Mother Tongue

I have always told my students that they were lucky to be native English speakers on the grounds that English is such a difficult language to learn. (Most of my native speakers, past and present, had a poor grasp of English, spoken or written.) As a wise man once said, "English doesn't borrow from other languages. English follows other languages down dark alleys, knocks them over, and goes through their pockets for loose grammar."

While I was washing the dishes a moment ago—I do most of my thinking during otherwise mindless tasks—I realized that there is another, far greater reason that I am fortunate to be a native English speaker.

Shakespeare wrote in my language.

Ok, so what? For the first time, this semester I have a number of international students. In fact, in a single class there are at least four languages spoken other than English. I admire them for their hard work—they, of course, are held to the same standards as my native speakers—but now I actually feel some sort of pity for them. If these students have read any Shakespearean plays, they were likely translated into their native language.

The very idea makes me wretch. A translation of Shakespeare?! Although English is not the most beautiful language in existence, Shakespeare made it beautiful with his meter. I cannot imagine that even the romance languages could rival the sound of a play written in our eclectic tongue.