Difference between revisions of "User:MadelineMcDonell"

Revision as of 15:24, 16 July 2019

Learning a new language takes time. But according to US diplomatic training guides, there are many languages that Americans should be able to learn in under a year. The map below shows how long it takes to learn almost 70 different languages, estimated by the Foreign Service Institute, which teaches these languages to would-be or current diplomats. Countries on the map are colored according to how much time it takes to learn the local language: The darker-colored the country, the longer it takes. The CIA Factbook was used to identify a dominant language for each country. Countries with no clear dominant language, like multilingual Mozambique, or where the FSI doesn’t teach the dominant language, appear gray.


FSI language-learning categories are numbered like hurricanes—higher number, scarier language. The darkest countries on the map represent Category 4 languages, those that take the longest for Americans to learn: Arabic, Cantonese, Mandarin Chinese, Japanese, and Korean. After that are 50 merely "hard" Category-3 languages, including Czech, Hindi, Russian, and Thai. The final two categories include languages that are more closely related to English. The numbers of weeks in that map represent the amount of time a learner with no experience of a language will need to get to "3/3 proficiency," meaning a three out of five for speaking/reading. One thing to note here.


These estimates, like 24 weeks for Spanish, assume the learner is in one of the FSI’s intensive courses. For the hardest languages, like Chinese, the course may even include several months of immersive study abroad. There is no absolute answer to which language is the "easiest" or "most difficult," because every learner is different. A native English speaker will have a harder time learning Italian than a native Spanish speaker, since the two Romance languages are closely related. And some people find pronunciation in a tonal language like Vietnamese difficult, while others adapt easily. The FSI difficulty measurements are also a bit confusing based on the "speak/read" requirement. Mandarin grammar is not nearly as complicated as that of some European languages, but the complexity of the Chinese writing system puts it in the highest category.


Whoever heard of a Jewish kid named Angel? "Who heard of Mexican named ‘Dov? ’" responded Grandma loudly. "He’s not Mexican. He’s American! " His wife hit him with a napkin, and Mr. Rotbaum stood up, pushed out his chair abruptly, and marched upstairs. A second later he called down, "Hey—where are they? "Next to my bed," his mother-in-law said quietly. "Next to her bed! " shouted Mrs. Rotbaum. Mr. Rotbaum returned with four pills and put them in front of his mother-in-law. She tossed them into her mouth two at a time and washed them down with water, all while delivering a withering stare at her son-in-law, who was cutting the brisket and serving her a piece.


"We eat together tonight—Jewish, Mexican, American, Catholic. Where are the kids? " Said Mr. Rotbaum as he handed his mother-in-law her plate. The three Rotbaum de Morales children contemplated the sky. "Did you know the highest clouds are called cirrus? "Cirrus. C - I - R - R - U - S. Cirrus," said Dov. "Cir-cus," whispered Rachel Mary quietly, clutching Pee- O and leaning on her backpack. "They are made of ice. Because it is so cold," continued Angel. "If they are made of ice, why don’t they fall? Haven’t you ever heard of gravity? G - R - A - V - I - T - Y. Gravity? "Maybe sometimes they do fall," said Angel. "Then, how can we still see them if they have fallen? "Maybe they are near the angels, and the angels have them on their backs, and they hold them up!


" said Rachel Mary. "Angels. A - N - G - L - E - S. Angles," said Dov. Then they were all quiet as the sky gently shifted. "Hey, that’s not how you spell it! " shouted Angel at his brother, who was laughing. "Took you long enough! You don’t know how to spell your name! " Dov giggled, and then Angel giggled, and then they were all giggling. Downstairs, Mr. Rotbaum was about to leave once again to get his children when his mother-in-law started coughing. She coughed once and pounded her chest. He stared at her, not sure what to do.


He refilled her water and handed it to her. " Mrs. Rotbaum looked at her mother. Grandmother held up her hand and pounded her chest with the other. "What did you give her? She just took a bite of brisket and started coughing. I didn’t do anything! " Panic flew over her face, and she turned to her husband. Then, as suddenly as the coughing began, it stopped. Grandma shrugged, "God punishes for not going to Mass today," and took another bite of brisket. " said Mrs. Rotbaum. " said Mr. Rotbaum. The flames on the candles flicked, and the windows rattled.


Then the room was silent. Grandma looked down at her plate, Mr. and Mrs. Rotbaum looked at each other. No one said anything. " Grandma clutched her mouth, her eyes wide and shocked by the sound that had emanated from her deep recesses. Dona Elena Maria Morales Championes was a fragile but proud woman. She had a large bosom and small eyes. She loved her daughters and her home country. And liked to play bridge and took pills for her blood pressure. And in all her life, she had never once, not once, belched. Not in public, not in private, not ever.


