children Esperanto, or who Charles is, or even what a “usage code”
is (or how one might be transposed), but Filipo has moved on to
another subject. His words tend to leap ahead of his sentences,
which pant in pursuit. Every so often, I stop him mid-sentence and
summon him back to the task at hand: communicating something. He
is always appreciative, Cowardly-Lionly, as if to say, “Thanks, I
needed that.”
Filipo is a NASK veteran, and he has a lot of credibility among the
regulars, enough to mimic the earnest litany of questions
Esperantists ask one another. “Samideanoj!” he says, in a mincing
voice: “When did you first learn Esperanto? Why did you first learn
it? How did you first learn it? Where did you first learn it?…” When
Filipo makes a mock phone call—“Ĉu … Ĉu—… Ĉu!… Ĉu?…
ĈU!!!”—I learn the many uses of the ubiquitous particle “ĉu”: “I hear
you,” “Whether,” “You said it!” “Really?” and “NOOO!” One
afternoon, after a visit to the Birch Aquarium, we find ourselves with
an hour to kill before the next bus. Filipo whips out a copy of Reĝo
Lear, taking the part of Lear for himself and asking me to read the
part of Cordelia. But not without a prefatory warning: “In Esperanto
she’s called Kor-de-lee-o,” he says precisely. “Rimarku!” I take note.
* * *
The oldest student, Nini Martin-Sanders, is a petite, grandmotherly
woman from northern California with a lilting voice and sapphire
eyes. She wears a white visor and nursey white shoes; in between
are sweatpants and a T-shirt advertising a folk festival from years
ago. Except for one summer when she had surgery, Nini has
attended every NASK since 1970. She seems happy to see any of us
at any moment at all, greeting us all alike: “Kara!” (Dear!)
Remembering names isn’t easy these days. Nini walks slowly and
her hands shake when she lifts a cup of tea, but she doesn’t miss a
class, an excursion, or an evening program, not even a meeting of
the dormant U.S. Esperanto Youth Association, which Bernard is
trying to revive. All gatherings at Esperanto conferences (except
meetings of the executive and the academy) are open to everyone,
but in the face of all these youth, we oldsters decorously sit on the
periphery. Lost in thought, Nini suddenly asks, with some urgency,
“Was Jeremy Bentham … a Unitarian?”
“No,” says Slim, gifting Nini with a rare smile, “a utilitarian.”
This summer, Nini’s thirty-eighth year at NASK, the dining hall
has instituted a no-tray policy to save money, power, and water.
Most of us have no trouble balancing cups and saucers on salad
bowls with one hand, toting plates of pizza and hummus in the
other, but Nini can’t, and this regime of frugality could well cost her
a hip. Assisting Nini at meals is the collective task of all. Nini’s
favorite assistant, by far, is Wayne, and she makes no secret of
adoring him. Every time he helps to seat her at the table, she catches
the eye of whoever is near, points to Wayne, and says “Bonkora,
Ĉu?” (Goodhearted, isn’t he?) Wayne busses her plates, cuts her
meat, brings her tea.
One day Nini arrives at lunch rattled, confused, distressed,
babbling about her bad memory. Wayne sits down beside her,
towering over her small frame, then lays his hands gently on her
forearms. “What’s wrong?” She can’t remember the name of a song,
and she needs it for an essay Benedikt assigned. While most of the
advanced students are busy researching Esperanto history or culture,
Nini has decided to write about Glendale, California, the town where
she and her husband lived for twenty-two happy years.
“My second husband, the better one,” she says suddenly. Turning
to me, she asks whether I have a husband.
“One,” I say, and Wayne adds, “One is enough.”
“Yes!” Nini declares. “Especially if it’s a bad husband! One is
definitely enough.” Before I can protest that mine is a good husband,
Wayne tells her to breathe deeply. “I’m so impressed by your
quietness,” he says, as she closes her eyes and calms down. Then he
asks softly, “Now, what are you trying to remember?” She opens her
eyes and smiles; she still can’t remember, she says, but she feels
much better.
“Thank you, Kara,” she tells Wayne. “Do you have a twin for me,
my own age?”
Wayne says, “If I had a twin, he would be my age.”
“Yes, of course, Kara,” Nini sighs. “I mean someone with a heart
like yours.”
6. Total Immersion
Zamenhof told us we could, so we’re inventing new words. Our
weird coinages are like motors stuck together with duct tape, but
they get us around. What to dub the NASK lounge—the umejo?
(messing-around place) or the diboĉejo (locus of debauchery)?
Definitely diboĉejo, is the consensus. Meja, a chemistry major from
UCSD, introduces the verb jutubumi for “messing around on
YouTube” and Vizaĝlibro for Facebook, though others prefer Fejsbuk.
Karlo gets a kick out of inventing nouns—truilo (a hole-making
implement)—then verbing them: “La pafilo truilas la homon” (the rifle
beholes the person). Slim, constantly referring to his smartphone for
schedules and plans, calls it his kromcerbo, “spare brain.” Word
invention is more play than task; we toss our word-birdies across an
invisible badminton net, back and forth, not bothering to keep
score. Tonight we’ll gather for Esperanto Scrabble, which is played
with roots, not words.
I’m starting to get jokes—for instance, Bernard’s nightly signoff,
“Bonegedormu,” a pun that means both “sleep excellently” and
“sleep together well.” Throughout the day, I add to my word list.
tekokomputil/o—laptop
surgenu/i—to be on one’s knees
perfort/o—violence
bildrakont/o—comic book
maĉgum/o—chewing gum
tondil/o—scissors
malfald/i—unfold
On a crowded city bus coming back from the July 4 fireworks—
piroteknikaĵoj—surrounded by English for the first time in weeks,
Steĉjo says in Esperanto, “Speaking English is like speaking in
water; speaking Esperanto is like speaking in wine.” Agreed; this
would explain how tipsy I feel when conversation begins to flow
freely. Some days I’m light as a glider at the glisilejo, unencumbered
except for a backpack, a lanyard with my room key, and a UCSD
Tritons water bottle. Other days, total immersion leaves me sodden,
slow, language-logged.
The weather in San Diego has two settings (perhaps Slim has
programmed it): gloomy, gray, and damp every morning; dry, clear,
and sunny every afternoon, when I hike to the east campus to swim.
Doing laps, I dimly remember my sadness of the late spring, when I
turned fifty, like a coat long ago given to Goodwill. What was that
all about? Is NASK balm or cure? Afterward, I lounge in the Jacuzzi,
taking the sun full on my face, making a mental list of all the things
I do not have to do—
file health insurance claims
send in a deposit for tennis lessons
write a tenure review