When I was a student in Mississippi, my school did not recognize the existence of foreign languages. My lowest grade in college was in Spanish. My lowest grade in seminary was in Greek. After five months in Chile, I could order lunch as long as the waitress didn’t ask a complicated question like “¿Grande o pequeño?”
I now have a 3,191-day streak on Duolingo — an app that promises to teach Spanish. Every day I take a 5- to 10-minute lesson. I repeat what a little green owl says. I answer simple questions. I fill in the blanks.
Brett Younger
After more than eight years of Spanish lessons, I still do not understand much Spanish. The main thing I have learned is that I like trying. The owl is encouraging — “five in a row!” Me gustan my little lessons.
When I was in the 11th grade, I got a job as a mechanic at Sears. I worked on cars through high school and every summer during college. Mechanics begin with tires, the training wheels of automotive repair. Most quickly move up to exhausts or shock absorbers.
After two years and six summers, I was still changing tires. I was given multiple opportunities to work on mufflers and shocks. Cars got louder and shakier when I touched them.
I worked with the best mechanics. I took notes and correspondence courses. I continued to be terrible. I worried about my customers’ safety, but no one got hurt — except me. I am fine now.
I enjoyed changing tires. I loved taking off cheap worn-out tires and putting on fancy Michelins that still had that new-tire smell. Fonzie was a mechanic. Who wouldn’t want to be Fonzie?
Growing up in fundamentalist Baptist churches left me without a sense of rhythm. When I try to dance, the results are disconcerting. I have stayed at the Elaine Benes level. One dear friend asked, “Are you being funny or are you really that bad?”
In a moment of poor judgment, Carol recently agreed to take dance lessons with me. During our first lesson, we began with the foxtrot: “1, 2, 3, 4. Try to go straight;” the rumba, “1, 2, 3, 4. It’s supposed to be a square;” and the swing, “1, 2, 3, 4. We’ll go slower next time.” I not only stepped on Carol’s feet, I stepped on the instructor’s feet while dancing with Carol.
C.S. Lewis observed, “As long as you notice, and have to count the steps, you are not yet dancing but only learning to dance.”
We have seven more lessons, and I will be only learning to dance, but it will be fun. I enjoy dancing like no one wants to watch.
The normal advice is, “Find something you’re good at and stick with it.” This sounds reasonable, but it is bad advice. Some gave up on the piano when they realized they were not going to be Mozart, but they miss playing music. Some stopped playing chess because they watched The Queen’s Gambit and could not figure out what was going on, but they loved chess. Some try to forget how great they felt ice skating, because some horrible coach pointed out they do not move like Kristi Yamaguchi.
We should read books that no Amazon algorithm would recommend for us, cook what may not be edible and play games we always lose. We let our ego get in the way. We compare ourselves with the those who are better at what we do, instead of enjoying what we do. If we are going to do something, we might as well do it badly. We should play chopsticks, paint by number and write books that never will be published.
Some who need to hold a baby are afraid the baby will cry. Some who need to sing loud do not want anyone to hear. Some who need to have a conversation with a trans person never have.
“If we live within the boundaries of our own competence, the world will stay small.”
If we allow ourselves to be limited to that at which we are good, we are going to miss a lot. If we live within the boundaries of our own competence, the world will stay small. When we try what we cannot do, the world gets bigger.
The British philosopher Bertrand Russell writes, “Make your interests gradually wider and more impersonal, until bit by bit the walls of the ego recede and your life becomes increasingly merged in the universal life.” He suggests we should live like a river, small and contained at first, but gradually overflowing banks, merging into the sea, losing ourselves to what is bigger.
So go to a Mexican restaurant and announce, “Buenos dias. ¿Cómo estás? Estoy aquí para el almuerzo.” If your experience is like mine, the waiter will sigh and reply, “If you really feel a need to practice your Spanish, I’ll get Maria.”
Do it anyway.
Brett Younger serves as senior minister at Plymouth Church in Brooklyn, N.Y.