The shock of this washed over her as whatever was in her system was prepared its next assault. " They shared glances and then directed their gaze to the slab of meat sitting on the table in front of their gastric-challenged relative, a slice missing. Mr. Rotbaum acted. "I’ll just get this out of here." He picked up the plate in front of his mother-in-law, rushed back to the kitchen, and dumped it in the trash. "Shit," he said to himself. A steady chorus of "H-I-C, H-I-C, H-I-C, H-I-C" floated from the dining room. His wife came into the kitchen and whispered, "She probably just ate too much. We give her water, she’ll be fine? " But she was uneasy. She had never seen her mother in this state.


And then they smelled it. Coming from the dining room. Something horrible, earthy, and ripe. "This horrib—HIC—le taste, what—HIC—is it? " Mrs. Rotbaum assured her mother. But neither she nor her husband could deny the foul smell coming from her mother. Mr. Rotbaum covered his nose with a napkin. Her mother’s face was red, and her eyes bloodshot. "The meat, wha—HIC—t was in the meat? A hor—HIC—rible taste. A hor—HIC—rible, poison—HIC—taste! "Nothing was in the meat," said Mrs. Rotbaum hurriedly. Like every Friday." But her mother wasn’t listening. Having figured out how to talk and hiccup at the same time, she started shouting about Cartels and assassinations. "Joshua, we have to tell her.


We must tell her," Mrs. Rotbaum said over the noise. Mr. Rotbaum shrugged. "Your mother." But he took a step back. "Mama, there is no poison! There are no Cartels. The meat . . ’t anything wrong with it, but—well—the meat fell on the floor. —HIC—You give me —HIC—meat fro—HIC—om the floor—HIC—? She stood up, pressing down on the table and pulling the tablecloth towards her under the pressure. The action accelerated her hiccups. It’s a clean floor! I just cleaned it! It fell, there was a commotion—it wasn’t there for more than a second, was it, Joshua? "Well . . . " His wife punched him in the ribs, and he turned around to suppress a smile.


Where will you go? Eat something. The meat is fine. "No. I GO." She made a cutting noise with her hand across her throat and pointed out, to the outside. "I go. To Octavia." The emphatic nature of her decision seemed to compose her body. Is that a saint? Is she saying she’s going to kill herself? " Mr. Rotbaum whispered to his wife. "No," his wife whispered back. "Her friend from Veracruz. In Naperville. Big house. Lots of money, space. Left Mexico because of the Cartels, but she is going traveling for a month, so the house will be empty.


"Your mother has a rich friend from Veracruz over in Naperville who has a big, empty house full of staff, and she’s still here? " He raised his voice at his wife, who looked at her husband in the eyes, long and hard. She touched his arm and then seemed to grab onto it, squeezing it to such an extent that it seemed that holding on to her husband’s arm was all that was keeping her on her feet. She searched his face, and he leaned in to kiss her forehead. "Come on, Abuela. Let’s get you upstairs. You have a nice siesta, and in the morning I’ll drive you to Octavia’s house. No need to worry about your things, we’ll get them to you. We’ll hire professional movers. Catholic ones, who know how to move crucifixes," promised Mr. Rotbaum.


He gently supported his mother-in-law’s arm up the stairs as she stopped to hiccup every three steps and curse the Cartels. Mrs. Rotbaum, alone in the dining room, felt a growing feeling that her house might again be her own again. She felt a tickling sensation near her mouth and flinched in response. Then she put her hand up quickly to her face and covered a smile. Pretty soon, she was smiling beyond her hand. Then she was giggling. Then laughing. After a few minutes of pure soul-cleansing laughter, Mrs. Rotbaum got up, threw down her napkin, took a long drink of wine, and crossed herself.


Mr. Rotbaum came back after a few minutes and said, "She’s fine. Just fine. I’ll take her in the morning. His wife smiled at him. "You sure she’s OK? That smell, though, what was that? "No idea. She’s burning incense. I never thought I’d appreciate incense, but it’s better than whatever the hell that was. Holy God that was vile! Mrs. Rotbaum went upstairs to say good night to her mother but noticed she was snoring, the curtain next to the bed blowing slightly in the night breeze. She thought about shutting the window but thought it wasn’t too cold, and the air needed to circulate.


She kissed her mother’s cheek and closed the door softly behind her. She saw the ladder to the attic and climbed up. On the slightly sloping shingles, she saw her children. All lying on their backs in a row, looking up at the sky. She could hear their voices, excited, laughing, the occasional raised voice of one of the boys. They’d have fun fixing up the garage with their dad. A nice summer project. She climbed back down, went into her bedroom, pulled off the bedspread, and dragged it back up the ladder. Dov sat up when he heard his mom climb through the window. " The other children sat up and noticed her, and then squealed when they saw her pull the large comforter through the small window. "Can we sleep up here? " they cried over each other. "We can stay up for a bit, not all night.