Why Dutch books make me cry: code-switching and husband-dear

I have a confession to make. Well, three actually: 1) my husband barely speaks Dutch, 2) this is my fault, and 3) I don't care all that much.

Having said that, I do envy Dutch women whose American husbands can speak Dutch. Who can join in on conversations, watch Dutch movies with them, and who, subsequently, have no problem holding a conversation with various elderly relatives who may not speak English. Who, when you try to discuss something about the kids in front of the kids, can switch back and forth between English and Dutch as though it's a piece of cake, and who understand why "Shall we but" truly is very funny. To me, it just seems to add another layer of ease to one's daily life.

Interestingly, I know of people who believe that being fluent in a spouse's native tongue is a lot more than just an added bonus to daily life. The other day, in fact, I read a blog that posited  that unless you speak someone's native language, you don't truly know them. A fact that would imply that, since husband-dear's Dutch doesn't go beyond "Een kopje koffie klinkt erg lekker, ja.", he has yet to meet the real Dixiechick. In general, this idea appears to ring true. After all, if you were raised speaking one language, grew up immersed in its culture and discourse, then that language (and its subsequent cultural, social, and ideological implications) has defined who you are. And although expressing yourself in your spouse's language might become second nature after a while, it is still that: second nature. You can be as fluent as humanly possible, unless your significant other speaks your language, there will be a cultural gap between the two of you, no matter how minor.

Now, although there (I'm sure) plenty of gaps between husband-dear and myself (I mean, if someone can tell me why he thinks it's acceptable to get up at 6:30 on a weekend, that would be great), a cultural-language gap isn't one of them. Although my parents raised me speaking Dutch, I grew up in countries other than The Netherlands, and not only quickly became fluent in English, but also became an expert at code-switching. I learned that there was a language used for school, for home, and for the outside world. The Netherlands, its cultural values, social beliefs, and popular culture became something restricted to vacations and care packages filled with drop and the latest gossip magazine. And when we moved back, I never felt at home the way I did before we left, and in fact spent the better part of the next few years trying to get away again (and mostly succeeding at it too).

So when I met husband-dear, speaking English was something I never even thought about. I had always thought of English as my second native language (as evidenced my mounds of drama-filled, woe-is-me-teen-angst-riddled, English-language journals), husband-dear didn't speak Dutch, and so I just spoke the language that had always come easiest to me anyway: English. When we argued, we argued in English. When I cried, I cried in English. When I had nightmares, they were in English. There were no "this comes easier to me in Dutch" moments for me, ever.

In spite of all of that, though, I really did want husband-dear to learn Dutch. I'm not sure why, but I did. Perhaps I really wanted him to be able to talk my 90-year old grandfather. Or perhaps I was worried about getting  dementia, and, like so many others, reverting to the language I learned first. Or, and this is just a teeny, tiny possibility, but perhaps I figured that since I had moved halfway around the world for him, the least thing he could was learn to speak Dutch. Whatever the reason was, husband-dear threw himself into it with his usual vigor. He purchased Rosetta Stone, and for weeks harassed me with questions about prepositions, conjugations, and other things I, due to my own lack of education in the Dutch language, didn't know. He would pick up the phone with "Het paard eet een wortel", and "De man staat op het dak", and we would instate "only Dutch" afternoons at our house. We really tried. We did. But at the end of the day, I would always switch back to English. Not him, nope, me. It was just easier than trying to speak Dutch with someone who is just learning. Especially when there was no dire need to speak Dutch fluently yet (my grandmother is still able to translate for him, and I have yet to show a sign of dementia).

So once he picked up the basics, and I stopped showing a real interest, husband-dear put his considerable energy into other endeavors. And I was OK with that. Still am, really. I can express myself in English just fine, and don't really see a need for my poor overworked husband to spend hours per week studying a language his wife doesn't even care to speak.

But then last night I suddenly uncovered a reason why I maybe should have pushed the matter more. I was organizing some of my old Dutch children's books. Books that are destined for other Dutch-Americans with children who do speak Dutch. And with each book that passed through my hands, I remembered reading it. I remembered twirling my hair and losing myself in each novel, whether it was about crusades, world war II, boarding schools, horse farms, or an imaginary place called Thule. I remembered how lonely I used to be as a child, and how these books became my friends, and helped me create my own fantasy-world where I would retreat to when things were not as easy as they could have been. And then I realized: because my husband cannot read Dutch, that is a part of me he would never know. In spite of all of my language skills, the immersion in cultures other than the Dutch one, there was one part of me that was undeniably Dutch. It was a sad thought.

Of course, when I told husband-dear, he said three things: 1) You can tell me about each and every book, 2) If there are movies made about these books, we can watch them together, even if they're in Dutch, and 3) I will start learning Dutch again, if you'd like me to.

And that is why he rocks, both in Dutch and in English.