Languages in LA

It’s taken me two years to get used to this one. My students say it all the time. It seems to mean “Wow, I’m an idiot, aren’t I? Ha ha ha!” I base this on the situations in which “Oh yeah, huh?” crops up in my classroom.

 
Situation 1. (This happens about six times a day.)

Student: Miss, it’s hot in here!! I’m hot, can’t you turn on the air conditioning?

 Me: No. I am blue with cold. Look at my goosebumps. Feel the icy, corpselike grasp of my numb and deadened fingers. I can see my breath. We are not turning on the air conditioning.

 Student: But MISS!! I’m HOT!!

 Me: Yes, you are hot. You are wearing a contraband black shirt with Tupac Shakur’s face on it, which you are covering up with a white shirt to conceal the fact that you are not in proper uniform. Over those two shirts you have your collared uniform shirt. Over that you have a blue zip-up hoodie. Over that you have a denim jacket with your little gangster tagging name spraypainted on the back so that everyone who sees you knows that you are the little monster who vandalized the side of the library last weekend. You are wearing five layers of clothing. Of course you are hot. Why don’t you take off your jacket and hoodie?

 Student: …Oh yeah, huh?

Situation 2: This happens about 20 times a day.
 

Student: MISS!!!!! I can’t find my pencil!!

 Me: On the floor behind you.

 Student: Oh yeah, huh?

Kids this age baffle me, but I am happy they have stumbled upon a phrase that they manifestly will need to employ many, many times over the next couple years, before they leave this brain-addled stage of life and blossom into real people.

Well, maybe not only in Los Angeles, but I’ve never seen such things anywhere else. While driving to Downey for another of those dreary required professional development seminars (which never seem to develop anything in me but a hatred for driving on the interstates) I encountered more big city weirdness.

It’s the layout of the place that gives me those culture-shock moments. In Los Angeles, you can get culture-shock three miles from home. I was heading east and passed an exit sign informing me that the upcoming neighborhood was named the Byzantine-Latino Quarter. The very thought is byzantine, and as I was struggling to mentally accommodate this new flavor—new to me, anyway— the next sign informed me that I was also approaching a Hebrew college.

Yes, of course. Where else would you put a Hebrew college but near the Byzantine-Latino quarter??

I took a different route home and ended up on the southern part of Western … a description which only now strikes me as amusing because what I saw on south Western was so distracting it prevented me from mulling over it. I believe I was in the Korean section of Los Angeles because I couldn’t read any of the signs. They were all in Korean.

All except one was in Korean, that is. The post office I passed was in English. It was the Nat King Cole Post Office. In Koreatown. Yes, of course, where else would you put the Nat King Cole post office but in Koreatown?? That’s Los Angeles for you. If there’s ever a Jackie Chan library they’ll probably put it in Little Ethiopia, near where the Sino-Aztec shopping center would have to be built. It’s a small world, after all.

Someone actually said this in my hearing the other day, and without the slightest trace of irony or playfulness. She just said it like a normal person would say “Great!”

 
It was at the Coffee Bean on Robertson, where I had been hanging out like a seal on a rock because their internet was free. I was standing in line, having just ordered my mocha latte, and to my left was a young woman not of this world. She had apparently just stepped off of a billboard, and was still all shiny from the finishing touches of the hairdresser, make-up artist, and artificial suntan spray-on technician who hover just off camera.

 She was wearing black spandex leggings, because she could, having the butt and legs of a 12 year old boy. Said leggings and legs were tucked into black suede boots with heels so pointed and high they looked like spikes. Under her perfectly tanned skin, her breasts sat on her ribs like two plastic bowls on a xylophone.

 
Her hair was bouncy at the crown,  fluffy at the forehead, tendrilly at the neck, a cascade down her back, thick as a horse’s tail and blonde as some lisping clothesrack in a salon could make it. Her lips were pouty and her sunglasses were expensive.

 
The Coffee Bean barrister, obviously recognizing her, cooed, “How have you BEEEEEN???”

 
“Fantabulous!” She replied, her perfect white teeth flashing, her perfect French manicure touching the counter.  “I was at a party last night, and I had SO much fun…”

 
So that’s what fantabulous looks like, I thought, walking away. No wonder I just say “Fine.”

I had another “what is that language doing here” moment today. I went to the 99 cent store near Western because let’s face it, I can barely afford my new apartment. But I’ll live on Ramen noodle soup if that’s what it takes to stay near Doheny, so off I went to the 99 cent store to shop for cheap stuff.

I entered the store and behind me, I heard the unmistakable sounds of French. I studied French for 5 years, which means I can understand words like jamais and toujours, and little else because the French speak too fast for me.

I turned to see three sleek, well-dressed tourists entering the store. Now what on earth were French people doing in the dollar store? I am not accustomed to hearing French in the dollar store. It comes to me, yet again, that in LA I am accustomed to hearing many languages… but they tend to crop up in certain places.

