Our little chimp has mastered the distinction between Russian (a.k.a. mama-language) and English (a.k.a. papa-language). He no longer baffles his daycare teachers with weird made-up words that they automatically assume to be Russian, nor does he address them in Russian (which they believe to be largely made up). He mostly speaks English, such as it is, to his dad, and Russian, with minor linguistic twists, to me. I beam and pat myself on the head, lauding my undeniably brilliant language-teaching skills. I choose to ignore the fact that one of our son's first sentences, many months ago, was "Eat ptitsa!"
That is: "Eat a bird!" This, while watching an innocent robin fly by our kitchen window.
One question that immediately came to mind was whether the weirdness of content trumped the language combination.
That something foul was already afoot there becomes obvious from a series of recent high-chair quips. A small piece of ham is being examined, identified as "KITTEN!" and voraciously devoured. I shrug: clearly, this ostensibly horrifying piece of information, formulated in English, is directed at my husband. The next slice of ham is then held up between a thumb and a forefinger, and analyzed thusly: "Sobaka!" (a dog). And also eaten. This one, clearly, reserved for me. And then, pointing to the third piece, something that we will both surely understand: "Goofy!" Chewed and swallowed.
Perhaps the most disturbing piece of this narrative includes the admission that a toy cat, a toy dog, and a miniature version of Disney's Goofy all accompany our child to the crib: they are his sleep companions. Which he recognizes in the ham, and eats. Not to belabor this point.
And yet, we say not a word. Our son is a picky eater, so if he wants to pretend that ham is made from his darling toy pets, that is just fine in our screwed-up parental book.
----
Full disclaimer: I don't know if it was a robin that flew past our window. Maybe it was pigeon. Or a seagull. I don't know birds.
----
Also, I don't know if it was an innocent bird. Maybe it was one of those Alfred Hitchcock-affiliated birds, with blood dripping from its beak. A guilty, experienced bird. Maybe it just pecked an opossum to death. Maybe it was carrying the said opossum in its giant beak to devour it in the bushes, and my son's remark was directed at the bird's impending feast. Who can tell?
24 February, 2010
19 January, 2010
Gender trouble
My husband and I are teaching our child to count: he does it in English, obviously, and I do it in Russian. In order to teach his son count to two, my husband has to impress one word upon him: "two." And suggest that, with some exceptions, adding an "s" to the end of any given word will make it plural. Example: One ball. Two balls. One cup. Two cups. Here is one cup. Here are two cups. Here are the cups. Note how "two" and "cups" stay immutable.
Not so for me. First, I have to teach him numbers: "odin, dva, tri" ("one, two, three"). Then I have to explain that one rarely uses "odin" in counting things in general -- one uses "raz" (literally, "one time") instead. Then I have to mention that "odin" is actually masculine, as in "odin myach" ("one ball"), while to properly address a feminine noun, such as "chashka" ("a cup"), one uses "odna": "odna chashka." Further, I have to explain to my child that although he may point to the cups, and count "raz, dva" ("one, two"), in accounting for the precise number of the cups, he has to say "dve chashki", and, while counting balls, he should say "dva mayacha" (and on it goes). Moreover, the general plural of "myach" ("a ball") is "myachi" ("balls"), "myacha" when coupled with "dva" or "tri" ('two or three balls"), and "myachej" when coupled with, say, "pyat'" ("five"). Cups fare only slightly better.
So far, I refuse to count objects that are neuter, and therefore have their own set of rules. "A window? I see nothing of the sort, honey. It's just a hole (feminine) in the wall (feminine), covered in transparent material (masculine)." Glass", needless to say, is neuter.
In order to mitigate the gendering issue somewhat, I am using examples of mommy and daddy to introduce my son to different words that connote the same animal of a different gender -- exception in vernacular English, a rule in Russian. Such as: "kot" (a male cat) and "koshka" (a female cat). Such as: "mama koshka, papa kot." Today my child, pensively looking at a farm animal puzzle, announced: "mama -- svinya" ("mama -- pig"). The deliciousness of this situation lies in the habit of my language to drop superfluous verbs when the meaning is obvious: "mama -- svinya" literally means "mom is a pig." I was further characterized as a she-goat and a chicken.
Perhaps not the smartest strategy, after all.
