The House of Babel

By Joe Barker
 

“Sorry, what did you say?” 

Marty repeats whatever it was he said, as I strain every nerve in an attempt to hear him over the roar of motorbikes and general din of our soi. Old age is fast getting the better of me, so my attempts to hear him are not helped by my increasingly decrepit ears. Second time around, I think I picked up a few words, but as I frantically search my brain for the smattering of Thai words I know, I'm having to accept that my dodgy hearing is not the only problem here. At not quite three years old, Marty is clearly more proficient than me in Thai.
 

First words

It's so exciting when children start to speak. As they proudly say “Mommy”, “Daddy” or “digger”, we think oh how adorable and oh so clever. That fragile little thing that only a few months ago was totally dependent on us has not only learned to move, but now it's talking too; next stop, university! Of course, those first adorable words are quickly followed by a torrent of questions and instructions. We cannot be the only parents quietly yearning for those calmer pre-speech days? 

While it was easy to guess what they were trying to say when they had a vocabulary of seven words, it gets trickier when they start to deluge us with sounds and protosentences. Are you saying mummy needs cake or telling me that you saw a huge snake in the soi? Those are really different things, which theoretically require very different reactions on my part. In reality, my perfect reaction to all conundrums is to take my wife a piece of cake and ask her what she thinks I should do. 

This confusion of communication is common to all toddlers, but add in the fact that Marty speaks three languages, which is at least two more than me, and I am more often baffled than not. What did you say? Was it English? Thai? French? How can I hope to understand him if I don't even know which language he is speaking? You seem really happy, but what about? Have you seen an orange digger? Eaten an ice cream? Thrown more of my clothes off the balcony?

I sometimes turn to his nanny in desperation, but since we don't even have one language in common this rarely goes well. More often than not I soon turn back to Marty in the hope that he can translate what she has just said. Not a recipe for success as we end up in a disastrous circle of miscommunication. The likeliest outcome is that I start to doubt that I even understand what I am saying, as a postmodernist malaise overcomes me and I start to question the very reality of language.
 

Are you talking about me?

My language problems stretch beyond Marty. All too often, I will be trying to calm Marty down after an unfortunate biting or throwing incident when suddenly there is an explosion of Thai and Marty races off. Once my thudding heart has recovered from the shock, I’ll be left hoping that his nanny was supporting what I was saying and explaining the gentle nuances of when and what it's OK to throw. That's what I hope, but given he's now smiling and eating a lollipop, I suspect I hope in vain.

It may be paranoia on my part, but far too often I fear that Nanny is saying “Don't listen to Daddy—he's an idiot who knows nothing about childcare. Just nod and smile and we'll go buy ice cream as soon as his back is turned.” I know that's usually what my wife is saying in French, because she has no qualms about honestly assessing my intelligence and abilities.
 

Fears for the future 

This language barrier will only grow as Marty gets older. While, at three, his Thai is already better than mine, I'm confident I'd do better than him in a French exam—his inability to read, write, or follow any instructions would surely play into my hands in exam conditions—however, he is already forming sentences and using vocabulary in French that I do not understand. There will soon be two languages that I am unable to follow him in, and at that point, how will I ever know what is going on in his life?

I shall be as nothing in my own home. Useful only, to a very limited extent, for menial tasks and simple English homework. Any of the really important things will be discussed with Mommy in French or Thai while I sit sad and lonely in the corner. Want to keep something from Daddy? Simple, just talk about it in Thai. Want to tease Daddy about a terrible secret? Easy—add a sentence or two of very slow simple French and he's bound to get the completely wrong end of the stick.
  

Lord of all he surveys

Marty is the darling of our soi and indeed several of the surrounding sois as well. This comes as no surprise to me. As a doting parent, I naturally consider him to be pretty amazing, and it seems only fitting that all right-thinking people would be delighted to see him. His status as the little emperor of our soi is partly the result of his appearance, although in cosmopolitan Bangkok, blond hair and blue eyes are hardly a rarity, yet they still incite considerable interest from the local builders and motorcycle taxi drivers. Of even greater importance is the fact that Nanny has lived in this soi for over 30 years and where she is welcome, so is her little charge.

While Marty will happily talk to us, he won't talk to anyone else. Thus he sits in stony silence, ignoring the many greetings and smiles. A silence that can only be broken by that universal language: the high five. Offer him a high five and suddenly he is all smiles and giggles. The frozen demeanor cracks and he'll laughingly whack away at your hands for hours. 

It is lovely that so many people wave at us or shout “Morning, Marty” as we walk along the street. Our regal procession is regularly interrupted with smiles from this taxi driver, high fives with that stall holder, and a few kisses blown from his wife. The problems start when these disciples of Martin's try to engage me in conversation and my lack of Thai is instantly exposed. Thus each of these lovely interactions tends to end in mutual bafflement and embarrassment. Soon though Marty will be able to translate for me!

I think it's amazing that Marty is growing up speaking three languages and learning about three cultures. I was educated in Britain in the 1990s, so I was barely taught English, let alone another language, and culture was something we touched upon briefly in science. So I'm delighted Marty is getting a more cosmopolitan upbringing. I just hope he'll use one of his languages to keep talking to me. 
 

About the Author

Having enjoyed taking his son to BAMBI playgroups over the past months, Joe is excited to volunteer with BAMBI. He and his wife moved to Thailand from the UK in 2018. In 2021 they were delighted to be joined by their son, Martin. They love exploring Thailand as a family, especially anywhere with a playground or sand.