Silence Just Fell

Protasis

I’m sure it’s become clear that I’m a pretty talkative individual.

In fact, I’m so talkative that it occurred to me the other week that chances are a whole lot of people would be interested in a sponsored silence that involved me and 60,000 seconds of silence.

I wasn’t wrong, and as initiatives go we can put this one in the green, successful box.

But.

It was very very very difficult. I had no idea, when I began, just how difficult it was going to be.

So, now that there’s a couple of days between me and total, maddening silence, I figured there was some language-related benefit to be gained from mulling over the experience.

Silence is, after all, but an absence of language (and yep, I’m counting music and miscellaneous sounds like ambulance sirens as language).

Epitasis

The first thing I noticed about an hour too early on a dark, rainy Thursday morning was that my ears ratcheted up a notch. Conversations being held several metres away were now distractingly loud.

It’s amazing how much better you hear when your ears aren’t expecting your own voice to cut in loudly and give them a shock.

Of course, Phase 1 of a silence is all about watching those times when you have something to say slide past you. Although it has the potential to be very frustrating, it has the bonus of being near the beginning, so sheer novelty can get you through it.

Get to Phase 2, and those all-important contributions suddenly seem less important. Adding ‘oh I saw that film once, I liked it’ suddenly doesn’t seem to improve the conversation after all. This one goes on a while.

What I chiefly noticed during this time was how different reactions can affect how easy it is to stay silent.

Surprisingly, the group of people convinced their money was safe who kept trying to catch me out didn’t worry me at all. I was constantly on my guard, expecting to be tested, so nothing happened.

I had most trouble keeping mum with a group of very supportive and kind friends who were all 100% behind me. In fact, this is actually where I messed up (4 words, sigh). Because I relaxed, it was much more difficult to stay silent.

Unsurprisingly, it’s much easier to get talking – whether in mother-tongue or in a second language – if we feel comfortable. When I was trying to keep silent, keeping myself on edge was essential to not making a mistake. But when it comes to language-learning, I think it’s important not to be ashamed of seeking to be comfortable once in a while.

Does this mean I think we should avoid new situations? Does it mean I think it’s best to stick to transcripts rather than listening blind, or learn in a classroom rather than in the country?

No, of course not.

However, it is important to try speaking the language over a cup of tea with a friend (I mentioned I’m British, right?) rather than in a cold building alone. It is important not to dismiss texts because they’re less complex, or repetitive vocabulary exercises just because they’re so familiar.

All these things have something to bring to the table and sometimes it can be nice to take one step back before we take another two forward.

…and then came Phase 3, made up of several factors:

1. tiredness. It was taking a lot of concentration to stay silent and to top it off I’d had to get up early just to stay silent for longer so as to meet my target.
2. frustration. I’d done Phase 1, when novelty prevented me feeling down. I’d done Phase 2, when I’d got into the swing of it and speaking didn’t seem so important. And now here I was in Phase 3, stranded with the novelty long worn off without any ability to communicate.
3. it was entirely my own fault. Because I’d messed up (it happens), here I was doing penalty time, which ran to longer than I’d had left when I messed up. I could have been finished ages ago, if I’d just stuck to it a little more.

Language learning can be a bit like that.

There comes a point after the novelty of a new language has worn off and it’s a simple matter of repetitive hard work. There comes a point when new concepts have been swirling around your head for hours and you’re exhausted.

And it feels like you can’t communicate. It feels like you missed your shot to communicate, like you should have tried harder earlier. You can listen fine, reading and writing isn’t a problem but to speak? Whilst silent, I actually grew to dread it. I grew to dread the idea that someone would say something to me and I’d reply without thinking. I replayed mimed conversations in my head, sure that the voice of my consciousness had been speaking out to the world unintentionally.

We can feel like that, as linguists. We can feel that something’s we’ve said is wrong, so we should have just kept quiet. We decide it might be better just to not speak, until we’re feeling more confident. We’ll have figured out more grammar, more vocabulary by then.

Catastrophe

I think we ought to try to head this attitude off at the pass.

There is nothing wrong with attempting to speak, whatever your level.

All that matters is that you get your meaning across. So what if it’s a mixture of words and mime? So what if a verb that should have been imperfect is conditional? So what if you forgot to use the subjunctive?

These things happen to every linguist going.

Listening is incredibly important – and I’ll admit I found my listening improved. Silence can help with that.

But silence shouldn’t be inflicted on anyone. When I was silent, I had a goal in mind, an intention. I also had some very good friends, and these things combined to keep me going.

Thank you for reading – and don’t be afraid to speak to me, by which I mean leave a comment or a like!

rursus redibo

Bast

PS There will be some people reading this (I hope!) who had a hand in helping me to get through my sponsored silence. To those people – thank you!

PPS. Yep, I opened this post with a gratuitous Doctor Who reference, because the 50^th anniversary special was brilliant.