“We are the cream of the crop in China and when we come here we don’t even know how to order coffee!”
A Chinese friend said this to my husband one day. She’s not alone in her struggle to figure out the seemingly ‘normal’. When we moved to the United States after years living overseas a new language seemed to have become an ‘official’ second language. It seemed amazing that this could have occurred in a country full of “English Only” zealots, but it did.
The language was “coffee” and came with its own vocabulary, syntax and idioms. What made it more confusing were the many dialects that existed, sometimes in the same neighborhood.
Coffee had ceased being a simple drink with one or two minor variations and had become a language full of politically correct pitfalls. These pitfalls and complex vocabulary resulted in two years of not getting the drink that I thought I had ordered. I was left with a feeling of stupidity and the belief that I would never master the task of learning to speak coffee. And because the language was most used in the context of tired people in long lines with morning breath and sweaters on their teeth there was little patience for someone who was a learner.
While going through the language-learning process in both Egypt and Pakistan, my feeble attempts grew more powerful each passing day as they were met with good humor and encouragement. Little smiles, gentle corrections, sometimes outright laughter all helped guide me through verbs, adverbs and adjectives, giving me confidence that Arabic and Urdu would indeed become easier. Not so in the land of Starbucks and Dunkin’ Donuts. The vernacular was serious and there was nary a smile to go with it. But I had suffered bad coffee long enough. In a tearful moment I swore that I would win – I would triumph. I would learn how to speak coffee and my coffee would no longer be too sweet or not sweet enough, too strong or too weak . It would be perfect because I would learn this language that had eluded me, the language of coffee.
My strategy was simple. I would mimic. This had served me well in the past. I had a good ear and would listen. Then when it was my turn at the counter I would repeat verbatim what the person two spaces in front of me had ordered. One space in front felt too creepy and I didn’t want any to suspect that I had no clue how to order coffee.
The first day I nervously waited, listened carefully and then repeated exactly as I heard:“I’ll take a grande triple shot soy vanilla latte”.
Relieved I stepped away from the counter. And then I waited. After what seemed far too long of a wait, my drink was ready and I took my first sip. I promptly spit it out and realized I had just lost four dollars and sixty cents. This was coffee? This had to be a joke. Feeling defeated I consoled myself that I was only on day one. There was a science to this and sooner or later I was bound to get the perfect cup. My plan was to try this for two weeks. Surely at that point my language skills would have improved sufficiently to have decent coffee.
To my fascination two weeks into this decision I realized with a little thrill that I had three good cups of coffee in a row. Not only that, I had been to two different language groups so I knew both a primary dialect and when necessary – a secondary dialect. More significant is that I was doing this without my voice catching, causing a little tremble that made me feel like a five-year old who isn’t completely catching on to hooked on phonics. My voice sounded strong and resilient, slightly arrogant and definitely knowing. The way the woman in front of me had sounded that morning with her perfectly coiffed hair and sophisticated black coat.
Who knew that a seemingly trivial thing like coffee would represent adjustment and effective living? The kind of angst it had evoked for such a long time was now over. What did it all mean? And though I didn’t want to read too much into it why did it feel so descriptive of my life? How shallow had I become?
As I’ve talked to others who have gone through a significant adjustment process, either through refugee and immigrant status or from living abroad, they echo these fears, this angst that comes with feelings of inability to master activities of daily living.
I realize that I’m not alone in finding the everyday tasks with unspoken rules to be the most daunting and on mastery yield the greatest sense of triumph.
For me it was coffee. Grocery shopping, public transportation, learning to drive (years past the age of the teenagers who confidently take to the road), and banking may seem easy but they all come with particular challenges and fears. It’s easy to feel isolated and defeated but that’s no way to live life, nor is it the modus operandi of the Third Culture Kid. We are described as being resilient and flexible, able to adapt to new situations in a moment’s notice. As we forge ahead wanting America (or Canada, or the UK or…) to work for us, wanting to live effectively in our new surroundings, these ‘every day’ skills are gradually learned. Sometimes they are mastered with excellence and we slowly relax and make temporary peace with our surroundings.
My language skills are now incredible! I could pass a state department language exam with the two major coffee dialects that are present in my neighborhood. I speak with skill and confidence. But periodically when I’m tired and forget whether the adjective is grande or medium I’m reminded of the time when the language was new and I was struggling. It is at those times that I am inevitably in the queue with someone who has limited coffee speaking ability, an impatient crowd tapping expensive shoes behind them, and I want to be bold enough to offer help. Sometimes that happens, but more often I end up forgetting the language myself and find that I am once again drinking a bad cup of coffee.
