Language Barriers

There's a scene in the movie War in which Jason Statham chides a police officer for complaining that a suspect doesn't speak English. He wonders aloud how a cop can work in a Japanese district and not bother to learn the language. After his lesson in political correctness or practical knowledge, he proceeds to interrogate the suspect in Japanese while poking around in the guy's shoulder where he'd been shot.

I envy the multilingual. In Europe, where the distances between countries are smaller and there's no ocean between them, it's a necessity. I've yet to impress women with my four years of high school French, what little I've retained, and I doubt an academic knowledge of the language would be enough to be fluent. After studying Japanese in college, one of my buddies spent a few months in Japan, and upon his return to New York was fluently inviting Japanese girls to join us for karaoke. You need to immerse yourself in a culture and use the words every day in order to grasp inflections and slang. I certainly don't speak English the way it appeared in my schoolbooks, don't recall seeing the word “phat” on a blackboard.

That being said, and putting aside the argument for a moment that this country's “native” language would technically be that of the various tribes who sold their land to the British for beads, language barriers can be difficult sometimes in a predominantly English-speaking country where transactions are concerned. A few weeks ago in Burger King, my mom realized she'd been charged for one too many cheeseburgers while perusing the receipt. The cashier was helping the drive-thru window, and another hispanic girl was filling our order. “I only wanted two cheeseburgers,” said my mom, pointing to the receipt. The girl smiled, took the receipt, and walked away. She packed the bag, following the numbers on the small slip of paper, and handed us the order unchanged. “No...that's not...” began my mom, as the girl continued smiling. I told her to let it go, that we'd just go with the extra cheeseburger.

Near where I work, there's a horrible Subway that I go to when I don't have time to wait in line at a deli. It's run by what appears to be an Indian family, though that may be a horribly stereotypical assumption on my part just because there's a middle-aged couple, a young girl, and an old man. The grandfather is a little hard-of-hearing while the women never speak, only point at various sandwich ingredients while I nod. The middle-aged man seems to be the manager, works the cash register, and seems completely fluent in English. My only complaint with him is that he never, ever gives me more than one napkin, and there are no napkin dispensers in the store. They ration napkins.

On Monday, I headed over for a sandwich, ordering one from the toasted menu. The old man took my order, cut the bread, then slid it down to the woman, telling her what I'd ordered. After loading it with meat and cheese, she waited by the salad for me to point out toppings. It's not the first time I've ordered a toasted sandwich, and subsequently had to ask, “can you toast that?” She smiled until I pointed at the toaster, then nodded. Thirty seconds later, she returned. “I'll have lettuce...and honey mustard, please.” She grabbed a pile of lettuce through those plastic gloves that touch everything and only protect the person wearing them. Then she grabbed red onion slices, which I don't like, and which doesn't sound like “honey mustard.” “Uh...I didn't want that.” She just smiled, and waited. “Right...can I have honey mustard? HONEY MUSTARD.” I pointed to the bottle as she smiled and nodded, grabbing one and spraying my sandwich with something a little too yellow for honey mustard. When she returned the bottle to the bank of others, I saw that it was regular mustard. She smiled and waited.

“That's not what I...” I began, realizing that if I did make her understand, she'd only throw the sandwich out, waste food, and start over. “That's enough.” She handed it off to the cashier. Soon I was sitting at a table, picking onions out of the sandwich, glad that I had extra napkins in my jacket pocket since I'd need more than the one. The mustard with salami, pepperoni, and swiss actually was a better combination than I expected, though I still sat there wondering why I keep going back.

The real question of course is where the difficulty arises in these situations. I can't exactly assume that these workers don't speak any English, can't judge them by their appearance or the fact that they only smile like morons. The problem may be that they actually are morons. And perhaps I'm too quick to concede, accept something I didn't want rather than engage in a conflict, but it's not wise to argue with someone making your food. The language barrier has nothing to do with language per se, but communication. Only a week ago, I was complaining about someone ahead of me in a deli being too specific and complicated in her order when there were 64 preset options on the board. But in a fast food or chain restaurant, where things are numbered and organized for optimum mass production, I wrack my brain wondering if I could be more clear. If I speak and point through the glass, is there anything more I can do? When I say “no” and shake my head, aren't those universally conveying the negative? If I order one of the six sandwiches on the toasted menu, do I need to remind the owners of the franchise who are there seven days a week to toast it?

There must be a way to break through these barriers, but it's possible I'm asking too much.