Not so, I learned, powerfully, thanks to "Carmen" and the wholly unintended and unrecognized kick in the pants she served up that both shamed and inspired.
As a youngster I'd been part of an experiment to learn what would happen if Spanish was introduced in elementary schools, and from age ten or eleven on memorized dialogs in Spanish, addressed my lily-white midwestern classmates by Spanish names, and wondered what it was about this language that so enchanted my teacher. This was enough to land me in accelerated Spanish classes in high school, but these, too, consisted of little more than slogging through boring text and trying not to be embarrassed by my decidedly uncool instructor. After my sophomore year I opted not to continue, and had no further dealings with the language for the next thirty years.
Then I met "Carmen." A tiny Mexican woman in her mid-nineties, Carmen had been hospitalized with heart disease and diabetes, and while still medically precarious returned to the home she shared with generations of kinfolk. Carmen didn't speak a word of English, but her family was happy to translate. Over time she began offering more and more English words, beginning with "Hello," "'Bye," and Thank you," and progressing to asking about my health, the weather, and other basic small talk. I enjoyed her smiling efforts but otherwise thought little of it, and her family gladly translated my responses.
But one day Carmen was home alone. Her daughter had explained earlier that because of converging needs to deliver children to school, be at work, and meet various other responsibilities no one would be with Carmen that day, but by then Carmen was much improved medically, comfortable with my being in her home, and able to cooperate with an exam even if we couldn't communicate verbally. So Carmen and I went through our ritual of simple small talk, and by then she understood enough English to answer my basic questions, saying she felt "fine" and had "no pain" and was "breathing good." Then I reached for the meter to test her blood sugar level, pricked her finger and ran the test, and happily noted the perfectly normal "104" reading. In so many respects, Carmen had come a long way!
But Carmen pointed to the meter with a questioning look, so I told her it was "good, normal!"
"What number?" she asked, in English!
And I was stymied. Staring at the reading on that screen I struggled to blow thirty year-old cobwebs from my brain and elicit "104" in Spanish. "Cien . . . " I said, the word for "!00" coming to me, " . . . y . . . cuatro," I finished, hesitatingly offering an arithmetic problem in lieu of a direct answer, "one hundred plus four," as my full response.
Carmen broke into a huge smile and she exclaimed, "Cientocuatro!," the correct Spanish word for "104."
"YES!" I exclaimed. And we beamed at one another for both her medical progress and our feat of communication.
It wasn't long, though, before I felt about two inches tall. Here was an exceptionally elderly woman who had been critically ill and was far from stable when first we met, and in the weeks I visited besides accomplishing the substantial task of recovering medically she had learned many English words and phrases, whereas I, who served a city with a huge Hispanic population and once graduated from eighth grade with a medal for excellence in Spanish, remained unable to extract even "cientrocuatro" from my brain.
I enrolled in Beginning I Spanish class the next month, the first of what then was a three-year curriculum (now four). Those were great times. I met people from around the world, some of whom are friends to this day. We went to class on Saturday mornings, weekday evenings, and, ultimately, twice weekly at 6:45 AM, and had a ball. But that Beginning I experience was . . . traumatic.
It was a Saturday morning class, and I fell into a habit of seeing one or two patients in "the projects" early, after which my security escort police officer would drop me off at school. After class I walked back to my car, which was about a mile and a half away where I'd initially met up with the officer, knowing a bus or taxi was an option if necessary, but quite enjoying the walk. And as I walked, I thought. And week after week, without fail, once finally to my car, I unlocked the door, settled into the seat, and burst into tears. "I can't do this. I don't understand it, I'm not learning, I don't get it, it's hopeless, what's wrong with me . . ." You know the routine. Once calm enough to start the engine I'd hear the Spanish station to which I kept the radio tuned, and waves of despair would wash over me once more. "It's just noise, it's all gibberish, I'm stupid." Oh, my, but those were difficult moments!
Fast forward to say I did complete that three year curriculum and more "enrichment" classes as well, loved it all, and learned to speak, read, and write fluently in Spanish. In fact, native speakers tell me I have no accent, which is silly because everyone has an accent of some sort, but I think they mean that I manage not to sound like a gringo. Indeed, one of my most satisfying moments was the sudden realization one day as I sat at her kitchen table bantering in Spanish with a Mexican patient that the conversation felt perfectly natural, without my groping for words, hesitating in conjugating a verb, or feeling self-conscious in the presence of a native speaker. We were just talking, normally, the way people do.
