After my semester abroad, my reasons changed to a desire to speak more with the people I met. By the time I left Hanoi, I could keep a conversation going in a taxi for twenty minutes and throw in a few sentences at the dinner table, but I felt like I had not made many connections. My host family was well versed in body language, but how much can be said with an awkward laugh or emphatic gesture?

My study of language has led to an understanding of culture through the structure of its language. The Vietnamese language is fascinating and unique; its vocabulary and syntax are so logical. The word for "furniture" is the combination of the words for "table" and "chair" and the word for "refrigerator" is the combination of the words for "machine" and "cold". The lack of cognates frustrates me, but the linguistic simplicity makes me smile. My midterm is this week and one of the words I am responsible for is "to be worry free," which translates literally into "eat until full, sleep soundly." As I study, I will remember to take the true meaning to heart as well as the definition.

Dictionaries

Dictionaries are plane tickets. Flipping through the alphabet, I find words that will come in handy. Bathroom, tissues, soap, where, street, please, sorry, that, there, stop. I enjoy guessing an English definition by listening to the sound of a foreign word. Fango. Faaaaango. FanGO! The Spanish word for mud sounds so exciting, soothing and inviting. Edepol. Dull and dreary. Yet, it is the Latin word for “by Pollux!”

My favorite words are the ones that are rarely used in its language. Living with Italians for nine months, I never heard passerella, the Italian word for catwalk, or divampare, meaning to burst into flames, or loculo, a burial niche. I love the words that don’t exist in English, like fanfarronear, the Spanish verb for to show off in an arrogant and haughty way, or the Latin word sonipes, meaning prancing steed.

While reading my history homework or punching a function into my calculator, my friend slumps in a library chair and proclaims “I’m bored”. I stare at her, motionless. I want to take her chin in my hand and swivel her head so she can see the possibilities around her. I want to point out the entertainment like I point out the good movies at Blockbuster. But everyone uses dictionaries. No one, however, uses them with glee and fervor. Except me, of course.

I carry a foreign language mini-dictionary like ladies carry lipstick, as a permanent staple in my bag. My attachment to perusing dictionaries confuses the strangers on the subway: is she an American tourist trying to brush up her Spanish or a diligent Spanish student trying to grasp the exotic English language? If I speak to a friend in English on our way to Manhattan, I’m either secretly applauded for my impeccable American accent or ignored. If I speak to a friend in English on our train ride to Rome, I’m either glared at for being American or quietly commended for my dedication to master English.

I don’t skim dictionaries due to frustration with my own language; in fact, I love English as well. English has its own quirks. Though my other dictionaries boast of inane and onomatopoetic words, English takes the roots of these ancient and romance languages, adding an entirely new dimension. Yes, the Latin verb effervescere, to boil up, is quite lovely. But an effervescent personality? I bet those Roman scholars didn’t see that one coming. Bankrupt is derived from the Italian words meaning broken bench. Alarm used to mean to the arms, taken from those melodramatic Italians. Dictionaries are seen as dull books brimming with dry facts. But what about the mysteries and stories? Italians, for no explained reason, use the verb to make a bottle in the sense of to fail in a performance. So that verb, fare fiasco, has graciously given us the sharply consonant word fiasco. With a bent and coffee stained mini-dictionary in hand, no fiascos can come my way.