Tag Archives: Dansk

Nobody is taught language.

The perils of raising a bi-lingual child (when you are not)

Your child will engage adults in conversations you are not capable of following.
This is especially fun when the adults then turn to you and you just have to leave them hanging, or mumble something you hope makes sense, but judging from their reactions usually doesn’t. But don’t worry…

Your child will explain things
They will learn to carry on the conversation by explaining ‘my Mum doesn’t speak good Danish’. They will also occasionally pass on this factoid to other children at their daycare. As for the woman who said hi to them in the supermarket, why not tell her too? How about that guy who just happens to be sitting in the bus stop at the same time as you, it’s probably good information to pass on to him.

Auto-correction is always at hand
No need to go look at phonetics in a dictionary. Your three year old will be ready and willing to correct your pronunciation at any time.

Don’t forget they are only three
But don’t take their word for it. This can lead to embarrassing errors. After mixing up fro and frø, my son told us he had eaten bread with frogs in it. Seeds, he meant seeds.

Reading is a great way to learn
Reading together will boost both your vocabularies. It is great bonding and snuggling time. Just don’t forget the auto-correcting. Reading will suddenly turn stressful as you are unable to produce the desired level of fluency.
‘Kan du finde kurven?’
‘No. Kurven.’
‘Kurven.’
‘No. K-Uurven.’
‘Whatever.’

Enjoy children’s TV together
There is no better boost to your ego than being able to follow the plot of Postman Pat/Per. You can almost convince yourself you have the language skills of a three year old. As long as you are only listening and not trying to join in the conversation that is. And if you get a bit lost by the intricacies of why exactly he misdelivered the post (again), and why he is still considered a local hero just for sorting out the mess he started, don’t worry. I’m sure if you watch it often enough you’ll understand the complexities of Greendale society eventually.

Worry about children’s TV
But beware, if you leave the TV on for something you don’t know well, you may find yourself sitting there wondering if this show really is age appropriate? It can be hard to tell sometimes. If this happens, don’t panic, just switch it off abruptly, and deal with the following tantrum in a calm and respectful manner.

Sometimes you will have to explain things to them
They won’t understand everything, so they may still call on you for help. Leaving you with the conundrum of whether or not to translate ‘lort’ so they can keep up with the other pre-schoolers. Hint: it involves bodily, uh, excretion.

Pass the buck
When your child calls names at daycare, be sure to disapprove. But secretly console yourself that they definitely only learnt that word in one place. And it wasn’t at home!

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der har jeg rod, derfra min verden går

Kære Aarhus,

It has been two years since we arrived. An unbelievable two years.

Making the decision to move here was difficult. Saying good-bye to my mother at the airport was heart-wrenching. I know a lot of people were surprised to see us move so far from home, but as my wise cousin said to me that was a decision that could only be made by those affected, and we didn’t have to justify it to anyone. Those words have given me more strength than I think she knew. I made my peace with my decision; though I won’t lie, there are moments of regrets. But I know my mother didn’t want her illness to hold us back. Like any mother really.

We stepped off the plane in Copenhagen, out into a taxi rank, tired, stressed, bewildered at the magnitude of what we were doing. Our son, M, then 18months old, produced two new words that first day, “windmill” and “cold”. Perhaps he understood what this country was about.
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It turned out that a free online course and the first season of Borgen were not great preparation for the reality of getting by amongst Danish speakers. I’ve come a long way since selvfølgelig seemed like the biggest tongue-twister out there. We went for a walk just after Christmas on a day with bitterly cold winds. My cheeks and lips were so numb I struggled to shape them into consonants. Perhaps this why Danish sounds the way it does. Though this would not explain why Norwegians speak so beautifully.

