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As we get older, we tend to think we’ve got this whole “communication” thing down. We’ve had years of practice, and by now, we ought to be masters of getting our point across clearly. And yet, sometimes, even with our best intentions, people hear something entirely different from what we meant.
Communication, Right?
Communication isn’t just about the words we choose; it’s about everything in between – tone, timing, assumptions – and occasionally, it’s about the total disconnect that can leave us all laughing, scratching our heads, or both.
Back before my sister had a husband, mortgage, or children, she was out on the town with friends at a little pub in downtown Chicago. That’s where she learned firsthand how intentions and even accents can skew the simplest conversations.” A man approached my sister, and, in a heavy Scottish accent, he said, “My friend and I were talking, and we think you look just like my groin.”
My sister was, to say the least, mortified. “That’s the worst pickup line I’ve ever heard!” she said. “I look like your groin?”
“No, no!” he said. “You look like Ma Groy-in, Mag Royan!”
Her friend chimed in, “Are you trying to say Meg Ryan?”
No, my sister did not marry the man, but we’ve had more than 35 years of retelling this story, and it leaves everyone in stitches every time.
Back in the Day
Years later, I found myself on the other end of a similar communication debacle – this time with two students in my fourth-grade class, Zach and Nicolás. (I’ve changed their names.) They were sharp, observant, and, as I soon discovered, masters at spotting my own miscommunications in real time. What started as a typical Tuesday transformed into one of those unforgettable days that reminded me communication is always a bit of a moving target.
Zach was my cool kid with an “I’d rather be anywhere else” vibe. He was also hard of hearing but thought hearing aids cramped his style. Nicolás was new to the country, a quiet, lovable little guy who’d moved here from Mexico the year before, after his mother died in a car accident. He had a big heart but understood little English.
So here I was, one of the only ones around to help him adjust. No Spanish teachers, one occasional interpreter for the deaf, and me – an American teacher with three years of high school German and about eight words of Spanish I’d gleaned from Sesame Street.
This mix made for some entertaining classroom moments, to say the least. I’d smile and wave wildly to catch Zach’s attention across the room, knowing full well he’d be pretending he didn’t see me. Meanwhile, Nicolás, dear kid, would quietly watch the chaos with big, solemn eyes. His English might have been limited, but his powers of observation were sharp. He understood more than he let on, as I would soon discover in a rather unforgettable way.
How to Miscommunicate
The story unfolded on a cold and snowy day when Zach and Nicolás, bursting with excitement, ran toward me in the hall as I was attempting to slide into the teacher’s lounge for my 12 minutes of lunch. The boys had been promised by someone with better language skills than mine, that they’d get to skip the freezing recess time and play basketball in the gym with a “super cool parent volunteer.”
Cooler than the teachers apparently. But not as cold as the teachers on recess duty outside. As they closed in on me, I realized they were about to be sorely disappointed. The cool volunteer dad, as it turned out, wouldn’t be coming until the next day.
Here’s where the challenge began: I had to convey the concept of tomorrow. Simple enough, right? It’s simple if you know the Spanish and ASL (American Sign Language) word for tomorrow. For some of you, that word might float right to the front of your brain without hesitation. For me, every Spanish word I’d ever learned was swirling around, none of them sounding like what I needed. “Taco?” (Yummmm, I’m starving…) “Feliz Navidad?” (Useless.)
All I had was “abierto” (thank you, Sesame Street) and “agua,” which wasn’t going to get me very far. Meanwhile, Nicolás and Zach stared at me, both visibly impatient for answers. Nicolás tilted his head as if to say, “Well, lady, get on with it.”
Let’s Try Sign Language?
At this point, I remembered that I did know a little sign language. My school had been a magnet for deaf students, so I’d picked up a decent vocabulary – well, in nouns and adjectives anyway. I threw caution to the wind and started signing the only time-related word I could remember. “Weekend! Weekend! Weekend!” I frantically signed.
It was, of course, meaningless. Nicolás looked at me with even bigger eyes, clearly confused but waiting patiently. Zach looked at me, or rather in my general direction, clearly unimpressed.
Let’s Try Volume?
Realizing I was losing them, I tried an age-old tactic: volume. I shouted ‘Weekend!’ at Zach, and ‘Weekend!’ at Nicolás, which – of course – accomplished nothing. Zach couldn’t hear me without his hearing aids, and Nicolás was just watching with that squinty look kids give when they’re sure adults are clueless.
Staff members, who were walking past us in the hall, looked at me with disgust. It is a faux pas to yell at someone in their second language, expecting them to suddenly understand you.
And that’s when, as if on cue, a single, glorious word floated into my brain, thanks to Maria from Sesame Street – “mañana!” Yes! I’d remembered it! Overcome with relief, I did what maybe anyone in my position would do. I yelled it.
“Mañana! Mañana! Mañana!”
I was so triumphant, I was practically conducting a concert with my hands as I kept signing the word weekend. Zach was still confused – the Spanish was clearly not helping me to remember any ASL.
And that’s when Nicolás, who up until this point had only spoken in the softest of whispers, turned to me with the calm but unmistakable disdain of a child forced to deal with a clueless adult and said, “Hey lady, I am not the deaf one. Why are you yelling mañana at me?”
What I Didn’t Know I Didn’t Know
In that moment, I wished for a hole in the floor, or a “start over” button, or at least a mild case of amnesia. Here was Nicolás, in decent English, casually revealing his understanding much of what I’d been trying to communicate. He’d understood just enough to let me know exactly how absurd I looked, yelling Spanish at a child who clearly didn’t need it – I was the lost one.
Of course, the unseen benefit came later, once the embarrassment had faded. I’ve come to appreciate moments like these, even if they’re humbling. Communicating isn’t always about imparting knowledge; sometimes it’s about realizing just how little we really know. And I think it’s fair to say that everyone has had a moment of “yelling in Spanish sign language” metaphorically. Don’t be discouraged, though. Failing is the first step to succeeding at something.
Lessons
Looking back, I realize that the lesson Zach and Nicolás taught me was more than just a funny story to share at staff meetings or parties. It was a reminder that no matter how sure we are of what we’re saying, communication remains a tricky art. It’s about learning to laugh at ourselves, to adjust, and to try again, knowing that misunderstandings will happen – and sometimes, they’ll be the most memorable moments of all.
So now, when I’m faced with a misunderstanding – whether it’s with a family member, a friend, or even myself – I remember that day in the hallway with Zach and Nicolás. I remember what it felt like to think I was helping, only to realize I’d been hilariously off track. And I remind myself to take a breath, embrace the laughter, and know that sometimes the best way to be understood is to stay open, flexible, and avoid yelling in Spanish – unless you’re quite certain it’s what the moment calls for.
Here’s a link to my podcast where you can hear parts of this bad communication story aloud: Surviving the School Year episode 23.
Let’s Have a Conversation:
Do you have a story of a miscommunication that you now can look back on and laugh? What do you think is the most overlooked but important part of being understood/understanding others? Do you think it is harder to be “listened to” as a person of a more distinctive age? Why or why not?
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