The Power of the Words
On language and understanding
During the six years I have lived in Germany, I have listened to German radio, watched Netflix series with German subtitles, and attempted basic conversations with my German neighbors, colleagues, and local shopkeepers. For the last year, I have also engaged in weekly German lessons with a very patient teacher who is used to hearing non-native German and helps me feel coherent and understood. A few weeks ago, I took (and passed) the German B1 — or intermediate level — exam.
I have done this because I believe one cannot understand someone else’s culture if one does not understand their language. Indeed, a few weeks ago, my mind was blown when my German teacher explained that Germans do not use the future tense. Germans do not say, “Next month, I will go on vacation;” they say, “Next month, I go on vacation.” One might assume this is a signal of storied German efficiency, but the reasons are deeper and more complex.
Credit helps to explain this perspective. In Germany, credit is a fraction of what it is in the U.S. Many purchases — from groceries and home goods to cars and houses — are bought with cash (sometimes even literally, though Covid did accelerate business acceptance of debit cards and even Apple Pay). As a German friend explained, “The idea of not spending more than you have is instilled in us, and a reason why government spending and the desire to break even in our federal budget is always a big topic.”
While I do not fully comprehend it, understanding the language helps me understand the perspective of my neighbors, friends, and colleagues. In understanding, I can be a better neighbor, friend, and colleague.
It can be hard to find a spot in a B1 exam because it is one of the requirements for non-EU citizens who want to live and work in Germany. Before we opened our test booklets, the proctor asked us where we were born. Uzbekistan. China. India. Egypt. Turkey. Russia. Colombia. Serbia. Thailand. Georgia.
I chimed in with, “Ich bin aus der USA,” which caused a reaction. Heads turned. The proctor stopped by my desk and asked me where I was born. She asked me if it snows a lot and when I went home most recently. After our short conversation, she continued quickly through the rest of the class.
The proctor partnered the Uzbek and me for the verbal part of the exam. He was taking the exam to secure further work qualifications; ultimately, he would like to gain German residency and bring his wife and young children to join him.
I was taking the exam because it is one of the qualifications to apply for permanent EU residency, but also out of curiosity, to see if I could pass it.
I am a different person in German than I am in English. I get flustered and give up easily. My voice is higher and more singsongy. I am less confident and more childlike. A five-year-old in my building speaks much better German than I but seems to enjoy our conversations more than most native speakers.
In English, I think, live, and dream primarily in the conditional sense — the coulds, shoulds and woulds of life. With one exception — Ich möchte gern einen Kaffee — I struggle mightily with the conditional tense in German. Had I known I would live here for six-plus years, I would have started studying earlier.
My first attempt to learn German was with the Deutsche Welle podcast “Deutsch — warum nicht?” There is a good reason why nicht…when a podcast focuses on vocabulary words like “cassette tape” and Deutsche Marks, one feels one might not be prepared for modern life.
I added in Duolingo and Rosetta Stone. I never quite got the hang of Rosetta Stone, but I loved Duolingo. I found some vocabulary words odd — do I need to know what die Steckdose is? — but it turns out, when renting an apartment it is helpful to know where the electrical outlets are.
Duolingo was appropriate because learning German was a game for me. It was something I wanted to do, something I liked to do; it was not something I needed to do.
My B1-test partner had been in Germany for six months, yet we were taking the same exam. Our German was at the same level because he needs German in his daily life. The test was not a game for him.
At my new office, I am one of a handful of non-Germans; two of the non-Germans I know have lived in the country for more than 20 years and speak German fluently. Office signs are in German; corporate emails are in German first, with English translations; onboarding sessions and employee resource group meetings are in German.
Initially, I was annoyed when I received an invitation to an International Women’s Day series of events about financial health in planning. On a day about inclusion, I felt excluded; even with my newly-minted intermediate certification, financial planning in German is beyond my comprehension.
Then I realized that a large majority of the employees in Germany are Germans, who will likely retire in Germany. They may be working in English, but they are living in German. While they speak English, their lives and their futures are in German. Why do they need to adapt for me, especially when I do not plan to retire in Germany?
When a Danish friend told me he learned Spanish during the pandemic, I switched our conversation to Spanish.
“That’s weird,” he said, “I know you in English.”