But the language barrier is not so great since virtually everyone speaks fantastic English. Even those that insist ‘only a little. Not very well’ before launching into complex sentences with multiple clauses and only making a mistake when they have to pronounce a ‘v’. Anti-waxers had me stumped for a while. But really Danes, you are very patient with our fumbling attempts to learn your language. At least you know nobody ever arrives on your shores with a high school level of Danish. So you welcome all these beginner level speakers.
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Or do you? It seems, based on your recent elections, you are becoming less tolerant. I think the stress of being more welcoming than most of Europe has become too much. You shouldered a larger burden of migrants while other countries turned their backs. And it has been hard for Denmark. When for so many centuries nobody wanted to come here. To this ‘lille land’. So for centuries there has been only one way to be Danish. All us migrants are changing that, and some of you want that to stop. But I think that horse has already bolted. And perhaps the greatest threat is not people who don’t eat flæskesteg for Christmas, or people who don’t celebrate Christmas, but your growing intolerance.

And we do try to be less ‘udansk’. I realise now we made some grave errors in decorating our apartment. We hung our lights in an incorrect way. You are right, they are not very hygge. Our furniture is not minimalist enough. But I have a Kähler vase now, so I hope that counts for something. I confess that two years here has not taught me to understand all your ways. Like the obsession with the light wood floors. Tell me Denmark, how do you keep them clean? Especially in winter, when the streets are salted and gritted and you have a pre-schooler? Is it possible? Or do you all sweep multiple times a day too?

Often the locals ask me ‘why?’ Why did we move here? To this land of winter, rain and wind. I admit on paper they seemed quite daunting. But looking closer Aarhus, you have half the annual rainfall of my home town. And while your wind is cold, it is hardly ever gale force. To my surprise it is easier to take a pre-schooler out here, in a cold, dry snow than in a boggy soggy Wellington winters’ day. Sure the summer is hardly spectacular, my Australian friends would be very unimpressed. But I find much to admire in your fierce embrace of what summer you get, – sun bathing on your decks at the first rays of sunshine, regardless of temperature.
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I love the seasons. The silver frosted trees -winter blossom my son called it- replaced by tiny green buds. The clichéd red, orange and brown cascades of leaves in autumn. It is the variation of light that I have learnt to enjoy the most. The long, long summer days with nights where the sky never goes truly black, only a deep blue, a promise of sunshine only a few hours away. To the grim grey of winter. I am always amused to find myself staring at a patch of cloud, only to realise that, yes that is the sun hiding behind it. I never understood that the sun would stay so low on the horizon that even day would be so dim. Or that the cloud would be so thick that the temperature does not vary from midnight to midday. But shift slightly either side of that grey, you have whole days where if the sun makes it out from behind the clouds it casts that beautiful magic hour glow you usually only get just before sunset.
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You’ll never win any beauty contests Aarhus, but there are places, views I have learnt to love. The dinosaur sunrises down at your industrial harbour. The Rainbow perched above the city. Those particular shades of orange and mustard yellow stucco on old cottages. Our nature walks along the Brabrandstein. I’ve learnt where to go to get a great coffee, and a pastry. Where to buy decent fish. Where to pick blackberries.
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These are perhaps the greatest achievements to me. That after two years I feel I have solved some of the great challenges of expat life. They are not just good coffee shops, but my favourite coffee shops. My favourite walks. My local shops. We have managed to turn the unfamiliar into the familiar.

I’ve written before about my wish to give my children turangawaewae. At times I have misgivings about our choices. I wonder if the costs have been too high. But today I think we have made roots here. We know our future here probably does not extend further than 2017, so they will never be deep. But this will always be the city my son spent his preschool years, the city my daughter was born in, the city I grieved my mother in. So I know I will look back and be able to say:

Aarhus, for a time at least, you were home.

K.H.

Welcome home, see I made a space for you now

Today I have no jokes. No pithy remarks about my life as an immigrant. I’m not sure I can add anything to the debate surrounding the current ‘migrant’ crisis that can change the mind of anyone who hasn’t had it changed by those photos. I’m not the person to tell you about the crisis in their homeland, and the journey they take.

