I know too well the discomfort of being unable to communicate or understand what is being said. I still feel a churning in my stomach whenever I think of the first Haitian party my husband and I attended. We were newlywed and I didn’t know Haitian Creole yet. My husband promptly reconnected with long-lost friends and forgot about me. I sat next to him, ill-at-ease and silent. I only understood the French words that Haitian Creole is peppered with. The chatter around me sounded like a low-level grumble sprinkled with high notes. Most of the people present probably spoke French fluently, but I don’t remember anyone addressing me in that language.

I took comfort in the food. Someone circled the room with plates loaded with beef patties and fried akra. I now know that the latter is made from finely grated yucca which I was not accustomed to. It was mixed with onions and codfish and I was thankful for their familiar taste. Dinner was served buffet style and I helped myself to fried pork and rice and beans. Both were also new dishes to me and I was happy to recognize the flavors of thyme and clove.

I eventually understood that most multilingual people are not indifferent or rude, but they rather speak the language with which they are most comfortable. They often automatically switch to their native tongue in the natural flow of a conversation. I too have been guilty of that offense. Once, at a party another guest confronted me with, “I don’t understand what you’re saying. I know you aren’t doing it purposely. You don’t even realize what you’re doing to me.” She said this without a trace of resentment, but I was appalled at my unintentional rudeness. I had absent-mindedly switched to a language that someone who was standing right there didn’t understand.

I have also learned that multilingual gatherings spontaneously follow unspoken rules. It doesn’t take much for the balance to tip in favor of one language or another. The presence of one special guest can make a difference. If my mother is visiting, French is the language favored. It’s also during her visits that I serve snails as she faithfully brings cans of escargots with her. If one of my husband’s Italian relatives makes a rare appearance, he too, gets the special treatment. Setting is another important factor. People tend to feel free to speak the language they are more familiar with at a barbecue or at a cocktail party, while a sit-down dinner–more formal–is likely to generate conversations in one language.

The most unusual multilingual get-together I ever experienced was a party made up of two distinctly different groups of people, one spoke English and the other, Haitian Creole. The English-speaking guests congregated in the dining room. They all worked for the same company and talked among themselves about office politics. The Haitian Creole speakers sat in the living room and debated the latest Haitian news. There was only a minimum of chatting between the two groups because the desire to converse with those who shared common interests and background was too strong. Everyone had a good time, but who knows what friendships we might have developed or what knowledge we might have acquired from each other if we had intermingled more?

This experience, and a few others, convinced me that sticking to one language per dinner was the best solution. With monolingual gatherings, I could ensure that everyone present could debate, reminisce and joke in the comfort of shared language and cultural references. I was certain it was the only recipe for a successful party, until my older son and his wife hosted a Thanksgiving dinner one year. They did the exact opposite of what I usually do. It was a multicultural gathering with four different native languages: English, Haitian Creole, French, and Taiwanese. As a group, we probably would not socialize outside of an occasion such as this one, yet the dinner was a success.

We were the host couple’s close family–their parents and siblings. The conversation was light, the meal potluck-style. We admired the turkey my son had prepared, which was oven-browned to perfection, and praised its taste. He had marinated it overnight in grapefruit juice which made it tender and flavorful. His sister-in-law had prepared salads and a cake–Martha Stewart style. I had brought cauliflower au gratin and rice and beans–a dish I had become expert at preparing. My son’s mother-in-law loved the mix of flavors, so different from the sticky rice she was used to. She asked me for the recipe.

It was the young couple’s first Thanksgiving and we all wanted to make it a success. I realized that, although setting and language are important dynamics, they are not key. What matters the most is something as plain as boiled potatoes: the desire we have to spend a pleasant time together.

I tested that theory a few weeks later, by inviting people from Haiti, Italy, Brazil and France to our New Year Eve’s party. I let everybody know in advance that it was an international gathering. As people arrived, I was careful to find some connection between them. For instance, Leo worked for an airline and Eddy was planning to visit Rome in the summer. Nicole and Maria both loved cats. Carole worked with children and Lola had two of her own. At one point, I asked a friend if the mix of languages and people made the evening less congenial. Her reply was spontaneous and heartfelt, “No, we learn more things that way.”

I understood exactly what she meant. We were out of our comfort zone and we were enjoying it. If I had invited the usual crowd, we would have had a good time talking about familiar subjects and joking about well-known topics, but the diversity of this group had created a different kind of energy, which was refreshing.

We ate frog legs, lasagna, Caribbean chicken, and glazed ham. At midnight, we watched the ball drop in Times Square, while savoring a lentil soup prepared by one of the Brazilian guests, who explained, “In Brazil, we believe that lentils bring good luck and wealth in the upcoming year.” Then we ate oranges because in Haiti, fruits with seeds are traditionally eaten at the stroke of midnight on New Year’s Eve, since seeds are a symbol of prosperity. We toasted the New Year with a bottle of French champagne.

