"Tomato, tomahto, potato, potahto"

12 September 2008
“Tomato, tomahto, potato, potahto”

“Chu-air.” Mohammad, my homestay father, has found my stack of flash cards and holds them up triumphantly. “Itfaddali (sit down).” I just woke up, are you kidding me? Can’t I eat in peace? I know he means well – is excited, really, to have learned all these new English words on my flash cards – and wants to help me learn Arabic. I’ve realized my homestay family, maybe Arabs in general, are fast auditory-learners, perhaps because of the oral tradition in their culture(s). My family only needs to hear the word once or twice and can recall it days later; I need days of hearing the word over and over to recall it, and preferably to write it myself. Mohammad thinks the flash cards are an auditory exercise and will not let me look at the Arabic script. “Chu-air,” he repeats, pointing to the corner-chair and holding the card away from me.
“Na’am, chair. Fi ‘arabi, kursi.”
“Qwayes, qwayes...” He turns to the next card in the deck, United Nations. His lips move slightly. “United States?”
“Le, United Nations.”
“Shu (what)?”
“Uh…moush baladi (not my country)…” Frowning, he discards it and moves on.
“Ah,” he exclaims as he points to the “tomato” card.
“Na’am, fi ‘arabi, bandorah.
“To-mah-to.”
“Le, fi engleezi, toe-may-toe,” I insist on this pronunciation. He reproaches me, tsking his tongue as if to chastise me for not knowing how to pronounce a word in my own language. “Le, to-mah-to,” he says.
“Le, fi britaniyah ‘to-mah-to’…fi amreeka, ‘toe-may-toe’,” I explain. He sighs and tsks his tongue at me again. I tease, saying “Toe-may-toe, to-mah-to, poe-tay-toe, po-tah-to”.
“Ah, moush po-tay-toe,” Mohammad shakes his finger. “Po-tah-to.”

*****
The 20JD bill in my extended hand flaps a bit in the stale breeze; the shop owner opposite looks askance at me with an unshaven, sun-baked face. “Uh…change?” I point to the register; I need to learn the word for “change”. He responds with a mostly toothless smirk. No one likes large bills, which is unfortunate since SIT gives us weekly stipends comprised of large bills like 20JDs and 50JDs (the largest). From my peripheral vision I watch the equally grizzled taxi driver who has been patiently waiting for his 1JD fare. “Uh…hamzeh, hamzeh…wahad.” The shop manager removes a greasy roll of bills from his pocket and fans them for me to see, smirking again.
Suddenly a harsh voice behind me asks, “Look here, what do you mean by ‘wahad’?” I whip my head toward the harsh voice. I hadn’t noticed this whittled-walking stick of an old woman leaning on the counter beside me, and I’m ashamed at the clarity of her English. What do you mean, ‘what do I mean by ‘wahad’’? It’s your language, not mine.
“I wanted bills in small amounts,” I say, not really looking at her, almost mumbling. She rapidly explains to the store owner, whom I suspect understood but was unwilling to relinquish the more coveted small bills in his hand. Like a few other store owners and customers I’ve encountered, she gives me a quick lesson in Jordanian currency. “Shukran,” I say quietly as I duck out of this hole-in-the-wall convenience store, shoving the fare and a generous tip into the hand of the taxi-driver without making eye contact.

*****
As I wait curbside for a taxi, a truck packed with young Jordanian men careens past, and one of them leans out the passenger window to shout, “No way een hell!” Excuse me, did I make a proposition? Is standing alone on this curb in my Western clothes so brazen, or do I have Hollywood to thank for this? I think I can forgive myself now for language blunders.