Sitting Through Silliness

As she loomed over me uttering sentence after sentence of what I knew to be language but could only perceive as yet another sting of unintelligible gibberish the first of the beads of sweat that had steadily gathered on her brow began its inevitable descent south.

This was not the first time I had witnessed this display, nor could I claim never to have had experienced the anxious cold sweat of trying to communicate to a foreigner unfamiliar with English what until that moment I had taken for granted to be an elementary concept, something a child of five would grasp.

So yes, I was not unsympathetic, but still I wondered why it was she put herself in this awkward position, because that’s what it amounted to; a choice. Free will on her part had unnecessarily bound her to this futile endeavour and now she was stammering incoherently and wiping the evidence of panic from her brow.

I could have ended her discomfort at any time. In fact a single word from me could have immediately calmed her, reassured her that she was being understood and allowed me to return to my book. The reason I chose not to end the poor woman’s anxiety and instead watched her sink ever deeper into her self-dug pit of frustration was simple; etiquette. It would have been rude to interrupt her indecipherable streams of that which although I could not understand the words, nevertheless understood the intent with the immediate clarity of having performed the task she was describing a hundred times or more. I was not in my culture, but neither was I new to this place. Nor was I a stranger to these people. Indeed, in my eighteen months thus far I had through very little real effort managed to acquire a very basic understanding of what these folks were all about. I knew few enough words, but it seemed half the nouns and a fair quantity of verbs of their language were just bastardised from my own, which helped.

As she once again wiped her brow she appeared to be sinking further into despondency, yet still she rattled on, ever more assured of my inability to understand and I found myself wondering why she was trying to explain this to me at all? I had been through the routine a hundred times if I’d done it once, and furthermore, as if to compound the silliness of her current predicament, she had handed me an instruction sheet – in English – when she had first approached my desk. So why was she tying herself in knots trying to explain to me in a language she knew I spoke only a few words that which needed no explanation in the first place?

Again, the answer lies in etiquette. Etiquette had urged her to attempt explanation, despite the lack of a concrete reason to do so, and etiquette prevented me from stopping her. Thus did her misery linger, for technically she was showing respect, interest and professional courtesy by shaming herself in this fashion, and I accordingly was expected to show the same by listening intently and acknowledging her effort. After almost fifteen whole minutes of listening to her explain the most basic of children’s learning activities, one I had used almost every day for the last year and what could have been done in one sentence, I was finally afforded an opportunity to say, ‘I understand. Thank you for your explanation.’

Unless you saw it you simply can’t imagine how relieved she looked. The stupid foreigner had understood! Her face lit up; it was like she had just been told a tumor was benign. We bowed to each other, as is customary in just about every social situation and she turned and headed back towards her desk.

Returning to my book I shook my head to dispel the silliness of what I had just been a party to, ‘Thank god I’m not Japanese,’ I said silently to myself.