So I now know that, even in multilingual contexts, the most important question when preparing a gathering is not, “What shall we speak at dinner?” but, “Will the guests have a pleasant time together?” If the answer is yes, the party is likely to be a success.

There are about fifty other people waiting at the bus stop.  We are all weighted down with winter gear – coats, scarfs, gloves, hats – and the tiredness of the day.

A bus stops at the curve.  It’s slow going and the bus is full when I finally reach the door.  I push my way in. The driver closes the door.  I made it.  But the woman in front of me says in an angry tone: “Don’t push me!” 

Did I push her?  I might have shoved into her in my eagerness to get on the bus.  “I did not want him to close the door on me,” I reply.  She shifts her body, turns her face towards me and shoots me an angry look.  She then says to the woman standing next to her: “Blan yo toujou konpran-n yo gen dwa pouse nou!”  (White people still think they can push us around.)

She saw my white skin when she turned towards me and does not imagine that I am fluent in Haitian Creole.

I normally don’t say anything when people speak Haitian Creole in front of me in a public place, even if they are talking about me.  There is usually no reason to and it often just lead to a light conversation that goes something like this.

“Where are you from?”

“France.”

“How come you speak Creole?”

“My husband is Haitian.”

“What’s your husband name?”

“Paul.”

“Did you ever live in Haiti?”

“No.”  

I do, of course, strike conversations in Haitian Creole with strangers sometimes.  Just a few months ago, I met a woman on Avenue I, near Amersfort Park.  She was talking to herself, repeating incessantly: “Kot kay mwen?” (Where is my home?). She looked like a grandmother; the type who often live in Haitian families and watch over young children while their parents are at work.

 She had gone to the corner store and had taken a wrong turn on her way out.  She only spoke Haitian Creole, did not know her address or her telephone number.  I took her to my home and found her son’s number in the phone book.

The bus reaches a stop.  A few people get off in a shuffle or bodies and bags.  The woman in front of me, the one I accidentally pushed, gets a seat. I move up, slide my metrocard in the card reader and find a new spot right in front of her.  I have just settled in when she says to her friend: “Veye pou’l pa frape’m avek tout sache’l yo.” (Watch that she does not hit me with her bags.)  She is talking about my purse and my bag of vegetables.  I bought potatoes and leeks to make soup.  There is nothing like warm soup on a cold day. 

I move my purse and my bag closer to my body.  I don’t want to offend her further.  She feels insulted because I pushed her and the feeling is magnified because I am white.  I shouldn’t have pushed her and I have learned that animosity between races is just below the surface in this country, ready to explode at the least offense perceived or real. 

I was oblivious to it at first, maybe because slavery never existed in France or because racial prejudices are not as prevalent over there.  I cannot know what it means to be the descendant of slaves or what it feels like to experience racial prejudice but I hope this woman knows some white person who is kind, some white person that she can trust.

“Eskuze’m, m’pat vle pouse ou,”  (Sorry I did not mean to push you,) I say. She raises her hand to her mouth in surprise and says “Oh! Oh! Ou pale Kreyol!” (Oh! Oh!, You speak Creole!)  I quickly add:  “I did not want the driver to close the door on me, it’s so cold outside.” 

I want to shift her attention away from me and towards any of our common enemies and right now I could go for either the driver or the weather.  “I thought I would never make it inside the bus and I did not want to stand outside any longer.  It’s like 10 degrees out there.”

She heaves a deep sigh and says: “It’s so cold here, I wish I could go back home.” 

I know going back home right now, even for a short trip, is difficult.  There is too much unrest. Several people have been killed and many wounded in the last few months.  Even Mayor Bloomberg had to cancel a planned trip to Haiti.

“It’s hard to go there right now,” I say, “so much it’s going on. Three people were killed on Wednesday and more than 50 were wounded.”

We now quickly go through the “What’s your husband’s name?” and  “Did you live in Haiti?” questions.  The conversation shifts to the sorrows of the Haitian people.  We talk about president Aristide, the priest who was elected on a democratic platform and is now becoming a dictator.  We talk about the demonstration planned in front of the Haitian consulate on Martin Luther King’s birthday.  She knows about it.   We both plan to go. 

She is surprised that I know her language and her country so well.  “We learn a lot in thirty years of marriage,” I say.  She smiles.  We both smile.

The bus is almost at my stop when she says: “So many young people have been killed already.  A friend of mine knows someone’s son who got shot!”  I see tears in her eyes and this brings tears to mine.  She sees that, touches my arm and says: “We defeated Napoleon’s army two hundred years ago. We were the first Black Republic.  You will see, we will get through this.”  We say bye like friends.  “Kenbe fem’,” she says, “Na we nan manifestasyon-an.”  (Be well. See you at the demonstration.)  I apologize again for pushing her and steps off the bus saying: “See you!”

As I walk to my home, holding my scarf close to my face to protect myself against the wind, I know we both will be talking about this encounter.  She will mention that I am white for sure but I hope that she will think of me as someone kind, someone she could trust.