At the discount stores, I hear Spanish, Armenian, and Chinese. At the expensive restaurants, I hear British, Australian, French, and German. As for Russian, well, you never know where that’ll crop up. But hearing French in the dollar store penetrated the static that foreign languages have become.

It was as startling as hearing Chinese spoken at Chin-Chins. I have never heard Chinese spoken at an upscale Chinese restaurants. It’s the one place I can usually count on hearing nothing but English. Apparently, if Asians get a craving for Asian food, they just go home and wok it up.

But anyway, I’m still trying to figure out what French tourists were doing in the dollar store. They most have gotten lost on the way to Chateau Marmont.

I might as well just come out and admit that I hate slang. All slang. I have no use for slang. Its very short shelf-life marks it as being of low quality. Anything that steadily depreciates from the minute you drive it off the lot is obviously a piece of mass-produced junk. Slang is that way. The minute it loses that new-car smell, it’s kitchy.

 
This does not stop people from using it, however. They keep using it. But now they smirk when they use it. I hate the smirk too.

 
I recently undertook a project that I am being rather secretive about so as not to jinx myself or alert any possible competitors. My friend Peter, who knows about it, asked me “Is it still on the DL?”

 
For the longest moment, I stared at him thinking “What fresh hell is this?” because I know that smirk. I like Peter, so I didn’t snarl “Oh, just speak English for God’s sake!” I processed it for a minute and finally remembered that when something is on the DL it means it’s on the down-low which was the cool way to say secret about six months ago.

 
You know, like “Most people party, just keep it on the down-low.” In LA, this means “Don’t snort coke in the living room. Do it in the bathroom where it can’t be seen from the front door.” All of this makes me shudder, from the lifestyle to the slang it creates.

 
In reaction, I retreat in despair, once again, to the finest book I’ve ever read, House of Mirth by Edith Wharton. I now know what I should have said to Peter:

 
“If you take pleasure in annoying me by mysterious insinuations,” I should have said coldly, “you might at least have chosen a more suitable time than just as I am recovering from the strain of a very large dinner.”

This is funny: National Geographic has a list of cultural dos and don’ts for dealing with the natives here in Los Angeles. In case you’re visiting from, say Nairobi or New Guinea, and you want to know how to navigate the village without getting eaten by the locals. Not that anyone in L.A. is going to mess up their thousand-dollar teeth whitening procedures gnawing on some tourist. No indeed, you can chip a tooth on those cameras.

But anyway, here’s the first “cultural tip” from National Geographic:

Social etiquette. Business and personal interactions in Los Angeles are usually marked by a cheerful, breezy courtesy and lack of confrontation.

This is certainly true: no one confronts anything here. If they don’t like you, they kiss you enthusiastically, beam at you lovingly, and then don’t take your calls or answer your e-mails. But it’s bizarre to see it offered up in National Geographic. I feel like there should be a picture next to it of some Beverly Hills native with cold cream slathered all over her face like war paint. She should be in ceremonial spa dress (terry cloth robe, herbal tea potion in an earthenware pot nearby…)

But here’s one that’s totally wrong:Road Etiquette. Be as polite on the road as you would in person: Do not rely excessively on your horn, cut off other cars, tailgate, or—for your own protection—express road rage.

Au contraire, mon cher, you must do all three of things if you are going to blend in. Lay on that horn at every opportunity. This is the closest thing you’re going to get to honest communication in this town. The nicer Los Angelenos are in person, the more vicious they are behind the wheel, where foam drips from their whitened fangs.

Just remember that, once you hand your keys to the valet, you have to be nice again. Big white smile: call me! We’ll do lunch!

That’s meant to be a pun on lingua franca, but because I don’t speak a bit of Latin, I probably just said something risque about monks by accident. Oh well. A lingua franca is  a common language used by people who might not speak one another’s tongue. I hear it  in my classrooms, when my Thai girls speak in halting English to my Urdu-speaker, because it’s the only mutual code they can access.

 
But what I’m pondering today is something I’ve noticed in my continued window-shopping for the perfect West Hollywood apartment. There are areas in Los Angeles that are veritable enclaves of non-English speakers. In particular, I’m finding a lot of Russian and Armenian neighborhoods where, even as I poke around the courtyards of units-for-rent, I hear conversations through open windows and in little backyards that are conducted entirely in another language.

 
I remember dating a Russian fellow from New York who showed me entire areas of the Bronx where three generations have come to adulthood speaking only Russian. They stay in their neighborhood, and they have everything they need. There is no pressing reason to learn English.

 
I feel sure that Los Angeles offers similar enclaves, but I notice that on all the answering machines I’ve encountered so far in my quest to view apartments, the messages are always in English. Heavily-accented English, perhaps, but English.

 
This is encouraging. It suggests an openness to let others into the enclave. I mean, if one were interested in making sure the 800 block of such-n-such street stays Russian, there is no simpler (legal) way to screen apartment applicants than to leave a message in Russian to scare off outsiders. But so far, no one seems to be doing it… not in West Hollywood, anyway. And little things like that mean a lot to me.