But those sob-fests in my car during my Beginning I Spanish class days proved to be a gift, as I came to realize that what had shaken me to the core was the difficulty of being, and accepting myself as, a beginner. At forty-five years old I had a good measure of experience under my belt and had developed substantial expertise. I was the teacher, the nurse, the resource for colleagues, the idea person who could see ways to solve problems and bridge differences. I could travel all over by myself, buy and sell property, invest money, lecture to audiences of esteemed professionals and leaders across the country, and serve as president, whether by design or default, of seemingly every organization I ever joined. While certainly no paragon of wisdom and virtue, I was accustomed to holding my own in the world quite well, and to a tendency to emerge as a leader whether or not that was something to which I aspired.
That did not sit well with suddenly being unable to say, "My name is Sue, I'm from the United States, and I work as a nurse," . . . in Spanish. Indeed, it probably took me two years to learn to pronounce, "Soy estadounidense" ("I'm from the United States"). But I sure can say it now!
I learned, from my tears and despair, that despite years of unconscious practice, it can be hard, very, agonizingly hard, to be a rank beginner when one is an accomplished middle-aged adult. And that has served me well. Colleagues who take new positions and suddenly find themselves undertaking very different work than they did in the past, new parents, brand-new college graduates thrust abruptly into full adulthood, the newly widowed, even just a new neighbor who has moved into a new home in a strange neighborhood and needs to carve out a new daily routine and find new friends, all of these may find their equilibrium and self-confidence more than a little disrupted by the phenomenon of suddenly becoming a beginner.
A well known career coach in my field noted recently that it can be humbling when everyone around seems to know more than one does oneself. Certainly this is true. We all have looked at others deftly overhauling an engine or flying a plane or manipulating lines and monitors in an Intensive Care Unit . . . or speaking a second language . . . and thought, "Wow!" and felt a little small in their presence. However, I wonder if much of the resistance even to such changes as going to the gym to begin an exercise regimen or learning to cook more "healthy" foods is less about feeling self-conscious around in-shape, athletic sorts strutting about or sophisticated shoppers who move among the exotic offerings at Whole Foods and seem to know exactly what to do with them, and more about the raw discomfort simply of being a beginner, that is, of carrying the Beginning I book or not knowing how to use the machines in the gym or where on earth in the store to find ingredients whose names one can't even pronounce. The discomfort may not be about other people or one's surroundings; instead, it may be a consequence of needing to be an adult starting over, being a beginner.
A few years ago bright and early on New Year's Day I came up behind this gentleman, and his four-legged companion, as we all were doing (not necessarily "running") a 5K. I passed him, but I'll never pass what he represents: Getting out there, starting where one is, and moving forward.
But there's more to it. Even if everyone around is a beginner, too, or one is just as lost as another, as surely we all were in that Beginning I Spanish class so many years ago, the experience of starting over, of being an utter beginner at something brand new, can impact the confidence and self-worth of even the most capable, strong, and accomplished individuals. And but for that Spanish class I don't know that I'd ever have realized it.
So now I put a label on the experience for my students, for colleagues and friends branching out into new endeavors, and, especially, for patients. Indeed, patients may have the roughest gig of all, because their health and capacities are compromised just when they need to learn to do new things (manage a colostomy?! give myself shots?! keep track of all those pills?! change the way I eat, after eating the same way for seventy years?!), and the consequences of their efforts literally could be life or death, and certainly are good versus not-so-good quality of life. It can be important to say, "You're a beginner with this, perhaps the first time you've been such for many, many years. It's a process; be gentle with yourself. (Not lazy and excuse-making; gentle and forward-moving, please!) I'm here to help and guide you; your job is to reach the point of not needing me anymore. But it is a process, and it's normal and ok not to feel on top of it, to feel overwhelmed and incapable, to make mistakes, and even to despair a bit from time to time. You're forty-five or sixty-five or eight-five years old and may not have been a beginner for a many years; give yourself permission to be one now."
No doubt Carmen long since has gone to her Reward; were she still alive she'd be about one hundred fifteen years old today. But her spirit and energy yet live in me, and I remember with gratitude that tiny old woman who helped me to say "cientocuatro" and ultimately to recognize, name, and appreciate what it means simply
To Be a Beginner
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