But, I have something to say about who these people are, to anyone whose fear of the ‘others’ holds back their better natures.

Those others – they really are just like you.

I know this because I am an immigrant in a non-English speaking country. I went to language school. Those others? They were my classmates.

When I started last year, about half of my class would have been migrants from the middle east. The biggest single group – Syrian. Nearly all men, though many had wives in another class, it had just worked out that way. Some had children. One who I got to know well had young daughters who had spent two years of their short lives living in refugee camps.

There were times in the classroom that showed we came from different worlds. Like talking about our families: ‘I’m the youngest of 12 children. But five of them are dead’. That’s not something many twenty somethings in the west would say.

But that didn’t happen often. Mostly they were just like me and you. Laughing at the same bad jokes. Struggling to learn Danish. Working hard, because unlike me, they don’t have the luxury of leaving if it doesn’t work out.

They weren’t terrorists. They weren’t misogynists. I’m a vocal feminist, and if you think I’d be silent if I saw sexism, then ‘Hi’, because obviously we’ve never met. They treated all the liberal western females in my class just fine. Showed interest in all our diverse cultures, and in our families – both to the married mothers, and the unmarried ones.

They were family men. Educated men. Men who worked hard. Men who liked to watch sport and play chess. Men who would laugh as they handed me pens I dropped once my pregnant belly got in the way. Who’d chat about how their families were adjusting. What their kids’ school was like.

I’ve moved around the world. I’m not stupid. I know I’ve been able to do this because I’m the right sort of immigrant. Because of the colour of my skin. My nationality. Because we are educated. Because decades ago my father-in-law was born to New Zealand parents in the UK. Because of quirks of fate.

There are no easy solutions. Many of our leaders are right when they say taking in more people won’t solve the root cause. Maybe they should think about what might. Maybe that doesn’t matter when children are drowning while trying to reach safer shores.

Last year New Zealand celebrated winning a seat on the UN Security Council. This was John Key’s response:

“We have worked very hard on the bid for close to a decade because we believe that New Zealand can make a positive difference to world affairs and provide a unique and independent voice at the world’s top table…It has been more than 20 years since New Zealand was last on the Council and we are ready to contribute again.”

Now is a time to contribute. Our way of life is not so fragile a few hundred people can threaten it. But closing our doors, that black-mark on our humanity. That’s the real threat.

Sign a petition to increase NZ’s refugee quota here.

Can I have another/ piece of chocolate cake

The big supermarkets here give free bread rolls to children while their parents shop. M loves getting his ‘bolle’ when we go, and we’ve been teaching him how to ask politely for one – Jeg vil gerne en bolle. A couple of weeks ago we struck a queue at the bakery, and while we waited M admired the nice looking cakes on display. Finally it was his turn

‘Jeg vil gerne en kage’

Cheeky sod.

We’ve noticed a huge increase in the amount of Danish M is speaking in the last few weeks. As well as an expanded vocabulary he is speaking in quite complex sentences. We figured he’d reach this stage at some point, but it is quite remarkable to watch it all happen. When A was born my husband and I both stopped Danish lessons. It is pretty clear that we are going to be overtaken in our ability very soon. He can already pronounce the tricky vowels, and impossible ‘blødt d’, like a local:

At dinner the other day he chatted away to us in Danish about eating ‘jeg skal spise, but du skal ikke spise’ (I’ll eat, but you won’t eat. Clearly the word for ‘but’ is not part of his vocabulary). His instructions and patter about eating went on for quite some time. Until he suddenly leant towards me and said ‘Pirates have torches’.

It can be hard to keep up with the brain of a three year old.

I don’t know how we are going to manage when he is fluent in more than one language. Especially if his little sister is eventually able to join in.

