Universal Language

The Universal Language is supposed to be Esperanto. Actually, that's what they were trying to pull off. It hasn't worked yet. I have gone overseas and have seen English signs for posterity or for the usage ease of foreign visitors. Being an American, I have not learned a language, though my mother made me study one dialect of Chinese, and I chose to study another. With the first, I made no headway; with the second, I was able to play Uno completely in that language! Of course, I couldn't say much to the guy who completely screwed me up but "Thank you", very sarcastically. When it comes time to study my high school requirement, I'm going to learn Spanish, the language I can best use in my circumstances.

But I digress, this actually was not about words. When all the languages were scrambled, it was one of the worst punishments on earth, but there was a small compensation that helped ease the blow. The true Universal Language was left to us.

I one time performed a tin whistle solo at a talent show and was accosted the next day by a group of folks who couldn't speak English. I happened to be playing the piano at the time. They nodded at me excitedly and made motions to show that they'd seen me playing the music the night before, and stuck their thumbs up, grinning joyously at me the whole time. I then was supposed to play them something on the piano. It didn't come off as good, as my fingers had suddenly turned to bricks. Ah, for a professional's poise! I wish...

Music. That universal language. If you want people across centuries, continents, generations, to hear your exultation, your pain, your gift to the world, pull out your instrument of choice and record it. Chances are that somehow it will come out.

Of course, it's not as precise as words, but sometimes precision detracts. Obviously, one can't pull out a whistle (or a fiddle, or a guitar, or a trumpet), start playing in the Hong Kong International Airport, and expect the plethora of people from all over to understand that you mean, "Where is the #@#$ restroom? My flight to Timbuctu is in 5 minutes!", and the guy from Israel can't pull out a banjo and respond, "Wait 'til you get on the plane!" But you can take out your whistle and play it (where you're allowed to) and throw your heart into it, and somehow someone will understand.

Of course, they won't know exactly what goes on inside your heart, and they won't know exactly what you mean. But there will be that invisible link between your music and your heart and that persons ears and heart, and often, if you have no practical needs (or even if you can do but can cast aside the cares of the practical world for a moment), it's enough to create unity. I have sung a song in English while others around me have sung it in their language. It makes for a delicious cacophony, and an understanding.

I, of course, love music and chose it as one of my primary avocations (vocation? You may think so, but you have not heard me play or sing!), but it astounds me how much universality there is in that genre.

By this time, you may be thinking, "I just don't get those shrieky Celtic flute-thingys," or else, "What about that Hawaiian steel guitar that I can't stand?" Well, unfortunately, lack of understanding was there long before screwy speech, and is present in everything. Almost as important as other freedoms and tolerances is the freedom and tolerance of music. Which I need to remind myself of when I hear those steel guitars (but I do like Celtic flute-thingys; tin whistles!). And the rest comes naturally.

I'll close with a story. I had a very dear friend and dance teacher who liked us all to bring music to class. I, of course, brought Atwater-Donnelly's (I have a one-track mind sometimes!) The Blackest Crow and let her pick a song. She chose the only song on the album that I didn't care for, "Sweet Fern." I danced to it dutifully, and when we were done, she went into raptures about it. "Oh, what a lovely song! How sweet! I just love that song! Caitriona, thanks for bringing the music!"

I sat there, thinking, "Really? I can't stand that one!" But then I thought again. I liked and respected my teacher, and I didn't want to hurt her feelings. So of course I wouldn't say it aloud. I found myself automatically rescanning the whole song because my teacher loved it so. And then I found something in there, the exquisite longing and the sadness that accompanied it. Maybe it wasn't what my teacher found, but now I love the song because I found what it means to me.

So, now, excuse me while I go find a decent sample of Hawaiian music and discover what it has to say...

Why is everything at elevens?

I shouldn't be writing this now. I should sit on my duff like a good little girl and wait until September, at the sixth anniversery. But I'm writing a song for then, and I was just thinking about it, so I'm going to write the prose now.

I was not directly affected by 9-11. I never lost anyone I knew and loved; I never knew anyone who was affected by it; and I lived in Washington State. Not only were there no victims from Washington State, but my very protective parents made sure I saw no footage, no pictures--in short, what I've learned has been from my own resources, grapevine fashion (driven from desperation, because I had a need to write about it). I wasn't really affected.

But in a way, every American was--the first attack on our soil in years. And so many innocent civillians dead--though death of any kind is horrible, the thought of angry, twisted folks killing soldiers isn't so bad. But civillians...just ordinary folks living their lives, who did nothing wrong but work at a tall, beautiful building or board an airplane to California. And so we were are affected, because we are civillians. And it could happen us, if we were at the wrong place at the wrong time.

I lived through a historical moment that my grandchildren are going to be reading about in school. So someday, I wonder, will they know or wonder what was going on at that time far away? Will they care? Will they care that Grandma Cait was busy playing with paint samples with Great-Aunt Rivka when they heard the news? Is it important?

I read a book about Pearl Harbor. It was historical fiction about a girl about my age who lived in Hawaii during that time and saw some of the attacks. Heavy stuff. But it took place in Hawaii, not San Jose or Seattle or Chicago or something like that. That's because Hawaii was where the action was. San Jose, Seattle, and/or Chicago was boring. Those folks were either not awake or not bothering. Then the news came 'round, and they were all shocked.

Like it happened here. I guess a lot of peoples have drawn parallels and that's because there are parallels. My homeschool curriculum is big on "comparing and contrasting", so if I really thought and studied on it, I could probably come up with some of the biggest differences and all that. But...hm, still.

I don't know. It was a big tragedy, 9-11 was, that we haven't quite come out of yet. Friends and family still mourn. Caring people still sympathize and cry over the old stories. The New York Skyline is still missing its buck teeth. There's a big hole where once hundreds of people worked, cried, laughed, and lived normal lives. We still have security measures that would be unneccessary were it not for the horror that people seem to want to inflict on others.

I think that's what makes history. Joys and sorrows that many, many people face that are preserved for generations by their long-time healing, their effects that change--if not the world--entire cities, states, nations. And it's scary to think that, not only will I one day reminisce about the "good old days" with my cronies as we sit in the nursing home, but my children and grandchildren will be wondering what I was doing at the time that was history. Because I was alive at the time, and I have memories.

I only hope that it doesn't give them too many sleepless nights. Or nightmares. Or fear of the dark.