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I have prefaced every conversation with, “Entschuldigung, mein Deutsch ist noch nicht so gut” (“I’m sorry, my German is still not very good”) since I moved to Hermsdorf, a little village in east Germany in 2015. Its purpose was to act as a disclaimer upfront so that the German person I was talking to wouldn’t expect me to articulate complicated ideas or respond promptly and accurately to everything that was said. But mostly, my opening line was a plea for mercy, a signal that I was still learning the language and would greatly appreciate it if they spoke more slowly and clearly. They would always graciously reply: “Ja, Deutsch ist eine schwere Sprache.” German is a difficult language, they all agreed. And for the longest time, that was true.
Growing up in Kuala Lumpur as Malaysian Chinese, I speak English almost natively, given that Malaysia was once a British colony. I also speak Malay, Malaysia’s official language, and Mandarin and Cantonese because I needed to communicate with my grandparents. Before moving to Germany, I already spoke Italian after working on board cruise ships for years alongside Italian officers, and conversational French after dating a Frenchman. Then, I met the man who would later become my husband in a bar on the 63rd floor of a building in Singapore and a thought occurred to me: “Wouldn’t it be funny if I have to learn German this time?”
Learning and speaking German was anything but funny. It wasn’t funny when I started learning the language from scratch and it still wasn’t funny when I finished C1, a level that allows me to study at a German university if I want to. When I was learning Italian or French, the words would somehow roll off my tongue, but in German the convoluted grammar made me choke. Even if I could technically write academic essays in German, the thought of calling a clinic to make an appointment would still induce debilitating anxiety. I would stammer during small talk with a mother I had never met before, while dressing my one-year-old at kindergarten; hide if I saw my neighbour take out the trash; or get my husband to call the ophthalmologist for an appointment. “Why don’t you do it yourself?” my husband would grumble. “How about you try picking up Malay and Mandarin?” I would always retort.
This went on for almost a decade until a month ago: I was home, telling my husband about a meeting I’d had at the Federal Employment Agency. As usual, I had started the meeting by apologising for my mediocre German skills. The lady behind the desk had looked at me somewhat perplexed: “But your German is great.” I cackled and rolled my eyes at my husband. As if. “She’s right, you know,” he said. “I don’t know why you still think you speak bad German. OK, it is not perfect, but who cares?” Who cares indeed.
When I was still learning elementary German, I remember being in awe of a Chilean woman in my class who, despite her poor grasp of German grammar, spoke confidently. While I was meek and often squeaked out my words, she commanded attention – all 4ft 9in of her. I asked her how I could be more like her. “After 10 years of living in Germany, I no longer care. I’m not trying to be Goethe,” she said.
I’ve been living in Germany for close to a decade now, so why do I still care so much? Was it my perfectionist tendencies that made me impose unrealistic goals on myself? Was it only me, not the Germans, who found my mediocre language skills appalling – the fact that in English I could be charming, convincing and persuasive, but was reduced to a mumbling mouse in German?
I have given birth twice here, have been to all doctors’ appointments on my own, and I have held two German-speaking jobs – were those not moments of triumph? Most Germans were nothing but encouraging and supportive at my efforts to speak their language, so why did I judge myself so harshly? Did I really need constant reassurance that I was being a good immigrant and that my German was actually quite decent? I finally saw the light. It was my fragile ego that I was trying to placate. I was getting nowhere by shrinking myself and letting myself feel inferior to native German speakers. I was only going to wear myself out.
Recently, when I found myself sitting across from a blond-haired woman who might be my future boss and I was waiting for the dreaded “Tell me about yourself” question to surface, the temptation to reach for my default opening line was strong. I was nervous and badly wanted to work for this startup. Apologising for my not-so-perfect German would have afforded me some leeway, but I did not. There were times where I fumbled in my responses, but I trudged on. That very afternoon, I was called back to meet the CEO, and still, when we shook hands, I didn’t mention anything about my less than perfect German skills. I didn’t have to: I was hired, crappy German and all.