He is also better at distinguishing between the two languages. While my father was staying M asked him to read one of the Danish picture books, and my father gamely tried. The performance was clearly unsatisfactory as after that he took to checking if his book was in English or Danish before reading. Now we get less mixing of languages, unless he doesn’t know the word he needs in which case he is happy to borrow it from his other vocabulary. As his proficiency has increased, so has his ability to translate himself.

‘Flyvende balloner’ he cries, pointing to the ceiling. Then he whispers, for our benefit, ‘flying balloons’ with a little knowing nod.

So if all goes well he’ll be able to translate for us soon. Yes! We’ll be the stereotypical immigrant parents ‘M. We need you to translate our rental lease for us.’ ‘Can you call the bank for me, I need to ask them something’. He is going to be so useful.

Also his incessant questioning ‘cause?’ is now accompanied by ‘why?’, and the Danish ‘hvordan? hvorfor?’ Variety is the spice of life after all.

Children do have this amazing capability to learn just by osmosis. We’ve spent months going to lessons. Looking at vocab lists, and learning the rules of grammar. And we live in a ‘language immersive’ environment. But we just can’t compete with M. He has learnt both his languages in the completely opposite way. Building his way up from pointing and single words, not giving a damn about grammar. Who needs verb tense anyway? Until suddenly he gets the rules. OK, his use of singular and plural nouns still needs work. Yuss, one win to us!

We’ll just have to keep trying to keep up. And we aren’t always going to get it right. I was telling M we were having chicken for tea, because he kept saying ‘vi skal spise omelette’. Until I realised he was actually saying ‘vi skal spise om lidt’. (We will eat soon).

It isn’t just some vain parental boast ‘Quintus can speak five languages, and is learning to read classical latin and greek’. Actually M needs to learn Danish if we are going to stick around here for any length of time. The older he gets the more other children expect to be able to communicate if they are going to play. One friend I’ve made here has a daughter of a similar age to M. They are from Benin, and speak French at home. As my husband says, this is probably the first time in history a French speaking Beninese child, and an English speaking Kiwi have played together in Danish. But they have really enjoyed playing together since their common language improved.

And, I think I am allowed to admire M a bit. It isn’t easy for children to adapt to daycare. It isn’t at all easy when you don’t speak the predominant language. And it’s not as if the last few months would have been easy anyway, between a new sibling, and a parental hospital stay. We’ve thrown a lot at him. More than I’ve felt was fair at times, but that’s just the way things worked out. We’ve seen some of the anxieties played out in tantrums. It’s been hard on all of us. Now, I feel a little like we are coming out on the other side. And not only has he coped, he has learnt and grown during those times. I’m quite proud of him really. As I should be.

…a little child, born yesterday, A thing on mother’s milk and kisses fed…

It finally happened. I always knew it would, it was only a matter of time before I got my first breastfeeding-in-public disapproving look.

I was thinking my morning was going well. I’d already achieved a) a shower b) getting dressed c) leaving the house and d) finishing my shopping. Which is, by the way, four more things than I’ve achieved so far today. So when my daughter began to stir I decided not to tempt fate and sit down and feed her before my bus ride home. So I went into a cafe.

First mistake. You don’t really need a coffee. Are you kidding – I have two children, of course I need coffee!

If you do you should drink in solitude at home. <sobs> But I only have instant.

So I ordered my coffee and sat down and began to do the worst thing some people can ever imagine anyone doing ever. I began to unbutton my shirt. And then I saw it. That middle aged man at the table next to mine. The wide-eyed stare as he realises what I’m about to do. I’m going to sit in proximity to him while I feed my baby. And while he’s thinking something like I need to stop staring, at least that’s what I’m thinking he should be thinking. I’m thinking, that’s right, that’s exactly what we’re doing.

And I’m doing it here, because this is the only damn place nearby that isn’t full of bar stools. And have you ever seen anyone feed on a bar stool? No. Because no women has ever been fool enough to try. Unless she’s really desperate, in which case you gotta do what you gotta do. But we all know sitting on the floor is a better option.

