Breaking language barriers, crossing cultural
borders heals 'social schizophrenia'
By LESLIE WIRPSA
NCR Staff Los Angeles
Justin Ayres and Madison Serrano spotted each other from across
the room as the hall at St. Agatha's Parish in South Central Los Angeles began
to fill for one of a series of Thursday night Advent workshops. Within seconds
Ayres scooped Serrano into his arms, allowing the brown-eyed 3-year-old to wind
her tiny arms around his neck and grasp his blond ponytail in a firm
embrace.
The bond between Serrano, the daughter of a Chilean immigrant, and
Ayres, a 27-year-old Anglo-American counseling psychologist, had grown in just
a few short weeks of Advent sessions where Latino parishioners taught Spanish
to Anglo and African-American English speakers and vice versa.
Nearby, Mark, an elderly African-American man, and Ivan, a Latino
immigrant, met and shook hands like old friends. "I have a test for you," Ivan
said, straining to get the words just right in English. "What is your marital
status?" he beamed, proud of a new vocabulary word.
Responding slowly, Mark helped Ivan add yet another item to his
verbal repertoire: "I am a wi-do-wer. Widower." Mark said the word several
times until his friend repeated it clearly and smiled. "Oh, a viudo," Ivan
said, finding the Spanish equivalent.
Ivan and Mark joined one of several groups of parishioners sitting
in circles of folding chairs to say the Lord's prayer, first in English, then
in Spanish. From the prayer, each group moved on to numbers, greetings and
short sentences about how many beings -- dogs and cats included -- lived in
everyone's home. The entire hall erupted in laughter when Fr. Kenneth Deasey,
the pastor, interrupted the session on telephone numbers to ask in strained
Spanish, "Cual es su numero de beeper?" (What is your beeper number?).
In one circle, a Hispanic teenager, dressed in a way that hinted
at gang membership, sat near a blond young woman wearing a stylish brown
business suit. As English-speakers in the group struggled with the
pronunciation of the word perro, or dog, the teenager emerged as an expert
instructor on how to roll r's in Spanish.
"This church does a lot of things to serve the community," the
teenager explained. "Things like this, for young people, that help us develop
as people and get out of gangs, drugs and alcohol."
Older participants were also pleased with the workshop. Dorothy
McDonald was one of the first African-Americans to move into the neighborhood
just over 40 years ago. She experienced strong prejudice from Anglo families,
predominant in the neighborhood at the time. "When we came here, we were the
minority. We know how that feels. The Hispanics today feel the way we felt,"
McDonald said.
McDonald admitted that she "always resisted" learning Spanish. "I
thought they should learn English," she said. "But coming here, I've found
Spanish is meaningful, and I am helping them learn English, too!" One of her
new Latino friends, she boasted, "speaks to me now in Spanish." And, she added
proudly, "I've told my family I am bilingual now."
The 77 parishioners from St. Agatha's who attended the workshop,
"Breaking the Language Barrier Together," learned more than just words and
phrases in another tongue. Created and led by writer and language instructor
Jeanne Pieper, the workshop, according to Ayres, "helps us to rectify the forms
of schizophrenia that exist in our society."
Language and cultural differences create walls between people,
even in a parish setting, said Ayres, the psychologist. "We don't see people as
humans because of [the walls] and we develop a social schizophrenia on a
collective level," he said.
Pieper said she got the idea for the workshops when she realized
that, in many multicultural settings, "people watch everybody else do their
[ethnic] dances, but they don't really interact." Many people, she said, are
afraid to approach others because of these differences. "People are petrified,"
she said. The structure of her workshop, she said, is "common and simple," and,
because "everyone is a professional in their own language," the activity of
teaching one another basic skills "makes everybody equal -- everybody is
equally smart."
Pieper has taken her workshops into parishes, universities and
factories. "The whole purpose of the workshop is to build relationships," she
said. "Language is partly the carrot to get them to come." She said her goal is
to get people to continue their lessons outside of the organized setting.
Deasey, who came to St. Agatha's after serving as associate pastor
in an upper middle-class parish on Los Angeles' West Side, said the workshop is
just one of the ways his parish is learning about tolerance and community. A
self-described "white ... suburban ... English-speaking boy," Deasey says
separate Masses in Spanish and in English, including one with a gospel
choir.
In addition to liturgies at St. Agatha's, he said, there are
parties and potlucks where "we have corn bread and tortillas, where beans are
baked and refried, where we have tamales and gumbo." When Pieper approached him
with her language workshop idea, he signed her on immediately for the Advent
sessions.
Deasey said misunderstandings have existed in the neighborhood
between the long-established African-American residents and Latino newcomers.
The sense that Hispanics were "taking over" made both groups wary of each
other, he said. And language barriers added to the problem. "People see each
other in the store and they cannot even say hello," Deasey said.
But the parish has come a long way. Today, St. Agatha's parish
council -- which holds meetings in English with simultaneous translation in
Spanish -- is made up of eight African-Americans, five Hispanics and three
Anglos. The latter are part of a large group of what Deasey called "reverse
white flighters" who commute from the more upscale suburbs and West Side of Los
Angeles to be part of the parish.
Deasey said many of the former parishioners followed him from his
previous parish to offer him support. When they arrived at St. Agatha's,
"romance" occurred: "The whites ... were welcomed at the door when they were
afraid of being rejected. They found that this is not a poor and war-torn area.
They felt they were risking their lives, going to the 'hood,' but they love it
and they come back."
National Catholic Reporter, January 17,
1997
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