My first words

Access: LimitedShow Details
  • This Doc can be read by: Anyone
  • This Doc can be edited by: The Doc author only
  • Comments are visible to: Anyone
  • Comments can be posted by: Logged-in Users
  • History can be viewed by: Anyone
Hide Details

My first words

 

 

 

“What’s wrong?”

“Why are you guys crying?”

“Are you Home sick?”

“Homesick?” I thought to myself. What does that even mean? Why are these people mixing words that do not make sense, I asked myself. The voices in my head began to laugh at the fact that the kids around me did not speak proper English. “What an Irony, you came here like two weeks ago, you don’t even speak English” another voice pointed out.

December eight, two thousand and eleven, here I am, with my twin sister, Fadi, in the school’s cafeteria crying to go back home, in Niger, to celebrate the day our mother gave birth to us. We felt lonely because we did not make friends to enjoy our day with.

My family and I moved from Niamey (Niger) to New York because my dad had an offer to become a representative of Niger, in the United States. America portrayed, on a television, as being the best place on earth to visit, we were euphoric by the good news. I still remember like it was yesterday. I week before we left, we told all of our friends the good news. The most common comment that came back was “you guys will only speak English now, how does it feel ?!” we replied by saying how confident we were in our capacities.

 

My father always wanted his kids to speak at least French and English, apart from our ethnical languages. He would always explain himself by exposing the fact that those two languages will help us anywhere in the world. This is the reason why, he bought a television cable, and installed it in his room, called “DSTV” that had most American channels with every show, in English. Because we, my siblings and I, were exposed to the language a lot, we were the best students in our English classes. Unfortunately, we did not know English the way we thought we did.

The first two weeks in New York, we stayed at our new home while my father was finishing up our school paperwork. Eager to start middle school, Fadi and I made up scenarios of how many friends we will make, how we will teach them French, while we learn English and speak like “Americans”. I would watch videos on YouTube of other people that are going through the same experience that I am and try to evaluate or have a sense of what I might expect. Another thing I did was ask one of my peers, Aissa how long it took her to learn English. I met Aissa at the French private school, Lycee la Fontaine, in Niger. In the middle of elementary school, Aissa’s parents decided that it was best for her and all of her siblings to attend “L’ecole Americaine”, which was and still is the only American school in Niger. It was a great school and most parents wanted to send their kids there, but it was also very expensive; even more than Lycee la Fontaine.

The first day of school was overwhelming because of the cultural shock. As the week went by, we started to get used to it. Still, the distinct communication ability did not really hit us until the day of our birthday, at lunch time. We were so accustomed to waking up, arriving at school to our one hundred and one group friends singing “Joyeux anniversaire les jumelles”, to wish us a Happy birthday. However, that day, we went to school and nobody said Happy birthday. “Maybe they don’t know”, I tried to make myself feel better. Our joyous emotions degraded in a matter of few hours, especially during our lunch period.

Sitting in the cafeteria, realizing that we were away from our friends, family and culture-basically a part of our identity- we started crying. In the midst of our tears, few boys and girls approached our lunch table and asked us why we were unhappy: “What’s wrong?”, “Why are you guys crying?”, “Are you Homesick?”
The word “homesick” caught my attention. I tried to come up with different definitions that will fit in the context, but none of them sounded legitimate. Discerning that we were not going to answer, they tried to make us feel better until it was time to go back to class.

As soon as I got home, I ran to my dad and told him about our miserable day at school. I curiously questioned: “Papa, what does homesick means?”
I recently talked to my dad over the phone and I evocated that instance. “I remember just like it was yesterday, you guys thought homesick meant being tired of staying home” he recalled, amused. “I explained that being homesick basically means to miss home, in your case missing Niamey” he continued. Melancholic, we both laughed and proceeded to unfold anecdotes of when we first moved to America.

 

He would always tell us about his experience. His journey started from Mississippi. He attended a military boarding school, where he learned English. At the time, he was already married to my mom and had their first two kids, my oldest sisters. Unlike my parents, my sisters were fluent in English because they went to school there. My parents, however, struggle a little bit because of their accent. When they moved back to Nigeria, it did not help. The English in Nigeria is completely “broken” compared to the American one. Through all this moving and changing of anglophone countries, my dad (my whole family too) was able to make a difference between the two Types of English and know when as well as how to use it. In a professional environment, he would use the American one. In contrast, when he gets with his friends from African anglophone countries, he uses what we call “the African broken English”.

Learning English was not a big challenge to overcome. At the time, I spoke French, Zarma, Hausa and I understood Fulani (these three languages are dialect from my country).  French is the national language in Niger. My dad comes from a tribe called “Zarma” and my mother is issued from the Fulani tribe. My mother grew up in a city of Niger called Maradi, which is where she grew up speaking hausa. Adding another language to the list was not an issue. Yet, it was a fun journey that I was- I still am- on.

 

Knowing many languages has its positive side, as well as its negative one.

To start with the pros, I love the fact that I can communicate and express myself differently. Also, I can confirm that one becomes multicultural from living and speaking many languages. To expand on this, it helps people one may encounter in life. For example, one time I was taking the two train to the city. When I got off at seventy second street, to transfer to the six train, I saw a man struggling to ask passengers his way. By his accent, I knew he spoke French. I went up to him and explained that I spoke French and that I can help him. His face lit up. He looked so relieved. The conversation continued in French, as I gave him the directions he asked for. He said thankyou and we each went our separate ways. To end on the good part of expressing oneself differently, in my family, we talk to each other using all the languages. Sometimes, we find ourselves saying one sentence using the five languages. The best part of it is that we are so used to doing it to the point where it is normal and natural. However, it is not always fun speaking and understanding, almost five distinct languages. The first annoying aspect of it that comes to my mind is: forgetting how to say some of the words while using one of the languages I speak, especially in French. For example, when one of my friends from Niger calls me and we are having a conversation, I forget words that I used to say so casually, and use the word, instead, in English. My friends hate it. This is mostly due to the fact that I am not surrounded by many people that speak French, other than my siblings and parents. In addition, I seldomly catch myself speaking French, Zarma or Hausa to my friends, here. I don’t realize it at first. When I see that the expression of their face’s changes to a non-comprehensive one, I then realize, my mistake. Although it can be annoying, my negative perspective of this gift that I have, is definitely overshadowed by my positive perspective. Learning to appreciate different linguistic abilities is the most beautiful thing that one can do. To this day, I always point out to my parents how grateful I am to speak all of these beautiful languages. My struggle in learning English is a process in which I was enlighted. Whether it was outside or inside of a classroom, learning is a highly important experience in society.

 

It is not easy changing from an environment that one is comfortable in to a foreign one, especially as a young kid, going to school. Kids can be very mean to each other, which is the reason why most of them will have the likelihood of trying to fit in, so bad. No one wants to be made fun of or feel neglected. But, it is very hard, especially when you are in a new culture with different aspects, including the language. I, personally, came to the realization that it is okay to not fit in and be different because it shaped me to be the person I am today.

 

 

Since birth, I, Kadidjatou Mossi have adapted to many cultural settings and learned different languages on my journey from Nigeria to Niger to New York. The African cultural presence in Niger will always be in my heart, and New York’s diversity will never fail to amaze me. I have adapted to many cultural settings on my journey, which helped me experience and view different styles.