Between Two Tongues
The Muse Letter No. 131
There’s a German word for that.
But not for this. The word I am thinking of die Muttersprachsehnsucht, the yearning for your mother tongue – that one; I just invented.
The homesickness to hear your real voice; not the contrived one, the one you created to fit in, to mimic an accent that is an act, really. A mixture of all the people I have in my ear all day, stored away to produce a strange symphony of sounds. Not quite here, not quite there.
I am between two tongues. All the time.
I love the surprise on people’s faces when I tell them that I’m German. Another one fooled. I think sheepishly. And I loathe the moment when someone is not. When they do detect it. Fallen out of the rhythm of my daily dance routine, missing the beat. Yeah, we can still hear it. You’re different. You’re still standing out.
It’s interesting this little wound in me: that hates to be different, yet also seeks every opportunity to be.
There’s a photograph of my confirmation at …