The comment made me think. It made me realize that I know everyone in English. It made me realize that I do not even think about the language in which I know people. I have never thought about this.
In all likelihood, my Danish friend and I speak at the same level, whether we are talking German, Spanish, or English. Yet we met at work, where our official language was English, and as it is my native language, we never tried to know each other in another language. As we talked about this, we realized it is not so easy to know another person — their dreams and fears, their hopes and desires — in another language.
As a part of our annual Oscar challenge, my husband and I watched (at least part of) all of the Best Picture nominees. Many of these films — including the Best Picture winner CODA — touched on the idea of language, communication, and understanding.
The Best Foreign Film, Drive My Car, addressed this topic from a perspective I had not considered. In the film, actors from different countries prepare for and perform Uncle Vanya while acting in their native languages.
The first step is the table read. To the frustration of the actors, they spend endless rehearsals in this manner, reading lines in their language and knocking on the table when it is the next actor’s turn.
Eventually, the actors leave their table and scripts and act a scene. They execute the scene, but it is mechanical. They are focused on their cues rather than interpreting and reacting to the substance of the lines. After this failed attempt, they return to the table to connect more deeply with the script’s meaning.
The breakthrough comes when the class takes their rehearsal outside. Two cast members, one speaking Korean Sign Language and the other speaking Mandarin, communicate as if they speak the same language. While they cannot understand each other’s words, they feel what the other is saying; care, understanding, and empathy course through their bodies.
Like many cities in Germany, Nuremberg is welcoming Ukrainian refugees. There are signs in Ukrainian around the city, Ukrainian announcements at the train station, regular demonstrations, and multiple Telegram channels where one can find ways to volunteer and support new arrivals.
I moved here at the end of the Syrian refugee crisis. (Indeed, die Flüchtlingskrise was one of the first words I learned from German news.) At the time, my impression was that the German government and people felt obligated to open their borders to refugees as a form of repentance for atrocities committed 70 years earlier. With the rise of the far-right AfD in the 2016 election, we learned that not every German felt the same way.
Today, Germany and Nuremberg are employing numerous efforts to help Ukrainian refugees integrate into Germany while maintaining their connection to their home language and culture. There are programs for adults to help them learn German, recognize their professional qualifications, and prepare them for the German labor market. One of the public broadcasters is showing Ukrainian children’s programs, while the city has created German-Ukrainian playgroups.
I understand the focus on integration and appreciate the efforts to help these new arrivals maintain their connection to their home language and culture. I imagine the German government predicts that future political and cultural stability rests on the ability to downplay differences as much as possible. If they choose to stay in Germany, the mostly-white Ukrainian refugees will probably have an easier time than the Syrians who came before them.
Yet in the last six years, my friends from former Soviet republics and Communist countries in Eastern Europe — including Germans from East Germany — have told me they often feel discriminated against here. They are paid less and overlooked for promotions; they feel perceived as backward and dumb.
It seems many Ukrainian refugees hope their stay is temporary and they can return home. Whether or not they choose to remain, I suspect many Ukrainians will become proficient in German quickly; they will integrate into German culture seamlessly and secure permanent residency or citizenship, should they so choose. Like my partner from Uzbekistan, I imagine they will be taking their B1 exams in six months.
We — the Ukrainian refugees, my fellow test-takers, and I — are all foreign nationals in Germany, but I cannot pretend that we are living the same experiences. In English, we have created words that divide and distinguish us. We use “migrant” or “refugee” or “expatriate,” words that imply agency or necessity and have classist or discriminatory undertones.
As much as it may be accurate to say I am a “migrant,” it feels dishonest to label myself as such. I cannot begin to understand what it would feel like to need to leave my homeland. To a certain extent, I can understand the challenges and small wins of setting up a life in a new country, but I do not know how it feels to need to set up a life in a new country. I did not, and do not, have any pressure to make my life here work.
Enamored of Europe on his first trip to visit us, our American nephew asked us which foreign language he should study. My husband had a practical recommendation: Mandarin or Spanish.
I told our nephew it depended on his situation and his objectives. As a native English speaker, I explained, he will often find an English speaker along his travels; if he is working internationally, the business language will likely be English. I warned him not to underestimate the privilege of being a native English speaker from a culturally-dominant country.
Wherever he chooses to go, life will be easier for him. His challenge, and mine, is to make lives easier for those around us.
