Teaming Up to Learn: How Studying a Language Deepens Connection and Fun

I am convinced that some people just have the kind of brain that can learn languages.

My mom is one of those people. She speaks three languages fluently and can get by in about a handful of others. When I was growing up, she did her best to teach me at least her native Italian, but it never stuck. We were living in an area of the US where there were no recent Italian immigrants; just third or fourth generation Italians who threw in an Italian pronunciation here and there. And if any of my friends from school spoke another language, it was Spanish or Korean. Hint, hint: I didn’t learn those either.

The other problem was that my mom was too harsh on me when I would get things wrong. She would criticize me for not answering her in Italian, and when I did answer her in Italian, she would criticize me for saying it wrong. She complained to her friends about having a son who didn’t even try to speak Italian while I was within earshot. So, her method didn’t exactly instill a love of the language in me.

That’s not to say that I didn’t want to learn. Nowadays, I have business dealings with Italian counterparts many times throughout the year, and Italy is one of my favorite places to visit. My mom moved back when I was in my early 20s, and I try to go once a year to see her. Without the language, though, I just feel like another tourist. A foreigner in the country where I was born.

My teenage son’s Spanish-speaking friends have a term for this: a “no sabo kid.” Basically, it’s a term that refers to Latino kids who grow up without properly learning Spanish. So, instead of saying, “No se,” which is the proper way to say “I don’t know,” someone learning Spanish might mistakenly say “no sabo.” Sometimes the word is said endearingly, but it’s often said with a bit of an attitude. There’s a lot of shame attached to being a “no sabo kid.” I get that feeling.

What does absolutely any of this have to do with Kayla? Well, I met Kayla while I was blundering through a conversation with an old Italian man in Florence. As my first time there, I had purposefully wandered away from the throngs of tourists to try to get a sense of what the neighborhoods looked like. And apparently, this kind older man thought that I was lost and was trying to steer me back to where I came from. Back to the tourists, I remember thinking to myself with a sense of failure.

I wasn’t really getting anywhere trying to convince this guy that I wasn’t lost when Kayla, a short brunette in a light blue sundress, came up to see if she could help. But it quickly became clear that Kayla’s Italian was worse than my own. She was just going off sheer confidence and optimism. It was endearing and sweet, if not at all helpful.

Eventually, the Italian man gave up, and Kayla and I started to mosey along together. I asked her all the basics: Where are you from? What brought you to Florence? What’s your favorite thing that you’ve done? And it turned out, we were from the same city, we were both in Florence as tourists, and neither of us could choose just one thing as our favorite, although the gelato was up there. It wasn’t just random details that we had in common. There was a real spark, and we didn’t feel like strangers after a while.

Before I knew it, Kayla and I had been wandering around aimlessly for the better part of two hours. I was tired from sightseeing and still a little bit jet-lagged, but there was no way that I was going to end this impromptu date.

I asked Kayla how she was getting along with the language barrier, and she said, “Terrible. I studied Italian for three months, three times a week, before coming here. And I can’t carry on even a basic conversation.”

Ah, finally, another second-language lost-cause like myself. I told her not to feel bad, that even with an Italian mother and many years of listening to Italian and working in Italy, I felt like I was in the same boat.

Upon hearing that, Kayla whirled herself towards me and put out her hand as if she was about to offer me a deal.

“Here’s what we’re going to do. We’re going to be dumb tourists for just this week (and yes, I expect you to take me out to dinner tonight, and maybe a couple of other nights this week), and then we’re going to go back home, and you and I are going to do private intensive tutoring. It’s something called ‘having an accountability buddy.’ We’ll make sure that one another is keeping up with our studies. And who knows? Maybe we’ll be back someday, maybe together, and maybe we’ll be having this conversation in Italian.”

That’s when I kissed her. You can’t blame me. It’s the Florence effect.

Kayla and I spent the rest of the week meeting up for gelato or food when she wasn’t with her friends (she was actually here as part of a bachelorette party.) She didn’t have a lot of time to spend with me, but that was okay because we were going back to the same place.

Of course, I assumed that Kayla wouldn’t reach out once we were home. I figured it was the magic of being abroad and meeting an older man who took you out a couple of times to fine Italian restaurants. Once that magic wore off, I wouldn’t hear from her again.

But I was wrong. Within a couple of days of being home, I got a text from Kayla saying, “It’s game time,” and a link to a calendar invite. She had found an Italian teacher who gave classes at a place that was conveniently in the middle between Kayla’s house and mine. I made sure to reach out to the instructor and pay for Kayla's and my classes for two months in advance. I appreciated that Kayla had organized it, and I wanted to cover the cost.

As we went through the classes, it became clear that Kayla and I have very different learning styles. I’m a perfectionist, and I’m hard on myself. I need to practice my pronunciation on my own before feeling confident saying it in class. And if I can’t remember the exact word that I want, I tend to shut down and get frustrated.

Kayla is the exact opposite. She will unabashedly say five wrong words before getting to the right one, and she never clams up when she’s corrected. She doesn’t say sorry, and she doesn’t allow anyone to finish her sentences for her. In sum, while learning a new language for me is a deeply embarrassing experience, she seems to completely lack a sense of shame. It’s a beautiful thing to watch. I’m genuinely jealous.

I asked her about it after class one day as we were heading to a bar nearby for drinks.

“How do you do that?” I said, “How do you not get embarrassed when you say something wrong?”

Kayla looked at me as if she couldn’t believe what she was hearing, “Why would I be embarrassed by that? I’m learning. Would you shame a child for learning a new language?”

“Well, funny you should say that…” and I proceeded to tell Kayla about what it was like growing up with my mother.

When I was done, Kayla put a hand on my cheek and looked at me sternly with her striking green eyes.

“That’s messed up,” she said. “We’re letting go of that right now. No more beating yourself up. No more being self-conscious. Because guess what: if you’re being mean to yourself for making mistakes at this stage, you’re also being mean to me, because I’m making the same mistakes. Do you want to be mean to me?”

I smiled and tried not to get emotional.

It was exactly the clarity I needed to become bolder during our lessons. And the change in mindset made a huge difference. After our class package had expired, I paid for six more months. And by the time those classes ran out, Kayla and I were having full conversations in Italian together.

As you probably guessed, we did end up going to Florence together the following year. As we were walking hand-in-hand along the canal after having lunch with my mom (who was very impressed by my newfound Italian), Kayla said to me, “I didn’t think this place could be more romantic, but it’s a whole different experience being able to experience it in Italian with my Italian boyfriend.”

I wanted to tell her that we wouldn’t even be here if not for her boldness. But I settled on kissing her instead.