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Peace Statue
Peace Park, Nagasaki, Japan
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Recently I spent a day with two breathtakingly beautiful
aristocratic women from the city of Nagasaki in Japan, a mother and
her daughter. It was a truly remarkable opportunity, remarkable
because they didn't speak English and I don't speak one
word
of Japanese.
Well, maybe one
word
... perhaps two. I can say
arigato
at appropriate times, and I recognize the respect with which they
called me Laurence-san.
But beyond that, the
language
barrier between us was complete, total, and impenetrable.
What's the opportunity of a
language
barrier? Actually it's a gold mine. Throughout the day with them I
kept coming up against a fundamental distinction of what it is to
be human. I kept coming up against
"who I am
is my
word".
In other
words,
I kept coming up against
"who I am
is
language".
That's distinct from
"who I am
is a
language".
It's very subtle. I'm not the English
language
although I speak it.
Who I am
is
language.
They're not the Japanese
language
although they speak it. Who they are is
language.
Even though
who I am
is
language,
and who they are is
language
so we are the same, if I can't speak their
language
and they can't speak mine, how do I be with them? The
distinction is disconcerting.
Being unable to speak Japanese with them, I spoke English. When it
became embarrassingly obvious they couldn't understand a
word
I was saying, I spoke slower. Then when that didn't work, I
spoke slower and louder. I know how totally
asinine that is. But I did it anyway. They still
didn't understand. They couldn't understand. All they
got was my frustration. That, plus the fact Laurence-san speaks
English slowly and loudly.
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