Most of us can probably remember a class in school that elevated our stress levels beyond the norm. Whether it was first grade show and tell or dissecting a frog in high school biology, butterflies fluttered in our stomachs or we broke out in a mild sweat until it was over. One of my stressors was a course in Rabbinic Hebrew. No, no, I didn’t convert to Judaism while you weren’t paying attention; this was part of the required course of study in the Hebrew Bible and Ancient Near East studies doctoral program at Duke University.
Why would such an innocuous sounding class increase stress? In a word, design. In any class worth its tuition the teacher considers their learning objectives and designs the experience to accomplish those goals. This particular professor wasn’t satisfied with reading and writing exercises. No. We had to read aloud in front of the entire group. And not just single sentences either; he gave lengthy, selected passages. It was not an unreasonable assignment, but it did push me beyond my comfort zone.
It is possible the requirement triggered flashbacks to an undergraduate French class where the instructor summoned me to the front of the room to role play a conversation with him. When I hesitated, he barked that if I didn’t come immediately, he’d fail me for the semester. Given that it was my final semester, that would have interfered with graduation plans. Who knows why my reluctance triggered him in that way, but his words lit a fire under me. Speaking before groups in English has never been a problem. My mother once told me I talked before I walked. But the uncertainty that comes with speaking a new language and the likelihood of making mistakes publicly can be an unsettling combination.
The first day in Hebrew class, as we sat around a small table I was called upon to read aloud. I cleared my throat, took a deep breath, and began reading. I did not stumble over words. I did not mispronounce anything. The passage felt like it was 1000 pages long, but I successfully made it to the end. I’ll never forget what came next. The professor took off his glasses, placed them on the table, looked at me and said, “Oh – my – word! How far down south in the tip of the tribe of Judah do you come from? I have never heard Hebrew read with such a southern accent.” Given the stress I was feeling, you’d think a comment like that might be upsetting. Instead, the whole room, including me, erupted in laughter.
For those who don’t know me, my first thirty years were spent in rural North Carolina. Those were good years, and they left their mark on me in many ways. Throughout my childhood, I thought my language sounded identical to the newscasters on channel 8 or 2. As my travel circles widened, I came to understand that was not the case. Same alphabet. Same vowels. Same words. But something was different. More emphasis here. A little drag there. Flatten a vowel or two. Somewhere we cross a line where though the words are the same, they are like twins separated at birth—despite a common origin, they have grown up differently. Or in the opposite direction, words that aren’t quite the same sound as though they are, which complicates communication. One that catches me sometime is “want” and “won’t.” They sound virtually the same (at least when I say them); the difference depends on the subtlety of the vowels’ pronunciation, but the move from desire to negativity is not even close. In recent conversation, “whale” was somehow heard as “while.” You may work out a connection between a large mammal and an expression of duration, but six degrees of separation may not be enough to get there.
Though it has softened over the years, I repeatedly receive comments about my accent. I choose to wear it like badge of honor. However, there was one occasion where I intentionally worked to minimize it – when I studied Spanish. Thinking about the undertaking, I realized when all was said and done, I didn’t want to sound like a Gringo who butchered Spanish with a heavy southern drawl. In a flash that felt like inspiration, I concluded that if I could manage to pronounce vowels without my typical Southern accent, it would affect my entire speech. Apparently, it worked. People from various Latin American countries have offered unsolicited compliments about the lack of noticeable accent in my Spanish, even wanting to know where I learned it.
Oddly enough those memories came to mind recently as I reflected on the mysteries of nuance. I was thinking not about accents and language, but about values and motives. Things that start out as good causes with good intentions, with time, can shift. Or perhaps they never shifted at all, but others’ perception of the situation views things through a much different lens. Nuance is like a sneaky neighbor who comes into your home and rearranges the furniture. Things still look familiar, but nothing is exactly where or how you thought you left it. In life, with those changes, perspective and meaning shifts, and accordingly, so do relationships.
Nuance deals in subtleties, shifts in emphasis. Some are shifts of perception. Others are shifts of intention. Often it is nearly imperceptible. Like a weight sliding across a scale, there is a tipping point where the matter tilts like a seesaw. When does desire to succeed cross over to become an exercise of greed. Where does celebration of the best of causes become gluttonous and wasteful? When does taking something for reportedly justifiable reasons, whether a sister’s sweater or the Venezuelans’ oil, become theft? How can we best determine where that is a truthful read of the situation or merely our own conclusion, possibly influenced by the baggage we’ve accumulated on our life’s journey? If only the resolution to those things was as simple as tweaking the pronunciation of a few vowels!
I made a new acquaintance recently who told me about the church he attended. They were independent and just believed the Bible. I appreciate that intent, but also know that is easier said than done. We need look no further than our lives for evidence of that challenge. As we talked, I wondered if they would accept my “accent” (as in perspective) when I read it? I love my God, my faith, and its holy book, but I live with a lot of questions. Things aren’t always as clear or straight forward as they appear to be. I’m guessing that’s true for us all regardless of the sound of the vowels we use.
