Reykjavík Grapevine - 28.08.2015, Blaðsíða 28

Reykjavík Grapevine - 28.08.2015, Blaðsíða 28
28 The Reykjavík GrapevineIssue 13 — 2015LIFE For the slightly more adventurous tour- ist, Icelandic may lead you down incom- prehensible consonant clusters on street signs and roadmaps (“Harold, let's take a stroll down scenic Lowguhvegger!” “Eunice, did you get a chance to visit Ella-fudge-ajock-uhl?”), on billboards and concert flyers, or on vacation tat- toos (“Can I get one of those funny Ds? Or that adorable p-looking thing?”). It's something to be experienced, to gawk at; or perhaps, at worst, it is a minor-but-still- just-so-quaint-and-charming impediment to navigating the island. For those who dig a bit deeper, Icelan- dic is infamous as one of the more difficult tongues worldwide to acquire as a second language. Feel free to do a quick search online to confirm—you’ll find it appears on a whole host of fun clickbait lists (and on more legitimate sites as well, to be fair) of languages considered difficult to learn. These articles are exclusively written by English speakers—so of course Eng- lish doesn't make an appearance, even though it very, very much should. I mean, you could spell fish “G-H-O-T-I” if you felt like it. Also, let's not forget the travesty that is: cough, ought, plough, rough, though, through. English orthography (rules of spelling, hyphenation, capitalization, word breaks, emphasis, and punctuation in a given language) is a bastard of the highest caliber. But that's neither here nor there. Mostly, Icelandic is encountered by non-natives in passing, as a transi- tory haze of aural curiosity—the diegetic soundtrack to your fairy-tale travels. Though for a few brave souls, who for whatever reason chose this fair island as their long-term, or even permanent resi- dence—or who just feel the need to learn it for the sake of learning—the Icelandic language becomes a formidable linguistic foe. But what exactly is so difficult about it? What are the potential roadblocks, pit- falls, and barriers between English speak- ers and fluency? What the... Huh? How do you say that? “English speakers come from a linguistic background that is related to Icelandic,” says Jón Símon Magnusson, historical lin- guist and lecturer in linguistics and Icelan- dic language at the University of Iceland. “In terms of lexical roots, you can see a lot of correspondences.” Words like “book” and “bók,” “fótur” and “foot,” “hundur” and “hound,” “köttur” and “cat,” clearly illustrate the historical intersection of con- temporary English and Icelandic back in the day. “But the thing that English lacks,” says Jón, “is the floral, inflectional regalia.” We'll return to issues of inflection in a bit, because even before they encounter grammar, burgeoning Icelandic speak- ers must first face more fundamental hurdles: namely, pronunciation. Accord- ing to Jón, Icelandic sounds that English speakers have the most difficulty with are the trilled-r and pre-aspiration—meaning a word like “hattur” [ˈhaʰtʏr], which fea- tures both sounds, is rather difficult for students to pronounce early on. Further, the differences between the way many consonants in Icelandic are pronounced is more minute than in Eng- lish. For instance, the letter b is realized as [p] in Icelandic, and p as [ph], which in English is the difference between spit and pit. The same goes for t & d ([th] & [t]), as well as k & g ([kh] & [k]—not to men- tion the many other sounds the letter g signifies in Icelandic, which again are much closer together than English speakers are trained to hear). Then come smaller rules, like a written f being spoken as a [p] when before an “n,” or how the hv in “hvar” is re- alized as a [kw]—be- cause phonology! Some other sounds that English speakers will be unfamiliar with include the ll, realized as a [l ̥] or [tl] or even [ɬ] de- pending on the speaker, and vowel sounds written as “ö” [œ] and “au” [øʏ], neither of which appear in English. And even the remaining consonants in Icelandic, which at first glance seem familiar, are just dif- ferent enough from those in English to cause problems, both in speech and in comprehension. The list goes on. It's a lot to process, though not impossible by any means. What all of this adds up to is a lan- guage that requires the English speaker to differentiate in hearing between min- ute sound differences that had before not been differentiated, and to choreograph the mouth in ways that are unfamiliar, in- frequently accessed, or theretofore incon- ceivable in order to communicate. Though there are a few ways around some of the trickier voicing. “I often tell them [language students], 'You can choose where you want to come from',” says Jón. Though Icelandic is relatively uniform in how it is pronounced nation- wide, there are some minor differences in the north and south, specifically in how some of the trickier consonants are real- ized. “It's more predictable from ortho- graphic presentation in Akureyri Icelan- dic,” Jón says. So where do students most often decide to be from? Jón says they usually choose Akureyri. This, That, The