5 The potential of our imagination

A few days later, I visit the only other musician I know, and I immediately get an earful.

“Your accent is too strong.”

“My accent is too strong?”

“I cannot always understand you, Alma.”

“Maybe your accent is too strong, Abdi!”

We have this conversation a lot. My friend Abdi and I are from different countries. In fact, most of my friends are from different countries. Our first languages are different, so we speak in English. English is everyone’s second language. And so everyone has an accent.

Actually, even native speakers of English have accents. I don’t always hear it. However, my friends who grew up in Portland often know when someone is from, for example, New York or Texas or California.

“It doesn’t matter,” I add. “When I sing, I don’t have an accent.”

This is sort of true … and sort of not true. Some words still get me into trouble. Words are like that; sometimes they are difficult to control.

I am visiting Abdi for help with my song for Quang. He is another musician. He plays the drums … loudly.

That makes me wonder: Maybe Abdi doesn’t hear very well. Maybe that is why he thinks my accent is too strong. Maybe that is why he doesn’t always understand me.

Abdi spins his wheelchair and calls to his husband who is in the kitchen of their apartment. Abdi and Ahmed have been married for three years (not a long time). Abdi still asks Ahmed for his opinion all the time.

“What do you think, Ahmed?”asks Abdi.

Ahmed enters with fresh coffee and a plate of dates. The coffee smells wonderful; it has a hint of cardamom. The dates are sweet and slightly sticky.  They always serve me coffee and dates when I visit, so I visit often.

“Accents are beautiful,” says Ahmed. “When a person speaks English with an accent, it just means that they know more than one language.”

We drink coffee. We eat dates. We laugh at each other’s accents. We talk about the song that I want to write for Quang since his first language is Vietnamese.

“So,” asks Ahmed, pausing for dramatic effect, “Quang is from Vietnam. He speaks Vietnamese. How do you say ‘I love you’ in Vietnamese?”

That’s a good question. It’s one thing to simply translate the words, but it’s another to know when and how to use them. In English, we can say “I love…” for romantic love, but also love for things like sweet and sticky dates or coffee with cardamom. What if Vietnamese is different?

“What if Vietnamese is different?” I repeat out loud. “What if—”

Do you remember earlier when I confessed how much I like the phrase not yet? Well, what if is another phrase that I adore. It is another phrase that holds so much potential! It forces the imagination to go places that a simple prediction never would go. “What if I won a million dollars?” “What if I had never met Quang at the coffee shop?” “What if my song for Quang isn’t good enough?”

My lips are pinched, my nose is scrunched, and my eyes are squinted. My thinking is distracting me. I don’t even notice that I have filled my mouth with a second date before chewing the first one. I realize this only after Abdi makes a big finish to a silent, imaginary drum solo that Ahmed clearly thinks has gone on too long.

I try to say something, but my mouth is full of dates.  All that comes out is “Whuhshehuhdh?”

“I cannot always understand you, Alma,” Abdi says again, with a smile.

I chew the dates as fast as I can while still being polite. I look back and forth, from Abdi to Ahmed. I breathe faster. My mind moves from one idea to the next very quickly. All the time, I am thinking: What if I choose the wrong words in Vietnamese? What if I use English, but he doesn’t think I am serious? My thoughts are racing. Everything is mixing. “What if—” and “Not yet” and “Whuhshehuhdh?”

I swallow, and I begin to say—

“Ahmed,” says Abdi, quietly, as he spins his wheelchair to face the door to the next room.

I stop with my mouth open. Ahmed smiles at me. I smile back.

“Hold that thought, Alma,” says Ahmed as he follows Abdi out of the living room.

I am immediately concerned.

Last year, Abdi had a car accident. Now he is in a wheelchair. Sometimes he needs help. His husband Ahmed is there to help him. Sometimes Abdi needs help with personal things—the things that nobody talks about because they are private, like getting dressed or going to the bathroom.

I never say anything during those times because there is nothing to say. They love each other, and they understand what each other needs. How do I know they love each other? It’s not what they say; it’s what they do. That’s how they communicate their love.

Now I am thinking that maybe I should leave.

Then, all of a sudden, Ahmed pushes Abdi through the doorway and they circle around the couch. Abdi is now dressed as a drum major in Portland’s big Rose Festival Parade. His red and white uniform sparkles, and he is wearing some really cool sunglasses. His helmet has a giant red rose, which is a special flower in Portland. He’s wearing white gloves and red shoes. A special set of red and white drums is attached to his wheelchair.

Abdi begins to play the drums … loudly.

Ahmed pushes the wheelchair around the couch again, marching in step with the drums. It sounds like a whole parade is in the apartment. I laugh. I clap. And when they stop in front of me, Ahmed blows a whistle, and Abdi throws red and white confetti in the air.

That confetti will not be easy to clean up,  I think to myself.

Abdi has an enormous smile on his face. He holds up his drumsticks and says, “What if—”

“Abdi,” I say quietly and with great respect. “This is not my song. This is your song.”