[The other day I was waiting for a table at my local cafe when I overheard two things: a couple speaking in a foreign language, and a trio of angry people, complaining about the couple’s audacity at not speaking English. That led me to write the following thoughts.]
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My blood boils as I wait to be seated at a restaurant, two people near me talking in another language. They’re in America, so they should speak English!
But why? Do I think they’re talking about me? Or planning to rob the place? Do I really want (or need) to know what they’re saying? If they were speaking English, it would be rude of me to eavesdrop. I’m not bothered by people speaking in sign language or teens speaking their brand of “English” (although I could do without some of those words). I, like most people, pepper my everyday language with borrowings from Spanish, German, Yiddish, Italian. And I know that if I go to England, people there will complain that I don’t really speak English at all!
Next time, then, I resolve to turn boiling blood into thankfulness for living in a country made up of a rich tapestry of cultures, all of which add words to that ever-evolving banquet of language we call “English.”
