Screaming at a Wall

I grew up in a trilingual household. Before I could speak in the mother tongue of my birth-land, I constructed my first sentences in my parent's shared language: Hebrew. The language that tied my home together, at least my first few years of existence, was not the language that I saw on the sides of trucks, or in newspapers, or heard on the TV. It was only my introduction to the kindergarten that halted my proficiency in Hebrew; the move necessitated my being able to communicate with my teachers and playmates. But now, whenever I talk to my family in Israel, I find myself struggling to find the words that once came so easily. The language that I still dream in sometimes.

Looking at me, or hearing me speak, you would not be able to discern that part of my past. Perhaps my slightly drawling W's would tip you off to my years in the South, but beyond that my past would be a mystery to you. Regardless, the language we use to communicate is a vital part of our national culture, regardless of what nation we call home. Our language affects our design, how we feel, how we treat others, and literally every other aspect of how we interact with the world. The objects we describe have nothing to do with the pathetic jumble of letters we title them with. Signifiers and symbols weave together in our minds. My mom is my ima is my madre is my maman, and she is not any of those words or letters. Same for any other word. Nations agree on definitions of words, of the symbol matched with the signifier.