Most people find it hard to believe that I speak another language other than English. So the fact that I think and dream in any other language (aside from what people assume to be my native tongue) might seem a bit far-fetched as well. Nevertheless, my daily life consists of constant internal translations to which I've grown accustomed since the tender age of six (6). It's somewhat like having a UN Translator in my ear on a consistent basis.

Although my first words were uttered in English, I learned to read and write in German long before learning my "ABCs" in my parents’ language. Despite my American heritage, I was blessed to have grown up in Germany, where I not only attended school, but also adapted to the German culture.  Upon moving abroad, my mother began working as a local national in the bustling travel industry in Deutschland.  This afforded her complete German benefits, including access to the education system for her children. Because every DoD (Department of Defense) daycare was at max capacity when we arrived , my parents thought to enroll me in German daycare as a temporary solution for childcare.  They never intended for me to stay in German school – it just sort of happened. And before mom and dad knew it, a letter from the school district, translated into English by the kindergarten director, came home with me in my Mickey Mouse back pack.  The letter informed them that Herby was ready for the first grade. I was only five at the time, but I remember the conversation with my parents pretty well:

     Mom: Herby, they say that you’re ready to go to school now.
     Herby: But I already go to schule, mommy!
     Dad: No, this will be first grade. You’ll be going to big kid school like your sister.
     Herby: Oh, will Danny be there, too?
     Mom: Well, that’s what we need to know. Do you want to go to school with all German 
     children or do you want to go to school with American children?
     Herby: I want to go to school with Danny and Tim and Sven and Alex and Daniel and    
     Anna and Kirstin

By the end of the rather brief discussion, the matter was settled – I was going to attend school with my friends. My parents couldn't bear the thought of pulling me away from my friends, my only sense of normalcy, despite how rather abnormal it may have seemed for a Black American to attend German school. I was always allowed to flow between English and German when at home, using my sister as the occasional translator. At school, everything was German, and before long, my passive engagement with the English language turned into fragments of conversational phrases used to interact with American family and friends. 

I would not learn to read English until the 5th grade, when I began learning British English as my first foreign language.  By then, German phonics had taken the dominant position as “default” setting. But, as it is pretty common with Military families, by the end of my 5th grade year, it was time to move back to the states. With less than a full year of English studies, my family relocated to North Carolina, where I would attend an English speaking school for the first time. The good news: I was at least 2-3 years ahead of my new American classmates in Math and Science. The bad news: I couldn't spell or read English without reverting to my default setting – German.

Although many people tend to think of German as a harsh sounding language, it happens to be rather straightforward and matter-of-fact when spelled and/or read aloud. For example, if you ask a German to spell something, they usually just say the word slower. The way it sounds is the way it is spelled (with only a hand full of exceptions). When asked to spell ‘chair’, I would incorrectly write the word as ‘cher’ without giving it even a second thought. Needless to say, my American teachers were rather perplexed with my spelling deficiency.  By the end of the school year, I think most teachers had written me off as either dyslexic or completely ignorant.

It wasn't until the 7th grade that a teacher figured out the "Herby Conundrum". Mrs. Trevor, a petite but feisty Math and Language Arts teacher, had the distinct pleasure of having me in her class three times a day: Homeroom, Math, and Language Arts. She first noticed that I did things a bit differently when I was asked to solve a multiplication problem on the board. At first, Mrs. Trevor thought I was going about solving the problem incorrectly. However, after I managed to prove that multiplying straight across was not only effective but also space saving, she seemed to lighten up. After class she wanted to know who in the US taught me to do Math that way. I politely told her, “I didn't learn Math here – I learned it in Germany.” That’s when things began to change!

Unbeknownst to me, Mrs. Trevor met with her fellow team teachers and compared my spelling test to a German text and to the work of a German foreign exchange student (whom they asked to write down a list of English words using German phonics). “I know you've been having trouble with your spelling, Herby, but now I know why,” explained Mrs. Trevor. “You’re not wrong, you’re just not thinking in English…” The rest of the year, the kind teachers at Albrightton Jr. High School worked to help me understand English phonics. By the following semester, I was in Honors English and won a writing competition for a short story.

I’ll be forever grateful to those great educators for helping me cope with being bilingual. Despite their efforts, however, I still think in German. Now, I merely change gears when writing. The switching back and forth is stressful at times, but I've grown used to the constant change. I sometimes describe it as replay of WWW II going on in my head 24/7.  And those times when neither side wins, the result is Germish – not German, not English but a unique blending of the two.