Not so for me. First, I have to teach him numbers: "odin, dva, tri" ("one, two, three"). Then I have to explain that one rarely uses "odin" in counting things in general -- one uses "raz" (literally, "one time") instead. Then I have to mention that "odin" is actually masculine, as in "odin myach" ("one ball"), while to properly address a feminine noun, such as "chashka" ("a cup"), one uses "odna": "odna chashka." Further, I have to explain to my child that although he may point to the cups, and count "raz, dva" ("one, two"), in accounting for the precise number of the cups, he has to say "dve chashki", and, while counting balls, he should say "dva mayacha" (and on it goes). Moreover, the general plural of "myach" ("a ball") is "myachi" ("balls"), "myacha" when coupled with "dva" or "tri" ('two or three balls"), and "myachej" when coupled with, say, "pyat'" ("five"). Cups fare only slightly better.
So far, I refuse to count objects that are neuter, and therefore have their own set of rules. "A window? I see nothing of the sort, honey. It's just a hole (feminine) in the wall (feminine), covered in transparent material (masculine)." Glass", needless to say, is neuter.
In order to mitigate the gendering issue somewhat, I am using examples of mommy and daddy to introduce my son to different words that connote the same animal of a different gender -- exception in vernacular English, a rule in Russian. Such as: "kot" (a male cat) and "koshka" (a female cat). Such as: "mama koshka, papa kot." Today my child, pensively looking at a farm animal puzzle, announced: "mama -- svinya" ("mama -- pig"). The deliciousness of this situation lies in the habit of my language to drop superfluous verbs when the meaning is obvious: "mama -- svinya" literally means "mom is a pig." I was further characterized as a she-goat and a chicken.
Perhaps not the smartest strategy, after all.
12 January, 2010
French, Russian, Yogurt
My son does many things that prove to be a source of unending hilarity and pride to me:
He says "Matisse" in French with a perfect French accent -- or at least it is so to my ear, which means he is likely saying "Matisse" in French with a very thick Russian accent (as my kind Parisian friends referred to it last summer, "un accent à couper au couteau" -- I still shake in indignation). He brings me a book of Matisse's work, articulates the artist's name, and demands that we discuss several things of interest: the boats, the lighthouse, the naked men, the red room, the piano-playing mama, etc. He then brings me a book of Van Gogh's paintings, announces in Russian: "Van Gog!" and proceeds to identify various protagonists of various paintings as Van Gogh (Van Gog) himself. He cements his identifications by pointing to the small Van Gogh doll with a detachable ear we proudly display on one of the bookshelves.
My son corrects his father's pronunciation of Russian words. Often randomly and incorrectly, confusing the poor man still further.
"Cheburashka" is a really hard word to pronounce. One knows it starts with a "ch"; one knows it looks like a dog -- "sobaka" (a.k.a. "babaka", my son's first word, my son's go-to word, my son's favorite word). The result: that's right, "Chewbacca."
And while we are on the subject of Cheburshka:
In an attempt to teach my child language through play, I purchased him a set of blocks inscribed with Russian letters, each of which features an image from a fairy tale. Or purports to do so. Sometimes, the artist's imagination runs amock. Cheburashka (on letter "ч") looks like a sickly Teletubby, for instance. And what do you do with a Russian equivalent of "Y" ("й"), with which not a single fairy-tale character's name begins? Why, you exercise your imagination, and simply invent one! Like "Yogurt", for instance... My son brings this block to me often. "This," I say, pointing, "is the Little Red Riding Hood. This," I continue, turning the block over in my hand, "is one of the Three Little Piggies. And this, honey, is Yogurt, the Probiotic Hero..."
He says "Matisse" in French with a perfect French accent -- or at least it is so to my ear, which means he is likely saying "Matisse" in French with a very thick Russian accent (as my kind Parisian friends referred to it last summer, "un accent à couper au couteau" -- I still shake in indignation). He brings me a book of Matisse's work, articulates the artist's name, and demands that we discuss several things of interest: the boats, the lighthouse, the naked men, the red room, the piano-playing mama, etc. He then brings me a book of Van Gogh's paintings, announces in Russian: "Van Gog!" and proceeds to identify various protagonists of various paintings as Van Gogh (Van Gog) himself. He cements his identifications by pointing to the small Van Gogh doll with a detachable ear we proudly display on one of the bookshelves.
