Multilingualism

Language is a beautiful thing. I have always been envious of people who grew up in multi-cultural households, people with Chinese mums and Spanish dads. With mixed brothers and sisters and grandfathers and grandmothers. I always wish that I could be bilingual, but my family are all born and bred true blue. I know how to count to 10 in Indonesian, the fruits of my labor in both high school and primary school, and a smattering of Japanese from my learning practice through university, but that's about it.

It’s funny how we automatically associate a foreign word with a familiar word. For example, even though when I concentrate, I can imagine the Japanese hiragana ‘chi’ as its own creation, but at just a glance, I can’t silence the voice in my head that says “five”.

Another amusing thing to note is how, due to Melbourne's melting pot of culture, or how we integrate into our societies, no matter where you come from, you surely know phrases in other languages, even if you don't realize you've learned them.  Bon Appetit, Ciao Bella, Sayonara, Gluten Tag. 

I can imagine that being multi-lingual would be an asset in a writer’s toolkit that would prove to be valuable. Not only do you have multiple streams of literature to read, you have the ability to mash them together. The downside? Readers would be a niche audience, and meanings from one word in one language may not always translate into another.

I’ve heard that Melbourne has its own subculture of half-Asian half-Australian people. They sound like a club, they even have their own hashtag on Instagram. #Halvers #Mixers. Banding together to feel selective rather than unwanted. Romanticizing being unable to fit into either culture. Certainly not a first.

I can imagine what their households would sound like to me. Garble. A whole new language created for only that family, some English, some other thing entirely. Spanglish, Japenglish, you name it.

Twice the language, twice the vocal power.