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But if our relationship with language goes so deep and is so intertwined with our sense of self, what happens to this sense of self when one learns another language? Well, we may think the whole experience is purely utilitarian and has nothing to do with intimate feelings — language is a tool to make us better airline pilots or hotel managers or less diddled tourists. That may be true for many, but for some the learning has a deeper meaning and the fine poem below explores the interaction between the writer’s experience of the foreign language and her developing sense of self, when learning English played a part in her search for identity. The poem was sent in by Tatiana Dobrosklonskaya. I find it very moving and the ambivalent feelings expressed in the last two stanzas seem to me to spring from the heart of poetry.

«Последние строки стихотворения звучат из самого сердца поэзии» — очень лестные слова. На самом деле стихотворение совсем не оптимистичное, оно о том, что как бы хорошо вы ни владели языком, сколько бы раз вы ни ездили в страну изучаемого языка, даже несмотря на множество англоязычных друзей и коллег, если вы иностранец, то вы навсегда для англичан таковым и останетесь, и все равно будете чувствовать себя чужаком, потому что английская культура иностранцев категорически не приемлет.

Mr English

«Hullo, can I speak to Mr English?» «Speaking.» A pleasant slightly husky male voice replies. Mr English, what a name! Especially for a professor of linguistics. He must be looking like Ivanhoe or Robin Hood, A proud inhabitant of the great green island, The royal throne of kings. Alas, I know he is not. The sounds are always more appealing than The instrument by which they are produced. The sounds of English: so beautiful, yet so hard to master. I wonder if I shall ever know their true meaning. I smile as my mind carries me back to where My first encounter with English took place. A small Siberian town, far away in time and space Lost in the woods and winter snow. Me, a six year old girl then, looking at delicate White puzzle made of ice and snow On the window by Frost. My mom opens a book with beautiful pictures And strange letters and reads: «A Cat» — she opens her mouth so wide That I can see her tongue and teeth, «A Sheep» — her lips become unnaturally stretched As if she tries to force a smile. My young Russian mind refuses to accept This funny sounding language. I don’t like it. It makes my dear mom look ugly. Besides, my intuition tells the sounds She produces are not true sounds of English. My poor mom, who all her life had lived Behind the iron curtain, had never heard A single word of live spoken English. A different scene: twelve years later Great Gorby ruined the Berlin wall, The darkness of my Moscow flat is filled With beautiful sounds and music That carry from the radio set. A pleasant slightly husky male voice Sings tenderly about strangers in the night. I fail to catch all words, but I am not annoyed As I am so enchanted by the sounds of English That my heart starts beating faster. I listen To the music of this extremely beautiful Language that in itself is concentration of Talented minds and brave hearts, and know I am lost: I’ve fallen for it at first true sound. The years passed. I’ve learned it, I’ve made The English language my profession. It gave new beauty to my world, It changed me into a different person — More confident, better, stronger. Yet, why do I feel so estranged sometimes, Particularly when travelling to England? As if I am looking for the mysterious Something that I shall never find? «Tatiana, do you follow me?» — a pleasant voice of Mr English interferes with my thoughts. «Yes, Mr English, I do follow you, I’ll get all necessary papers ready by the next week». «Fine, thanks.» «Bye, Mr English, Merry Christmas». I put down the receiver. Vain search. I know it is there in England, But it shall never be mine.