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Stranded off Venice

I found out how it feels not to speak the majority language abroad, then at home.

By Analee Pepper
LALA Reporter

2:17 p.m. in a gas station off Venice Blvd. and I want nothing more than to speak their language. I was lost and needed a restroom. As I waited in line to ask if there was a key, I became aware of my surroundings. I was the only non-Latino, non-Spanish-speaker in the store, and although the customers had come from separate cars they talked as though they were family, laughing and joking together. I don't know more than two dozen words in Spanish, uno to diez included, so, to eavesdrop, I was forced to rely on facial expressions and gestures. I have a habit of listening in on groups that I don't belong to.

The diversity of Los Angeles promises acceptance but produces divisions. On this afternoon, my sudden linguistic isolation startled me, as it had done regularly when I lived in other countries. I was reminded how languages make a layout for life, limiting my relationships and experiences. When I reached the cashier I wanted so badly, but without understanding why, to ask in Spanish where the restrooms were. Instead, I sheepishly approached the front, feeling every pair of eyes regarding me—not with any prejudice, only anticipation—asked in English, found out there was no restroom, and left with an inexplicable feeling of shame. I didn't belong. I understood the isolation felt daily by limited-English speakers. I was an English speaker at a disadvantage because I could not speak the language of a Chevron station off Venice Blvd., not a huge shock in this city of angels.

LA Language World (LALA) welcomes "First Person" and other submissions from readers.

Date Posted: 3/18/2008