at my office, the facilities team is a freaking colors of benetton ad. it is evident that the third party agency that staffs our building services values diversity. they have collected persons from around the globe and given them to me. each day at work is like one more trip through disney's "it's a small world".
there's laima, the polish grandmother. she and her husband clean my office in the morning. they are a short, stubby couple, with fingers like vienna sausages. i often imagine that their offspring must resemble augustus gloop.
laima's husband speaks accented but strong english, and for a long time, they only worked as a team because laima spoke no english whatsoever. in the beginning, they would come in, and laima would say, "powitanie , czy masz wszelki odpadki dziś?"
her husband would then turn to me and repeat in english, "hello, do you have any garbage today?", and i would simply respond yes or no.
after some time, laima attempted the english herself... one word at a time, each day adding one new word of english to her polish question. eventually, her husband stopped coming with her to pick up my garbage. i thought this was a sign that laima's english was improving overall. i was wrong.
"hello, do you have any garbage today?"
"hey, laima, just these boxes."
she looks at me with a raised eyebrow. "hello, do you have any garbage today?"
"uuh, just these boxes."
"hello, do you have any garbage today?" she repeats.
"boxes, laima, boxes." i make hand gestures that to me clearly suggest "box".
"hello, do you have any garbage today?" she pleads with a hint of anger in her voice.
"yes, laima, these boxes."
hearing yes, she picks up my trash can, turns it over, and when nothing comes out, she tosses it back under my desk angrily and mutters something in polish as she shuffles out the door.
then there's achille, the security guy. achille is from africa... i think from a country that doesn't exist anymore. regardless, his first day on the job, his supervisor brings him to my desk.
"brett, you speak french right?"
"yes, why?"
"this is achille. he doesn't speak much english, but he speaks french. i need you to tell me what he's asking."
"uh, okay," i said, wondering how word got out that i spoke french and why we hired a security guy who doesn't understand the word "help". achille stood there smiling, i'm guessing completely unware that we were just talking about him.
"okay, achille," she said, pointing at me then making the international hand sign for talking.
"je asojgiv d'mowft bver tivbluhg wouier?" asked achille.
"what?" i said.
"no, in french," she adds.
"quoi?" i asked instinctively.
"je asojgiv d'mowft bver tivbluhg wouier?" achille repeats.
"uh... i something about my something..."
"what?" she asks.
"quoi?" i said without thinking.
"je asojgiv d'mowft bver tivbluhg wouier?"
"ugh, no... i don't know what he's saying."
"oh... no? j'aytre wopre aoeuir boivres iewuorlkfjaokuvnoeuoriughjnbouitoiashfoavnokuo!" achille jumps in hearing "no" (well, he actually heard "non") and getting angry.
"oh god, what's he saying? what'd he say?" she pleads while achille continues his rant.
"i don't know. i don't know what he's saying... he wanted to know something about his something."
"i thought you spoke french."
"i do. i speak french."
"well... if you speak french, then you sh-"
"i speak french french. i don't speak african french," i chime in over her.
she stops speaking right away and gives me the most awful, judgemental look i've received in a long time, and noticing her stare, achille quiets down as well.
"what?" i ask.
"quoi? quoi?" achille offers.
"i can't believe you said that."
"said what?" i ask.
"quoi?" begs achille.
"you don't speak african french," she sneers.
i look right at her, realizing she thinks i was being racist, and say, "carol, they don't sound the same."
"what?" she says, not really asking.
"quoi?" chirps achille, also not really asking, i think.
"they don't sound the same, carol. french french and african french. they don't sound the same. heck, even french french and canadian french don't always sound so similar."
"ooooh."
"yeah."
"c'mon, achille," she says in closing, taking him by the arm and leading him from the office. as they walk down the hall, i hear achille asking his question again. i only later found out that he wanted to know when his benefits started because he had a horrible toothache.
...and finally, there's ana-maria, the central american lady. ana-maria is my evening cleaning lady. she comes through at the end of the day to empty the trash again and do a sundry of other custodial tasks. my fun times with ana-maria aren't nearly as specific as my fun times with laima and achille because ana-maria seems to be oblivious to the fact that i don't understand a single word she says.
everyday, and i do mean everyday, ana-maria comes into my office and just starts spurting out whole paragraphs in spanish. they could be questions, expository observations, or commands to get the fuck out of the building because she just lit the bathroom on fire, and i would not know the difference. one time, she needed me to climb under the door to a stall in the men's bathroom because it had somehow locked from the inside, and she had to clean the toilet behind door number 1. we did not accomplish this task by her slowly trying to explain what she needed from me. no. we got there because when i stood up (after looking at her blankly for like 30 whole seconds) to find someone who did speak spanish, ana-maria started booking it to the men's bathroom. i followed after her, shouting her name, but she just kept going. in the bathroom, she just looked at me expectantly, then in a show of solidarity (not to try to explain what i was doing in the bathroom with her) she pushed up against the door. epiphany!
another time, ana-maria wanted to know whether or not the tablecloth on some table in the hallway was trash. however, she did not just ask me that (in spanish, of course). no. ana-maria tells some big long story that involved both her neice and her sister... two spanish words i recognized in her yarn. i deciphered her epic poem, not because she attempted to better explain it to me, but because her general hand gesturing revealed she was talking about setting a table and she repeatedly gestured dressing the table with a cloth. determining that she wanted to know if she could throw a tablecloth away took a bit longer, but nevertheless, we got there... no thanks to ana-maria.
i can't wait to hear what she obtusively sputters to me today.
all in all, i'm not entirely sure how i feel about all this talk about immigrants and stuff. despite what you've read, i'm not terribly versed in the subject, and i don't really follow current events. *gasp* but i do know this. despite how hellish it can make my day at the office, i wouldn't trade laima, achille or ana-maria for anything. not even an easy-going, english-speaking counterpart.
why?
because they're making me one helluva champion charades player.
posted by brett @ 2:44 PM
1 Comments:
I wish I got to interact with such fun people at my office! Pretty bland here!
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