The Foreign Service Journal, October 2008

to say ‘hello,’ ‘goodbye’ and ‘thank you.’ All while the govern- ment pays for everything.” Sammy stood frozen in line, eyes closed, half-translating and half-scheming. Palavarian embassy? Teach language? Government pays? Two hours later, on Google, Sammy man- aged to find a department notice advertising what looked like a dream job. He could hardly believe his fortune. Like many of his compatriots, Sammy had a storied past. He had arrived in the United States 32 years ago and, one amnesty bill later, stumbled into his new citizenship. He had held a number of odd jobs previously, such as driving a gypsy cab in Chicago, working as an unlicensed barber in Raleigh, N.C. and — if you believe his resumé — as a salesman of ancient Persian curios and landscape designer to the stars. But being a “Palavarian Language Instructor” was something Sammy was born to do. Naturally, he aced the job interview. A professor of obscure linguis- tics from Georgetown was brought in to determine Sammy’s fluency. He began his interview by singing a line from his family song and listing the last seven gen- erations of his lineage. He then launched into a sprawling, memorized diatribe of sociopolitical analysis lifted directly from the pages of an old copy of Palavaria Digest , which had ceased publication 15 years ago. He pep- pered his briefing with allusions and word play, veering dan- gerously into rhetorical flourishes. It was breathtaking. He then fielded a number of questions in English about his job history. “Yes, always I am work as teacher. I can teach anything right now. What do you want? I will give you the best deal. I have very best deals for you.” He was confident, and with good reason. No one else in the local Palavarian community found out about the job open- ing, thanks to Sammy’s habitual secrecy. He ended up being the only applicant and was offered a one-year contract. Shortly thereafter he was sharing office space on the third floor of the Foreign Service Institute, waiting to teach his first class. uru Sammy was scheduled to teach three students for four hours a day, every day. Pat was the first to get to class. She was a well-respected career bureaucrat who’d had little trou- ble getting confirmed to be the ambassador to Palavaria. After multiple tours in wartorn capitals like Bougané, Wanfan and Serill, she had climbed the ladder at Main State in the prestigious Z and Q bureaus. Tiny, remote Palavaria was her reward. Next to arrive was Eleanor, a single, 30-something, emo- tionally fragile economic officer who had just broken off a three-year fling with Juan, the general services officer at her last post. She was hoping to make a fresh start in a place as far away as possible. I arrived last, a vice consul just out of A-100 — in jeans, no less. Sammy walked in 10 minutes late and, upon seeing his stu- dents seated before him, immediately cursed us. “Never do this again!” He made us all get up, walk outside and come back into class, greeting him with a salute. He then began a very short lec- ture on why he considered it almost impossible for non-Palavarians to learn Palavarian: “My beautiful language is too hard for your brains,” he noted dryly. “I learned my language from baby time, just like my father and all Palavarian men. It was easy. We learned as babies. But you are not babies. Your brains are old and like … bricks. No way to learn. You should all give up.” He paused. “But they pay me to teach, so I will see how badly you do. You, tell me your name.” “All right, well, thank you for your kind words. To begin, my name is Pat and, as some of you may know, I am slat- ed to be the ambassador to …” “Next!” “Um, okay. Well, hello, my name is Eleanor, the …” “Next!” “Do you even want to … ?” “Good. Now we will watch a video.” It was a “National Geographic” special about dinosaurs. Sammy turned out the lights and stepped out of the class- room, appearing about two minutes before the video fin- ished, waving away cigarette smoke from around his counte- nance. He announced that the next hour would be a reflec- tion period in which we would write an essay about our favorite animal. “Now, break time,” he said, slipping out the door. Pat, Eleanor and I remained in our seats, looking blankly at each other. “What are we doing?” I asked. “I have no idea how this is supposed to help us learn a lan- guage,” Pat said with gritted teeth. “Maybe it’s a cultural thing?” Eleanor offered. “This is ridiculous. Aren’t we at least going to learn how to say ‘hello’?” “Does anyone know what Palavarian sounds like?” Pat asked. “I heard it’s tonal.” O C T O B E R 2 0 0 8 / F O R E I G N S E R V I C E J O U R N A L 47 He then began a very short lecture on why he considered it almost impossible for non-Palavarians to learn the language.