Learning—listening, reading, speaking, writing—another language has opened doors to common ground with others and has empowered me to overcome my prejudices and fears. I’ve developed more compassion, too.
I’ve come to realize this in my professional life and time away from work, yet I sometimes wonder where the curiosity about other cultures originates. I hadn’t reflected on this much until the last two weeks.
August 14 was my mom’s birthday—or it would have been. I learned that it was also Father's Day in Brazil. Neither Marty and Jim Dwyer became proficient in Portuguese or Spanish.
My dad could say dolor de cabeza, something he learned from his salad days in New York, but that Spanish phrase was just about it when it comes to either of my parents speaking a language other than English.
In Oklahoma City, Oklahoma, they endured plenty of headaches: owning and operating a Dunkin’ Donuts franchise, the beep beep beep of tornado warnings on TV, and wondering why the eldest of four boys (me) was hiding in a ditch to avoid sixth grade.
My parents had little free time. One of their employees, a Native American, invited us to a powwow. Mom and Dad could have said no thanks, too tired. But we went. And they could have said sorry, too many other mouths to feed, to a Hmong refugee from Laos. But they took him in.
In Fort Collins, Colorado, Mom and Dad mandated our attendance at St. Joseph’s Catholic Church, where one of the priests would say shalom instead of “peace be with you.”
In junior high school, and without any parental oversight, I entered a raffle held by the Spanish Club. I won a free beverage at a gourmet coffee, tea and spice emporium, Olive’s East. I ordered a Russian tea, full of orange flavor and cloves.
In high school, Mom and Dad decided to add another family member. We already had a full house with the fifth son’s arrival. And now we were going to do what? We brothers had no say in the matter.
I’ll let this five-minute video, which aired on NBC’s Today Show, tell the rest of that story.
When Bob Dotson and the NBC crew documented the merging of two families, a segment that would air on Thanksgiving Day, 1984, I was in college in Minnesota and on my way to becoming a Spanish teacher.
I never met Bob. Didn’t even know the video was on the Internet until two weeks ago, when another Portuguese learner asked me what year my mother was born. I couldn’t remember, so I googled Marty Dwyer + Fort Collins. Her obituary was the first link. Just below it, I noticed my Vietnamese sister’s picture and “ YouTube · Bob Dotson · Apr 17, 2020.”
Now, all these years later, I’m putting the puzzle pieces together—the powwow, the Hmong among us, the Hebrew word meaning peace, the Russian tea, teaching Spanish, learning Portuguese and maybe someday Vietnamese.
I’ve been re-connecting with my brothers, sisters and cousins, all prompted by a post about Father’s Day in our Brasil-Boston Interchange WhatsApp group.
Bob Dotson is still telling his American stories. I wrote to him, and he responded. He reminded me of something my dad had told him, about how much my Vietnamese sibling’s parents had sacrificed. “They passed on their own personal happiness to better their children. I guess that’s the ultimate in parenthood.”
I can’t imagine being stranded in the South China Sea or any of the perils my Vietnamese siblings survived. Can’t imagine sending my kids to another country and wondering if I’d ever see them again.
The best I can do is be grateful for my own parents. They taught me lessons I didn’t always want to learn as a teenager—to say I love you in English and let’s go in Vietnamese: Đi đi mau is pretty much the equivalent to vamos (BAH-mohs) in Spanish.
More than words, Mom and Dad taught me how to share, work hard, forgive, and open doors and hearts.
Ready to tell me your story? I’m “hear” for you. Vamos. Đi đi mau. Let’s get started.