Other (x 24) Perhaps the most formidable component of the Icelandic language is the complex system of declension and conjugation. To a person who has studied other lan- guages, such as Latin, German, or Rus- sian, these aspects of language won't be too much of a surprise—though I'm sure (s)he won't be thrilled by the prospect of starting anew with them. But to those who have never encoun- tered such heavy inflection, the Icelandic system of four cases, three grammatical genders, singular, and plural—changing the forms of everything all the time always—can be a lot to process, and presents a massive un- dertaking to master. I imagine the combined tears shed over charts of the declined demon- strative pronouns alone would be enough to fill Þórisvatn lake to the brim. And while a major amount of grammatical memorization seems like the only option, Jón informs me that it may not be so simple: “Over the years, verbs [in Icelandic] have come to assign cases in very arbitrary ways—the lines have become slightly blurred.” The example he gives is the differ- ence between the verbs “to open” and “to close” (“opna” and “loka”). “Opna” assigns the accusative, and “loka” assigns the dative. “There is no logic behind this,” says Jón. “This is something that causes foreigners problems, because there's nothing about the verbs in the dictionary that would give you any indication as to which assigns what.” Then there are all the irregulars and the repetitious forms. It all just seems like too much; and there's no way around it. But still, it's not impossible. The Icelandic Village So how does one go about teaching this multitude of possible word forms to stu- dents? And quickly, at that—one can't simply sit in a classroom practicing conju- ration forever (as totally awesome as that might sound). Jón speaks of a dilemma that many language teachers face: “How do I teach them the case system and the conjuga- tion according to the verbs and moods in a short amount of time? Some people said they would prefer to let them speak however they want. That's the dilemma we face: Do you just give them the lexi- cal roots and let them speak however they want, or do you teach them properly?” Another roadblock to learning Icelan- dic are the students and the Icelanders themselves. Jón says that students are often wary to approach Icelanders: “They think Icelanders will be standoffish, or that it will be difficult to penetrate Icelandic so- ciety.” Icelanders acquired their language naturally, learning the rules as they went along. As foreigners we learn the rules first, and then learn to apply the language. Though they are by no means unwilling to engage with new speakers, it seems to be a cultural norm for Icelanders to switch into English almost immediately when speaking to a foreigner, which makes the most essential form of language practice more of a challenge for students. “People have to be bold when they're learning a new language,” says Jón. “I always rec- ommend spending time in coffeehouses and pubs, as well as coming to class,” he laughs. “When I was learning Faroese I spent almost every day in coffeehouses just taking to people and using the lan- guage.” To combat the hesitancy of new learn- ers and the tendencies of Icelanders to switch to English, there is a new teach- ing initiative called the 'Icelandic Village.' “There are a number of participating staff around Reykjavík, in banks or bakeries,” says Jón. “Students are sent to these plac- es. The staff know that the students are coming, and are trained not to switch to English right away. It's a way of getting for- eigners out into the city and using the lan- guage.” This provides a necessary chance to contend with the language as it is used day-to-day, and not just in the abstract as a series of grammatical rules. Jón has some final words of advice for those learning Icelandic: “If you're learn- ing the language and have a question,” he says, “never ask an Icelander. Ever. Never, ever ask an Icelander about Icelandic grammar, unless they are a professor of linguistics at the University of Iceland. Be- cause they'll have no idea.” So with a healthy dose of humility, a copious amount of self-determination, willingness and an eagerness to learn, it seems that although Icelandic presents a challenge for English speakers, it's far from insurmountable. For most English-speaking tourists, the Icelandic language might be another in a long list of quaint novelties experi- enced from behind the padding of a tour group decked out in matching rain slickers: a bunch of tongue-air and whisper- sounds in the distance as they learn, in English (that they all speak so well!), about Viking settlers and Hidden People. Words Sam Wright Fairbanks Illustration Inga María Brynjarsdóttir [̍ kwar̩erˈeɪja̩ fjatlḁ̩ jœːkʏɬ] or, Why Is Icelandic Considered Difficult To Learn? “There is no logic behind this. This is something that causes foreigners problems, because there's noth- ing about the verbs in the dictionary that would give you any indication as to which assigns what.”
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