My son corrects his father's pronunciation of Russian words. Often randomly and incorrectly, confusing the poor man still further.
"Cheburashka" is a really hard word to pronounce. One knows it starts with a "ch"; one knows it looks like a dog -- "sobaka" (a.k.a. "babaka", my son's first word, my son's go-to word, my son's favorite word). The result: that's right, "Chewbacca."
And while we are on the subject of Cheburshka:
In an attempt to teach my child language through play, I purchased him a set of blocks inscribed with Russian letters, each of which features an image from a fairy tale. Or purports to do so. Sometimes, the artist's imagination runs amock. Cheburashka (on letter "ч") looks like a sickly Teletubby, for instance. And what do you do with a Russian equivalent of "Y" ("й"), with which not a single fairy-tale character's name begins? Why, you exercise your imagination, and simply invent one! Like "Yogurt", for instance... My son brings this block to me often. "This," I say, pointing, "is the Little Red Riding Hood. This," I continue, turning the block over in my hand, "is one of the Three Little Piggies. And this, honey, is Yogurt, the Probiotic Hero..."
04 January, 2010
Russian Books: Cultural Differences
It is fair to mention that Russian fairy tales differ dramatically from those familiar to American children. American children read about a mischievous cat that helps children entertain themselves while their parents are not home. Russian children, conversely, read about Kolobok, an animated piece of dough that runs away from its (his -- he is decidedly male) pseudo-grandparents, rolls through the forest meeting and escaping a series of beasts (a hare, a wolf, and a bear) by singing a song, only to be outwitted and eaten in the end by a fox. On the first morning the book appeared in our house, my horrified husband brought it to me.
“Honey,” he said in a voice one uses to address the disturbed and the infirm, “there is a book here I cannot read. It is about a disembodied head.”
After I persuaded him that the story was largely innocuous, he expressed a wish to learn it, so that he may tell it to our son upon request. When I came to the last line of the tale, “and she – gulp! – ate him”, I stopped. My husband was silent for a while, studying the pictures, then trying to flip to the next page. There was no next page.
“And?” he asked.
“And what?” I asked in turn.
“And what happened next?”
“That’s it,” I said. “She ate him.”
“That’s it?” he said. “Are you sure? She – gulp – ate him?”
“Yep.”
“The fox ate the disembodied dough head – that’s the end of your fairy tale?”
Suddenly, the beloved childhood story did begin to seem a touch unreasonable.
“Well,” I said, “You should learn your lesson, I suppose. Don’t talk to strangers. It is preparing you to face the cruelty of the world.”
He shook his head.
“Brothers Grimm wrote worse stuff than this!” I said defensively. “You Americans only know the edited versions! And H. C. Andersen? You think that little Mermaid really got off scot-free? Try razor-sharp pain in her new legs!”
He just looked at me, in silence.
“And what about the Little Match Girl?” I yelled, half-hysterical, my eyes brimming with triumphant tears. “Huh? The way she went, she wished she were eaten by a fox!”
This, effectively, brought the conversation to an end.
While I find the content of my son’s Russian books to be perfectly wonderful, I do at times question the illustrators’ choices. Why, for instance, is there always a poisonous mushroom in the picture, when its presence is never called for? I present my case:
Little House (Teremok): this one is a true gem -- filled to the brim with unpleasant fungi of all kind, not a single one specified by the story. It makes me shudder.
“Honey,” he said in a voice one uses to address the disturbed and the infirm, “there is a book here I cannot read. It is about a disembodied head.”
After I persuaded him that the story was largely innocuous, he expressed a wish to learn it, so that he may tell it to our son upon request. When I came to the last line of the tale, “and she – gulp! – ate him”, I stopped. My husband was silent for a while, studying the pictures, then trying to flip to the next page. There was no next page.
“And?” he asked.
“And what?” I asked in turn.
“And what happened next?”
“That’s it,” I said. “She ate him.”
“That’s it?” he said. “Are you sure? She – gulp – ate him?”
“Yep.”
“The fox ate the disembodied dough head – that’s the end of your fairy tale?”
Suddenly, the beloved childhood story did begin to seem a touch unreasonable.
“Well,” I said, “You should learn your lesson, I suppose. Don’t talk to strangers. It is preparing you to face the cruelty of the world.”
He shook his head.