In keeping with an earlier entry about oddities in my students’ categorizing tendencies, I have noticed another peculiarity among Hispanic youth in Los Angeles. I suspect it’s larger than just here in the city, but this is where I came across it first. When reading a story in the ESL textbook about a Jewish family, I stopped to check for comprehension and found none. Most of them had little idea what Judaism was. A couple had a vague recollection of hearing the word associated with the Bible, and a few with the Holocaust.

I stopped to explain a little and, wishing to begin at a familiar starting point, I asked, “How many of you are from families who consider themselves Christian?”

Only about half raised their hands. Now I was stumped. I’m pretty sure we do not have a thriving Hispanic-Muslim or Hispanic-Buddhist community here in the Los Feliz/Echo Park area. I chose one who had not raised his hand.

“What religion are you?” I asked bluntly, puzzled.

“Catholic,” he said.

“Oh, okay. So you’re Christian.”

There was a chorus of “No!” from those who had not raised their hand. It took some questioning until I finally understood, and found myself staring at them in consternation. They did not consider Catholics to be Christian. And they had never heard the word Protestant as far as they remembered.

I suppose it’s no big deal, but it was one of those many culture-shock moments that has left me staggered since I relocated. Within the public school system, those on high have been concerned about American ignorance of the Middle East, thus the students do rather extensive studies of Islam, and make little picturebook-research reports to show their awareness of the various aspects of that religion. But no one questions how well they understand the religion they actually practice.

Here’s more multi-lingual fun from the city of angels. I bought a sofa and loveseat today. I hate shopping with a passion, so when I have to do it, I do it quickly. I was driving down Hollywood Blvd when I saw a furniture outlet place, a tiny room next to a liquor store, most unpromising. On impulse, I dove in, browsed for about 3 minutes, and found a nice moss-colored set for a reasonable price.

The owner was Chinese, and seemed a little startled when I looked it over for about 10 seconds and said “You deliver?” He was happy to assure me that they did, however, and though his English was limited, as long as we both understood “Visa” all was well.

Delivery was set for 2pm. What was interesting to me was that the owner, who said his name was John but whose accent compels me to call him Djon just so the reader doesn’t slip into complacency, had a Latino assistant helping him unload the furniture. It was obvious watching the process of unloading that Djon’s helper didn’t speak a lick of English or Chinese. It seems fair to presume that Djon’s Spanish was limited as well.

I watched with great interest as they each stationed themselves at an end and Djon simply used hand gestures to indicate that they would hoist up the couch, rotate it counter-clockwise, and the helper should back in first. And this wasn’t a desperate, awkward bunch of hand signals. This was as smooth as American Sign Language. These two men had obviously worked together plenty. Djon simply indicated what movements he expected to have to make, the assistant gave a brief nod, and my new furniture glided in like a bird settling into a nest.

I am, however, still glad that my dentist and his assistant are not communicating the same way.

I love my Hollywood dentist, because he is not stingy with the novocaine. When I leave there I’m numb from nostril to earlobe, and that’s how I like it. Last time I went, he shot me up with so much of the stuff, I couldn’t feel my right temple. And that’s good.

Normally, I’m so full of terror I’m oblivious to anything in the dentist office. I just huddle, my arms wrapped around myself, brooding on the coming horrors. But today as I let the novocaine seep through my jaw, while my tongue swelled up I listened to my dentist and his receptionist talking.

It’s not eavesdropping because they weren’t speaking English. Well, not completely. They were codeswitching, and the pattern was interesting. It sounded rather like this:

He: So, ah, lebaneselebaneselebaneselebanese?

She: Yes, but … lebaneselebaneselebaneselebaneselebanese.

He: Well, you know, lebaneselebaneselebanese.

She: I know! I know, I know, but lebaneselebaneselebaneselebaneselebanese!

He: Okay, but lebaneselebaneselebanese.

She: I know.

Well, this was fascinating. I started paying closer attention. When the assistant came to stick the temporary crowns on my teeth, I assumed she was Lebanese too. But lo, a moment later, another assistant stuck her head in and they conversed in brisk Spanglish.

What was interesting is that the codeswitching was different. Rather than initial opening remarks followed by a steady stream of the other language, this was true Spanglish, with sentences that were half and half, fluidly switching from one to the other. It sounded rather like this:

Asst: I’m going to take the españolespañol and see if I can español español it. If yes, I can español español Vons, but if no español, español, so…

If I remember correctly from my long ago sociolinguistics classes, the degree and style of codeswitching has to do with how bilingual one is. Obviously in this case the Spanish speakers were more instinctively bilingual than the Lebanese speakers. I wanted to ask whether they were picking up any of each other’s languages, but by this time my tongue felt like a big, fuzzy, rolled up sock, and I couldn’t. Alas.