I’m all nonchalant now, but at the time I was a little worried he’d say something. And then I’d have the whole awkward can-you-repeat-that-in-english conversation. But then I realised, while I might not be able to get myself understood, I can understand what other people are saying. Because he turned away from me, and instead starts to complain to his wife (?) about how old and uncomfortable the chairs are. And then their morning tea arrives, and she starts complaining about the lack of butter with her roll. And if you have ever eaten a roll in Denmark you will know that’s not true. Because they always give you like, three of those little packets, and then say ‘let me know if that’s not enough butter’. And really, that should be enough butter for one roll.

So while I prefer not to be evil-eyed while I feed my baby, it was a reminder that the kind of people who have a problem just aren’t worth worrying about. They’re the kind of people that would disapprove if I ended up with a screaming baby for the whole bus ride. And they’d disapprove if I whipped out a bottle. Or a dummy. Because they know I just procreated to inconvenience them. Sorry. (Not sorry).

But that doesn’t mean it doesn’t matter, what they do. Being a parent is hard. Feeding your child is hard. Which ever way you end up doing it. It was hard when M had silent reflux and screamed his way through every feed. And it has been hard to get back up on my feet after surviving a seriously life-threatening hemorrhage. And after that, it took hard work (and some luck) that I was even able to build up a supply so I could be sitting here, feeding my baby. Hell, I’m glad I’m sitting here.

So when my daughter is quietly, contentedly feeding, and looks up at me, with her happy little eyes, and I just want to enjoy that quiet moment, don’t put your disapproval on me. I’m not interested. Life’s too short.

When they move their lips, just a bunch of gibberish

Walking down the street with a toddler is a sure-fire way to get attention. People love kids, and the Danes are a particularly child-friendly people. The English language is very widely spoken here, but the biggest exception to this rule appears to be elderly women (not the men, which tells me the much praised gender equalities here are quite recent). It leads to many awkward ‘conversations’ where someone begins talking to me, or my son M, and I then have to attempt to say ‘Jeg forstår ikke Dansk’ or ‘taler du Engelsk?’ and hope we get somewhere, or not, in which case we usually both smile awkwardly and move on. Although, yesterday I had a nice encounter on a bus, where the woman continued to talk to M about his ‘blomst’ (the dandelion he was clutching); both M and I could at least understand what she was talking about, and he was quite happy to have his flower admired.

The strangest thing is getting used to not understanding the general hubbub of conversation around me. I sometimes worry that the person shouting in the street is actually trying to get my attention while I wander by obliviously. I wonder whether I’ve mistakenly called people rude in the past, when really they just had no idea what I was saying. M’s presence is often a sneaky lifeline. It isn’t hard to find an excuse to say something to a toddler. Loudly. In English. Passing by the awkward conversation when I finally get to the front of the queue, or need to get past people on the bus.

Next week my husband, R, begins his Danish lessons. I’m missing out as we need M in vuggestue (day-care, see I’m learning) first. Once M does start in July he’ll pick up Danish pretty quickly. We’ll struggle to understand the events of his day if we don’t make the effort. Many migrants on short-term contracts don’t learn Danish, but I think having children necessitates more contact with authorities and services. So far the health services have been great about speaking English. But it would be advantageous if I could speak some Danish. When we needed to see an emergency doctor after M fell off a chair (he’s fine, if slightly more wonky toothed) I had to ask a stranger to read his CPR (Social Security) number over the phone for me, as they expect this before you arrive.

We did online lessons before we came, but that only taught us just enough to get through until someone replies in English. Our written comprehension has definitely improved since we arrived. The trouble is actually trying to say anything. Being surrounded by Danish language doesn’t help either, it just reinforces how far off our attempts at pronunciation are. The other night I flipped the TV over to the Norwegian news. I don’t think I could’ve told the two languages apart when I first arrived, but now it definitely sounds different. We’ve come a long way since we’ve arrived, but holding a conversation in Danish still feels a long way off.