“Brothers Grimm wrote worse stuff than this!” I said defensively. “You Americans only know the edited versions! And H. C. Andersen? You think that little Mermaid really got off scot-free? Try razor-sharp pain in her new legs!”
He just looked at me, in silence.
“And what about the Little Match Girl?” I yelled, half-hysterical, my eyes brimming with triumphant tears. “Huh? The way she went, she wished she were eaten by a fox!”
This, effectively, brought the conversation to an end.
* * *
While I find the content of my son’s Russian books to be perfectly wonderful, I do at times question the illustrators’ choices. Why, for instance, is there always a poisonous mushroom in the picture, when its presence is never called for? I present my case:
Kolobok
Three Little Pigs
Geese and Swans (Gusi-Lebedi)
Here Comes the Goat (Idyet Koza Rogataya)
Stomp-Stomp-Stomping (Top-Top-Topotushki)
Three Little Pigs
Geese and Swans (Gusi-Lebedi)
Here Comes the Goat (Idyet Koza Rogataya)
Stomp-Stomp-Stomping (Top-Top-Topotushki)
Little House (Teremok): this one is a true gem -- filled to the brim with unpleasant fungi of all kind, not a single one specified by the story. It makes me shudder.
03 January, 2010
Pushkin and the Pig
For the past twenty months I have done my best to teach my child my native language -- Russian -- the beautiful, elegant, sophisticated language of writers and thinkers. My challenges are many, for no one in our little college town knows any Russian whatsoever (the university's Linguistics Department having been ingloriously dissolved several years ago). I speak only Russian to him (effectively forcing my husband to learn the foreign tongue in order to communicate with his only child). I order him Russian-language books from New York (from lavishly produced Pushkin's fairy tales to a series of hideously illustrated animal-themed books that smell suspiciously like gasoline). Our fridge is festooned with poorly-made Cyrillic letter magnets (which I have obsessively washed in the kitchen sink for at least thirty minutes before allowing them to be handled). Among his favorite toys are Crocodile Gena and Cheburashka, the two beloved characters of old Soviet books and cartoons. Gena sings his famous Birthday Song (non-stop). Cheburashka, conversely, is equipped with a rich array of difficult-to-decipher phrases, including "Would you like some milk?" that sends my son into immediate frenzy, for, in lieu of food, he does want milk, all the time. Our attempts, per our pediatrician's advice, to limit his intake of dairy have now been undermined by a furry creature with giant eyes and enormous ears.
As a result of all of these efforts, our toddler can count in both languages; knows every single letter of the Russian alphabet except for the soft and hard signs; can say at least fifty recognizable words in Russian; and chimes in when I read poetry to him. Yesterday, I oozed with unabashed maternal pride as I recited Pushkin's famous "U lukomorya dub zelyenij" poem, and my son interjected "dub!" (oak), "tsep" (chain), "kot" (cat), "krugom!" (around). I lost myself in a reverie: my son at Harvard at the tender age of ten, a Nobel laureate in Literature at the age of twenty, thanking his mother for all the hard work she put into raising him. All contemplation of my child's genius was interrupted by his scream: "PIG! PIG!!!" -- and frantic searching under the couch. Thirty seconds later he emerged triumphant, covered in filth (we really do need to clean under there), holding a small paper pig he ripped out from the book Tickle the Pig.
All attempts to return him to the refined world of nineteenth-century poetry failed miserably.
As a result of all of these efforts, our toddler can count in both languages; knows every single letter of the Russian alphabet except for the soft and hard signs; can say at least fifty recognizable words in Russian; and chimes in when I read poetry to him. Yesterday, I oozed with unabashed maternal pride as I recited Pushkin's famous "U lukomorya dub zelyenij" poem, and my son interjected "dub!" (oak), "tsep" (chain), "kot" (cat), "krugom!" (around). I lost myself in a reverie: my son at Harvard at the tender age of ten, a Nobel laureate in Literature at the age of twenty, thanking his mother for all the hard work she put into raising him. All contemplation of my child's genius was interrupted by his scream: "PIG! PIG!!!" -- and frantic searching under the couch. Thirty seconds later he emerged triumphant, covered in filth (we really do need to clean under there), holding a small paper pig he ripped out from the book Tickle the Pig.
All attempts to return him to the refined world of nineteenth-century poetry failed miserably.
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