Musings on English and Father’s Day

Often, in recent years, when we call a Phone company, Cable company, Bank, or other large corporation, we’re greeted with a recorded Menu. While I fully understand the need for these menus, which save time and money for the companies, and thus deal as patiently as possible with the inherent annoyance of these systems, there is one facet of them that I take great exception to.

It’s bad enough that I have to listen to the recordings and press digits until I am finally connected to a human being (although with some companies or governmental agencies, you never get that far). What infuriates me is when those menus start off with the words, “To continue in English, press…”

Why in the world should I have to press any buttons to continue in the main (even if “unofficial”) language of this country, my country? Continuing in English should be the default, without any further action on the part of the caller; let anyone who needs to hear and communicate in another language be required to make some extra input.

Does anyone seriously think that if they were to move to another country where English is not the native language, that the country in question would bend over backwards for them the way this country does these days?

This bilingualism bulls**t is going too far. I’ve been on some New York subway trains in which ALL the advertising signs were in Spanish, and sometimes a mix of Spanish and some other language or languages other than English.

One such subway line is the 7, which was made famous – or perhaps infamous –a few years ago by Atlanta Braves’ pitcher John Rocker, who said some not-so-flattering, yet not completely untrue, things about that train line’s regular patrons.

I rode that train daily for about four years, and believe me, there were many times when I felt I was in a Third World country, not because I was the only White guy in the car in which I was riding (which I was, many times), but because, far too many times, I seemed to be the only one whose native language was English!

What was funny about it was that, at (barely) 5’10”, while I am not particularly tall, there were many times when I stood about a head taller than everyone else in the car. At those times, I knew how my father, who is 6’4”, felt all his life, generally being the tallest person in a room or on the street, especially when he still lived in Portugal, where the average height in his day was probably about 5’6”.

I also understood how European Colonizers of centuries past felt when they visited Asian and South American nations, understood why they felt superior to the natives.

Now, hold up here, don’t start thinking, “Oh, he’s a racist”, or “White Supremacist pig!” I am neither, and I consider people who are to be Asses of the first order.

Let me clarify: I do not agree with how the colonizers felt, but I believe that, along with their feeling more highly educated and than many of those non-Caucasian races they encountered, their usually superior height gave these Europeans a feeling of overall superiority over those indigenous peoples, and fortified their beliefs that they were “entitled” to take over and rule these people whom they saw as being inferior.

But back to the 7 train: that feeling that I was no longer in the United States, but, rather, somewhere in the Third World, was reinforced not just by my traveling companions, but more so because of the signs in foreign languages. It was a bit eerie.

My parents came to this country knowing a little bit of The King’s English, as they had learned it in school in Portugal; yet upon their arrival, they quickly found that what they had learned did not help them in the slightest in this country, as our pronunciation is far different than that of Great Britain.

And in 1950, there were no “bilingual” agencies, signs, or literature to help them. They had to do what every immigrant who came to these shores before them had done in order to prosper in the Land of Plenty: learn to communicate in the language of the Land, English.

My mother really worked at it and managed to learn well enough over the years that there was barely the slightest trace of an accent, noticeable by very few. It helped that my brothers and I, while growing up, would make fun of our mom when she mispronounced some word; she would have us repeat the proper pronunciation, and never make that mistake again. Being basically shy, Mom hated being laughed at.

My father did the best he could, and he knows how to read, write, and speak English better than many people born here (thanks to lousy Public School Systems which have been failing our children for decades now). Even so, he speaks with a noticeable accent, and my brothers and I sometimes still have to correct his pronunciation of (to him) unfamiliar words. Yet this man, who came to this country unable to communicate, eventually became a self-made millionaire, owning several corporations and some prime real estate. He was involved in local, State, and National politics, his opinions were sought and respected by many politicians (even if they did not readily agree with him on some points), and he served his local community for years, with no monetary profit. One day, he sold his real estate holdings and businesses, and retired.

During his retirement, a series of bad (and extremely costly) investments, along my mother’s sudden long-term debilitating illness requiring her to have 24 hour care (not paid for by Insurance or Medicare), drained my father’s fortune, and he found himself, after my mother’s death 5 years ago, living off a Social Security check and a not-so-large rental income from a warehouse he still owned in Newark.

And all those politicians who used to hover when he had his businesses (and was a sought-after contributor) have crawled into the woodwork since he was no longer of any use to them…

In 2000, my father was 75 years old, widowed, fighting heart problems - his future looked depressingly bleak.

Yet, at an age where most people would have given up and resigned themselves to their fate, over the next three years my father turned his financial situation around, and, for the second time in his life, did what many people never do even once in their lives: he (once again) became a self-made millionaire.

Today, at the age of 80, instead of resting upon his new laurels, he’s still planning for the future, planning on how to expand his new financial empire, how to provide some financial security for his ten grandchildren.

You have to respect a man with the courage and tenacity to do what my father has done.

Right now, my whole point about English when I began this, seems a tad irrelevant – except for the fact that had my father not learned the language of his adopted country, he probably never could have become a millionaire once, let alone twice.

This little tirade of mine on bilingualism seems to have evolved into am honorific for my father. With Father’s Day is just around the corner, I suppose that’s only appropriate.

I am proud to be my father’s son; he’s accomplished a lot in his lifetime, and continues to fight the Good Fight; he (and our mother) gave four sons a college education, taught us Honesty and instilled us with Moral Integrity (although I admit that we’ve wandered from the moral road at times for a bit – women seem to be the bane of Pitta males).

He made and lost a fortune, but instead of giving up, he made another fortune to replace the one he’d lost. He is not always the easiest person to get along with, especially as he’s gotten older and battled the encroaching ravages of Age, yet he has always had a heart of gold, spent many years in (oten thankless) service for his community, and even today, continues to help some less fortunate people who've happened to come his way.

I’ve told my sons that, what with his qualities and accomplishments, their grandfather a Great Man.

No father-son relationship is perfect, and my brothers and I have all had loud disagreements with our dad; but as with most good fathers, our dad did the best he could, the best way he knew how. My brothers and I have a lot to thank him for) perhaps some of us more than others), and I guess this is my way of wishing him a Happy Father’s Day, and to let him know that I love, appreciate and respect him (despite those occasional shouting matches over the years!)

I pray he has many more Happy and Healthy Father’s Days to come.

Copyright 2005, Ruy Pitta