An African town and a bookworm
I have felt that native-born English writers do not appreciate how much harder it is for a non-native speaker to express their thoughts in writing, let alone submit them for publishing.
Could it be the fear that no one will understand what they are trying to say because they don’t speak the same English as the readers or even the pub editors on Medium, perhaps?
In my opinion, their fear is valid.
Because the English dialects spoken in many countries are quite different from the English spoken in the US. In fact, as an editor who has lived in several countries and is multilingual to boot, it is very easy for me to pinpoint the country of origin of the author (unless, of course, it is a bot).
And let me tell you something crucial I have learned during my short time as a blogger which many writers tend to overlook and that is: Are you speaking the language of your audience?
Some may think it is easy for me to say since I am an American after all.
No, it is not easy and I will explain why.
I grew up in apartheid South Africa to immigrant parents. English was not their first language. I couldn’t attend regular school because I was nonwhite and was relentlessly bullied when I was enrolled in an all-black school because I was not black. So, I was home-schooled.
We had no access to libraries or bookstores in the small town of Fouriesburg. And the internet was slow to arrive in the boondocks.
Parents in my culture usually have this annoying tendency to frown upon reading unless it is a textbook, of course. But my mother must have sensed how badly I craved books that she made it a point to buy them for me whenever she traveled out of town.
And something magical happened — the books she brought back not only gave me a glimpse into the world outside mine but also transformed the way I viewed the world. In addition, the ability of an author to transport the reader to a place and time that seems so real you can almost see it and smell it for yourself had me spellbound!
The way some books described America, I would look around our little house at the end of a dirt road (nonwhites were not allowed to buy homes in the town proper) and try as I could, was not able to conjure up this wondrous country that could very well have been on a different planet.
The reason I say that is after reading about this seemingly magical country, I vacillated between thinking of America like ‘e be like magic!’ and ‘you sure of dis tin wey dem dey talk so?’
Something else that vividly stands out about those years was me going through books like fire and then rereading them until they became dog-eared because sometimes a long time would pass before the next installment of books would arrive.
Do you know how people drown their sorrows in a bottle? Reading was how I drowned mine throughout my unhappy marriage. Each time my ex criticized me for burying my nose in a book, I read even more trying to find hope and meaning in my existence.
In hindsight, one can say that it all had a purpose. The lonely child who sought comfort in books and faraway places, the unhappy wife who desperately read to escape reality gave birth to the blogger whose message is that life has many chapters and one (or a few) bad chapters doesn’t mean the end of the book.
This is because experiences have taught me that with courage and a little help, turning the page can lead to surprising new beginnings.
And to think it all began with the love of books!
A love letter of gratitude
Dear mom,
I know we have not had the best of relationships over the years, but that doesn’t change the fact that I love you. And I know and appreciate all the sacrifices you have made for our family.
Most of all I am grateful for the gift of books you gave me. You noticed my love for reading early on and nurtured it by seeking out bookstores during your travels and bringing home books by authors you knew would catch my interest — RL Stevenson, Charles Dickens, H, Rider Haggard, Jane Austen, Brothers Grimm, Jules Verne, and even good ol’ Shakespeare.
As a grown woman, I now realize you spent the money you could have used to buy something nice for yourself on subscriptions to the National Geographic and Readers Digest so I always had something to read and learn from.
How can I ever thank you enough for thinking of me so even when money was tight?
Today, when people compliment my writing and the fact that they can’t tell if I’m African, Asian, or European because of my proficiency in English, the credit goes entirely to you, Mom.
I love you now more than ever because I see you.
Your loving daughter,
Yana
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What a wonderful tribute to your mom. ❤️
Yana this is so lovely. I am so glad your mother supported your writing ability so you may share with all the world your gift. Blessings for all your writing endeavors.