Other languages

When I was in 3rd of 4th grade, my teacher went around the room and asked her students if their parents spoke another language in their home. She was very quiet about the question. She did not make an announcement, or ask each child to publicly proclaim their possible heritage. Instead, she walked up to each child, at different times, and had a whispered conversation. I remember ours very clearly.

She knelt down next to me and smiled. I think she even put her hands on my shoulders before speaking.

"Do your parents speak any other languages at home?" she asked. I remember, even at that young age, feeling bad for her. It seemed like she was embarrassed to ask, what she may have considered something a child should not have to answer; a question that, while simple enough, may have warranted a much deeper explanation as to why she was inquiring. I seem to remember her looking away as the words came out of her mouth.

I sat and pondered the question for a moment. My teacher continued smiling at me, waiting.

"Do they?" she asked again."

I thought about the conversations my parents had at home. I thought about the conversations we had in the car, at the dinner table, sitting on the back deck. Every time we spoke, the words were uttered in English. I was about to answer my teacher, and tell her my parents did not speak another language. But then I remembered the times my parents spoke to each other about things they didn't want us to know. Times when the conversations could not wait until a private moment. Times when maybe they wanted to surprise us, or finish an argument. They did speak in another language.

"Yes," I said, softly, "My parents speak in a different language sometimes." My teacher's smile widened. Maybe I was the first person to answer her question with a positive answer. It was as if she had won a prize.

"They do?" she asked, not wanting to seem too eager.

"But it's not just in our house," I said. "Sometimes they speak another language in the car and places like that."

My teacher laughed, quietly. "That's okay. I didn't just mean 'in your house,' like I said. They can speak the language other places too."

It was my turn to smile. I was beginning to feel like I won a prize too. A prize shared between me and my teacher. A special prize. A bond.

"What language do they speak?" she asked, ready to get the answer and move on to her next task.

"My parents always speak pig latin when they talk about important stuff," I said.

"Pig latin?" my teacher repeated as she stood up from her position next to me. Her smile had faded. "Pig latin," she snapped, "is not a real language, Cory."

Our bond was immediately broken.