Kaffeeklatsch 
jcua@theguidon.com

Speaking someone else’s mother tongue has a humbling power that is at once inscrutable and enthusing.

My recent trip to Macau has reaffirmed how hearing someone, who has lived in a foreign land since birth, speak with you in your native language can easily break the ice. My friends and I stayed at the apartment of our friend’s uncle. His children all grew up in Macau and were most conversant in Cantonese.

Having been told about this before we arrived at the apartment, I had expected only to exchange grins and hand gestures with the children throughout our stay. To my delight, what left their lips first were not English nor Cantonese words, but were instead unpretentious, correct Filipino sentences.

Their display of fluency in Filipino was the dealmaker, engaging us right then and there in simple chatter and banter. The people whom we first saw practically as foreigners soon became fellow kababayans in our eyes.

It also worked the other way around, this time on a side trip to Hong Kong where we planned to buy cheap goods. I spoke for my friends because I knew some Mandarin. In the middle of relentless haggling, salesladies would interrupt the negotiations by asking how I knew to speak Mandarin because I would speak Filipino——yes, they recognized it——with my friends beside me.

I would tell them about the Chinese side of my ancestry, and they would gawk in surprise and somehow become warmer with me in the process. We ended up buying the merchandise for the price we wanted, and their initial straight faces were converted into warm smiles as we left.

Sometimes, such conversations would even cover as far as your personal background and politics. This time, it happened to me when I was in France a few years back.

I was buying rosaries for my mother in Lourdes. Even then, I knew my French was rusty to say the least, but thankfully, the salesperson in charge was far from your stereotypical snooty Frenchman. When I asked for a discount on the bundle of rosaries I had in my left hand, she was patient with me when I stutteringly did so in her native tongue.

Her eyes conspicuously gave her away. I would have bet that she had not expected an Asian boy to buy rosaries, let alone ask for a reduction for buying a bunch of them for his maman.

I got the rosaries for the price I counter-offered, but still stayed because the saleslady netted me in for a short conversation. I feared that my French skills were inadequate, but it was but fair to reciprocate her patience.

She asked me about my age, nationality, studies and hobbies. Relieved that her inquiries were basic, I was quick to reply in simple French. She shared things about her family as well.

Right when she finished her piece, an old French lady who overheard us converse asked me about—unexpectedly but unsurprisingly——”régime de Marcos.” Political talk in French was way beyond my grasp, but when she asked if it was finis, I nodded, said “Oui,” and excused myself to finally leave.

Language unlocks the door to another culture, and more importantly, to an individual. The power of speaking someone else’s language lies in humbling yourself before him by using what sounds like home to him. By humbling yourself, he is humbled, and you are heartwarmingly welcomed to his personal sphere.