The magic of immersion

This week, we celebrated our six-month-a-versary in La Josefina. This is our halfway point in our year-long Ecuadorian adventure. When I scan through our photos from the last six months, I am both awed at how quickly time passes and deeply moved by the tremendous growth I see in my children. Brynna's hair is longer, Dillon and Jonah are both taller. But it is the unmeasurable growth that is most remarkable.

The process of acculturation occurs so surreptitiously -- in contrast to early July, our kids now gobble up yuca and ripe plantains as voraciously as they might consume a bag of potato chips. They jump onto idling buses and into the backs of pick-up trucks without hesitation. They sit patiently at parties, waiting for a chunk of queso fresco dipped in sweet panela syrup. They dance cumbia (sometimes). They swing machetes, clearing vines as we hike and chopping down bananas at just the right time to ripen behind our casita.

This does not mean they do not miss home; they speak of bits and pieces they miss often enough. But the longing is less acute, and their enjoyment of their present reality -- a chupa mango, a cool bird sighting, the bunny's snuggles -- supplants the sadness.

Language learning is also subtle at times. Dillon can now explain the rules to any game and fervently argue any position with his buddies, all in Spanish. Jonah uses the subjunctive like a ninja, "Si hubiera hecho esto ayer," he said to a friend today. Perhaps, most remarkably, Brynna can now speak Spanish. This is most apparent when she is playing with friends or talking to Crema, the rabbit. While her vocabulary is still growing, her pronunciation is spot on, and her comprehension is quite good.

The boys came to Ecuador with a decent Spanish base; as students at a dual language immersion school, they had a sufficient level of comprehension to ease their transition into this new world. But Brynna hadn't started kindergarten yet; the extent of her pre-Ecuador Spanish was the numbers 1-10, the days of the week, and a few greetings. The first few months were rough at times, language-wise. She is a very verbal kid, she loves playing imaginary games with friends, and being unable to speak Spanish made connection and pretend play impossible. While Jonah did his best to include her and translate for her, she often wound up playing by herself. And she felt sad about it.

Much like my own language acquisition 20+ years ago, Brynna owes the bulk of her language ability to the children of La Josefina. It turns out that playing every afternoon with a group of kids who speak no English is a perfect way for a five year old to learn a language.

Over the last month, Brynna's Spanish skills have really taken off. She is now verbally comfortable and integrated with the local kids, and she sometimes even leads the imaginary play, "Vamos a jugar a familia y yo quiero ser la bebé." ("Let's play family. I'll be the baby"), I heard her say yesterday. She has also learned to read in Spanish, which is a much kinder language to learn to read in than English. Dav Pilkey's Cat Kid Comic Club translates with all its bawdy humor. She speaks to Crema in Spanish, "Mamí, Cremita, el es el conejo mas bonito del mundo y le gusta comer hierbitas".

It is funny how even as an omnipresent observer, I could not actually see Brynna learning the language, or at least not in the way that I imagined I would. It just happened. Like magic. In the beginning, she could offer just a word or two. "Oye" was one of her favorites; it literally means "hear this" in Spanish, but is used to get someone's attention, kind of like "hey, look at the puppy" or "hey, make sure you are sharing the strawberries." The kids use it also to complain to one another, e.g. "Oye, you are being bossy." or "Oye, you are cheating at the game." It's no wonder she picked it up quickly.

Another early favorite was "mira", which means "look at" or "watch." Brynna used mira over and over to get other children's attention (e.g. "Mira the bird," or "Mira my stuffed animal"). During the one-word stage, I would listen anxiously from the living room as she made every attempt to engage in the play with limited words. Most of the time she was persistent, and the other children were wonderfully patient and tolerant. Soon, she began combine mira with random nouns that she liked the sounds of, e.g. "Mira la cebolla!" (look at the onion) and "mira el pulpo!" (look at the octopus).

What happened next was the miraculous part. Somehow, Brynna leapt from single words and short phrases to whole sentences and complex concepts. And even before her language production expanded, her comprehension grew by leaps and bounds. I know that this is not, in any way, novel or shocking to immersion language teachers, but it has been awesome to witness. In contrast to my own adult language learning process many years ago (and to Paul's current successes), Brynna's language acquisition has been much quicker, less painful, and plagued with far fewer quizzical looks. It's just so obvious that little brains are sponges, meant to sop up language. In truth, immersion is practically magical.

And, of course, it's not just the language that makes the magic. It is also the kinship, the shared experiences, and the growing relationship with the people and the place.

As I chop veggies for dinner or sweep our casita for the zillionth time this day, I listen to my children playing. They may be cavorting wildly outside on the columpio or playing hide and seek in the cornfield behind our house; they may be lying quietly on the floor drawing or playing a board game. Whatever they are doing, they are conversing in Spanish with neighbor children, reaching across language and culture in a moment that uniquely captures this experience. And I know that we are privileged and blessed to be here. Together.