Canada Day. Quebec City.
I was enjoying a fireworks show, minding my own business sitting in a grassy space in a public park. Then I heard something spoken to my right in French. I didn’t initially pay it much mind until it was repeated. Turning, I saw a man looking at me expectantly.
Caught off guard, I didn’t have the presence of mind to rattle off, “Je ne parle pas français” – “I don’t speak French” – and the result was his repeating whatever it was a third time. Immediately afterward, his face soured and he disdainfully said, “Vous ne parlez pas français?”
“You don’t speak French?”
When I shook my head, he took on a look of what I can only characterize as mild disgust and turned his attention back to the show. The helplessness I felt in that situation with nothing at stake certainly gave me a lot of empathy for people pressed by circumstance to forge a life among those who don’t speak their language with everything at stake.
On the other hand: Beat 15, southwest corner of mall parking lot, circa 2009.
A fresh faced police officer, I respond to a call from mall security saying a woman in a van is refusing to leave the parking lot. I arrive to see what must be the entire security contingent milling around a full size van. I wonder at the rampant lawlessness that must be erupting in the food court in their absence.
The leader of the gaggle greets me as I walk up and shakes his head dolefully. “I don’t know if this chick is crazy or on drugs or what, but she isn’t making any sense. We’ve been telling her to leave and she won’t listen.”
Ugh. They’ve been approaching the situation with utmost tact and consideration, I see.
I excuse myself and walk to the van, all eyes on me. I see quickly that the occupant is an eccentric sort. She is apparently a hoarder living out of her van. I’m not really sure how the living is happening, though, because it’s packed floor to ceiling with everything she owns. Storage space has been maximized to the point there’s a fast food fountain drink cup jammed in the spare tire assembly with little bits and baubles deposited in it.
I make my introductions at the window and she starts trying to communicate with me. It only takes me a few seconds to diagnose the issue. This woman is deaf, and the impeded speech and gesticulations were just her trying in vain to communicate. Happily, I know just enough rudimentary American Sign Language I think I might be able to bridge the divide.
I gently interject into her frustrated stream of communication and ask her name. I see her perceptibly relax as she realizes I might do something more constructive than scream at her, which is almost assuredly all mall security has been doing for the past twenty minutes. She tells me her name and asks what the issue is.
“I’m sorry for this,” I rustily sign. “They are asking you to leave. You aren’t under arrest. You can go. Better to park somewhere else.”
She nods and thanks me, which I reciprocate. She drives away with a rumble of her engine and a rhythmic squeak of her suspension, leaving me with a quizzical audience. I walk back, checking my irritation with the guards. “Did none of you consider the possibility that woman might be hearing impaired?”
Realization dawns, and sheepish silence ensues. I leverage the moment.
“Gentlemen, you let the state of that van cloud your vision. It’s not a crime to be interesting. Will there be anything else this evening?”
The supervisor shakes his head, and the gaggle disperses.
The power and peril of language. Both of these scenes sprang back to mind when my daughter was a very crabby crying baby and I couldn’t figure out what the issue was. I developed a lot more compassion when I reframed her crying as simply being a language foreign to me. Suddenly, the onus wasn’t on little Sprocket to communicate – she was doing that in spades. The problem was that I wasn’t fluent in her language, not the other way around.
If someone walked up to you and asked for directions using a language unfamiliar to you, it’s not likely you’d think them unreasonable. You’d realize it’s just a matter of your own lack of understanding, and start looking for context clues so you could be of assistance.
Which way are they pointing?
Are they using some semblance of sign language?
What’s their tone like?
The misunderstanding isn’t anyone’s fault. However, if communication with a crying baby is going to happen, you’re certainly going to have to find a middle to meet in and common ground to work from. Similarly, your baby is using their initial language. With them, however, the “middle” is going to look more like you doing 99% of the work. It can be frustrating when it’s seemingly undifferentiated, but be patient and look for other cues. For instance, hunger might be shown by a crying baby in conjunction with tongue thrusts or pulling on facial features. You’ll learn the language of a crying baby eventually if you’re observant and patient.
When you’re faced with a crying baby, try to stifle your irritation. Remember, it’s not their fault for speaking their own language. Instead, stop and listen with intention for a moment. What tone is your baby using? I couldn’t tell one crying baby from another before I was a parent, but I learned quickly that a cry isn’t a cry. Hunger, pain, panic, and frustration all tend to have distinct cry tones, but you have to take a moment, take mental notes, and start pairing cries with what winds up satisfying them.
A caveat: One huge exception to all of this is the period of “PURPLE” crying. This type of crying doesn’t have the same cause/effect nature, and can be wildly frustrating to deal with if you don’t know what you’re looking at. I won’t pretend to be qualified enough to expand on this myself, and will therefore refer you to the experts here.
The world is a disorienting place for a baby. Everyone is large and somewhat out of focus and making sounds they don’t understand. I know you’re exhausted, and that the squalling gets frustrating. It’s also possible it’s early enough your relationship is still forming. But if you expect your baby to eventually learn your language over time, then you need to show the same courtesy until they’re able.
That way, you can get back to the rest of the fireworks sooner.
—
This post was previously published on The Unbothered Father.
***
From The Good Men Project on Medium
 |
 |
 |
 |
Join The Good Men Project as a Premium Member today.
All Premium Members get to view The Good Men Project with NO ADS.
A $50 annual membership gives you an all access pass. You can be a part of every call, group, class and community.
A $25 annual membership gives you access to one class, one Social Interest group and our online communities.
A $12 annual membership gives you access to our Friday calls with the publisher, our online community.
Register New Account
Need more info? A complete list of benefits is here.
—
Photo credit: iStock
