The linguist’s tale – A personal confession of native language interference

 

The sad truth is the 99% of humanity will never sound like a native speaker when they speak a foreign language. We may have a great ear, solid knowledge of grammar and well-developed vocabulary. Yet, some strange turn of the tongue gives us away. The culprit is interference from our native language, tendencies that are so ingrained that they affect every other language we speak. It is similar to those habits learnt from our parents, which we swore we wouldn’t continue when we became adults, but which we have to ultimately accept. I will demonstrate by recounting my misdoings when I speak Russian, French and Hebrew, habits that I wish I could eliminate but never will. All that is left is accepting imperfection.

Russian involves a completely different form of thinking and construction. I have managed to grasp most of its peculiarities. Case declensions are a matter of memorization and practice. Putting a noun in the singular after any number that ends in the number 1, including 1,000,001, has its peculiar logic but still carries a rational rationale. Practice helps hone the differences between the imperfective and perfective verb forms, which reflect, as a rule, incomplete and complete actions, respectively. However, placing adjectival phrases before the noun they describe is beyond the ability of my brain to apply. To demonstrate, the English sentence “The dog sitting on the table enjoys vegetables roasted in the fire.” comes out in Russian “The sitting on the table dog enjoys roasted in the fire vegetables. This structure is too alien for me to apply consistently. Thus, I will always sound like an alien, a foreigner, when speaking Russian.

French is much more similar to English but also has its intricacies. A little practice helps a student master the subjunctive. Furthermore, my plus que parfait is almost better than perfect. After an insightful webinar by Grace Shalhoub, I even feel confident when I need to adjust the past participle to agree with the gender and number of the preceding direct object, not as simple as it may sound. However, regarding gender, here I fail. I cannot and have never been able to remember the rules for knowing whether the noun is masculine or feminine. Aside from the “tion” class of nouns, which are all feminine, I can find no rhyme or reason. Thus, I have always double-checked every noun to be sure. I do not trust my intuition or my ear, only the dictionary. It is my cross to bear in French.

Hebrew is my daily language. I enjoy a rich vocabulary and an intuitive sense of how to choose the proper verb category from the root. Thus, I can read awful Hebrew legalese and can apply the rules to form the right verb from a root even if I don’t formally grasp the rule. My downfall is cultural. In Hebrew, the verb form changes depending on whether the grammatical subject is male or female (as well as singular and plural). This manipulation occurs in 1^st, 2^nd and 3^rd persons. In simple words, the verb takes on a different form when a woman talks is or is talked about. As I have spent most of my life surrounded by females, e.g., spouse, daughter and colleagues, I tend to use the feminine form at all times, especially when I am tired and my brain is dragging. It sounds quite strange to refer to a male using the feminine form. In my defense, many foreigners make the same error. I understand that the cause of this error is the lack of such distinction in English. People forgive me because I am a foreigner but I am almost as embarrassed as my wife is when I make this error. I will continue to strive to reduce the error but it is impossible to eliminate.

This is my slightly tragic but mostly humorous tale about sounding like a foreigner. I know that I am not alone. The vast majority of people drag some feature of their native language into their adopted language. It is not a sin. However, as Tevye sang in Fiddler on the Roof, it is no great honor either. As humans are no more perfect in other parts of their lives, we have to accept our linguistic warts just as we need to come to peace with our other imperfections. To paraphrase Shakespeare, it is better to have spoken and erred than never have spoken at all.