The mother tongue is like a tree
I was sitting in the waiting room of my family doctor in my newly chosen home in Bavaria. Around me, the other patients suddenly began chatting animatedly. In that moment, I felt incredibly out of place, because I simply didn't understand the Bavarian dialect.When I was finally drawn into the conversation, I could only reply: “I’m sorry, I don’t understand you, I only speak Standard German.”I can’t even properly describe how I felt at that instant—somehow excluded and small, because I couldn’t join in. Still, I tried to smile bravely, but I could feel myself being eyed and sized up. Then a man from the cheerful group asked me where I was from. I answered proudly: “I am East Frisian.” “Oh,” he said with a smirk, “a Preuß…” and laughed kindly.
I, on the other hand, wished myself back home. I suddenly realized how much I missed my mother tongue and the way we used to blend Low German and Standard German. A simple ‘Moin’, which used to be completely natural, took on a whole new meaning. Suddenly, I understood what that boy back then must have felt when the routine of school began to dictate our new phase of life.
The serious side of life begins!
The summer sun forces its way through the windows of the red brick building, illuminating the empty corridors that wind like a labyrinth through the interior. In one spot, it looks as if its beam is touching the polished floor. Its shimmering glow, lighting up a small section of the floorboards, seems to merge with it right there. The scent of floor wax, coating the ground like a fine skin, seems to enhance the shine in this very place. Then the bright light vanishes again, dissolving and returning to its source. All that remains is an infinite silence that has expanded into the long hallways. Like in the fairy tale of the sleeping princess, it seems to fill every corner of the building.
If it weren’t for two crows that suddenly move loudly with their cawing through the branches of the old chestnut tree. Their bickering penetrates through an open window and dissolves the tranquility for a brief moment.Suddenly, a loud signal sounds. It fills not only the long corridors but also the rooms hidden behind the closed doors. Even outside the building, it spreads for several hundred meters. It even scares the two crows out of the treetop. Loudly, they seem to shriek out their resentment. They fly a lap and cast their shadows across the deserted property. As suddenly as it broke over the silence, the shrill tone stops again. With it, the shadow play of the black birds disappears. They return to the protection of the green canopy crowning the mighty chestnut tree. For seconds, the silence spreads once more, but it is deceptive, like the calm before the storm.
As if pushed by invisible hands, the doors are suddenly flung open. They practically fly into the hallway. A medley of voices and sounds now pours from the opened rooms. Then they stream out, filling the corridors of the elementary school. The bell has rung for the big recess, and everyone seems to want to reach the large schoolyard as quickly as possible. While some children are still in the classroom, fishing their lunch from their school bags, a pack of boys has already disappeared into the corridor. It has become loud under the children's feet, accompanied by their voices, laughter, and shouting. Only outside on the schoolyard does the tumult begin to thin out.
The heavy entrance door of the small elementary school falls shut with a loud thud. Slowly, silence roams the hallways again. The place of knowledge now appears swept empty. The wordlessness is just about to return completely when heavy, powerful steps prevent it. A purposeful walk that knows exactly where to go. It is the janitor inspecting the premises, because no child is allowed inside the building during recess. As usual, he begins to open the large windows. With the draft, the flood of children's voices rushes back into the building. But suddenly his steps stop, and a loud roar echoes through the long hallway. Just as a jet fighter tears through the silence of the sky, his words now boom through the school building. Startled, even some children outside stop, fall silent, and look anxiously at the open windows. It was the silent boy from my class who caught the whole thunderbolt. His hesitant walk becomes faster and fearful; with his head bowed, he scurries past the annoyed janitor. Sometime later, I saw him standing outside against the wall of the building, alone, away from the playing children.
Perhaps two weeks had passed since I started attending the elementary school. The words: "Now the serious side of life begins!" still rang in my ears, making it so clear to me that a new phase of life had started. I still remember how proud I was, and with my school cone (Schultüte) in my hands, I looked forward to the adventure of school.Slowly, the school routine had replaced the exciting novelty. The silent boy still sat alone in the back of the classroom. Except for the morning "Yes, here!" when the teacher called our names for attendance, the sound of his voice remained hidden from me. Furthermore, he always seemed a little sad, and even when spoken to, he walked past us children without a word.
One day, however, has remained in my memory, a day that explained the boy's silent behavior. The teacher was conducting the lesson as usual. While we vied for the teacher's attention with snapping fingers because we knew the answer to his question, this time he called on the silent boy. He didn't answer and just looked at the teacher. The teacher slowly grew annoyed because he received no answer even upon asking again. Still holding the piece of chalk in his hand, he strode through the class and loomed over the boy. Once more, he demanded the boy to answer, his voice now becoming demanding and resentful. An oppressive silence reigned in the classroom, and even today I can feel my heartbeat rising. Fortunately, by then it was forbidden for teachers to use corporal punishment on children in schools, but the knowledge of it had drilled itself into my heart. Besides, one of the canes always lay on top of the blackboard, keeping that era alive. The boy sat at his desk, his head still bowed, looking like a rabbit in a trap. But the teacher would not let him be and threatened an entry into the class register. Suddenly, the boy jumped up. He shot up like a rocket and looked into the teacher's face. The sadness was gone from his eyes. Anger and helplessness had taken its place, reflected in his words: “Ik kann jo doch nich verstahn!” Then he grabbed his school bag and ran out of the classroom. I still know that tears ran down his cheeks, but then further memories fail me.
I learned later that the boy was the son of a farmer and that only Low German was spoken in the family. The father is also said to have had a heated discussion with the principal, but in the “Kingdom of Standard German” there was hardly any room left for our mother tongue. “I can’t understand you anyway!” Today, I can completely understand the boy's helplessness and anger.It makes me curious about what value and meaning the language we are born into holds for the individual or an entire people. I will now weigh anchor and embark on a new journey—a journey that will also lead me beyond the horizon.