'I Love You' Is More Than Just Words

Last week my grandmother said "I love you" for the first time. Those words startled me because she doesn't speak English.

We were on the phone. Our conversation was the usual "how is school" one between grandparent and grandchild, accompanied with the added awkwardness of our different native tongues.

I speak English. My grandmother speaks Tigrinya, the official language of Eritrea — the home of my maternal family. I understand her, or I think I do as I grab phrases, words, pieces of familiar sounds that I know. I stammer in Tigrinyan fragments: Yes, school good. I'm feeling well. Miss you too.

There's the pause. And then out of nowhere, she says "I love you." In English. It is quick, but melodic, like a verse in a song. "I love you, too," I manage to say, laughing, like a mother who hears her baby say momma for the first time.

My grandmother has stuck with the same three American words she has learned since arriving from Eritrea two years ago: "news," "gym" and "dog." "News" because she listens to Eritrean news through the computer. "Gym" because my mom goes to the gym most mornings. "Dog" because my mom bought me a shih tzu last Christmas, and he is always biting her pink slippers.

It's cute sometimes — her not knowing English. When my grandmother repeats phrases like a parrot. Or when we resort to facial expressions or hand movements to get through what we're trying to say to each other. She laughs when I attempt a serious conversation in Tigrinya. I laugh when she repeats words from TV commercials.

It's not so cute when I'm expecting an important phone call, and she answers the phone and greets callers with "no speak Engliz" and hangs up. When my grandmother waits patiently for her words to enter my thoughts as my mom translates. Or when my mom isn't home and I'm trying hard as hell to make my grandmother understand me. I say something in Tigrinya, or what I think is Tigrinya. The words trickle out, slow and sticky. Clumsy.

She has question marks in her stare. I apologize with my eyes for being too ignorant. For being too American.

But then there are those moments when we don't need words. I came home for spring break sophomore year and greeted her with tears, not because I missed her, but because my mom told me as we pulled into the driveway she had our dog Bubba put to sleep. I wanted to tell her that when I ran into her arms, but I didn't know how to say it. I didn't need to.

It's the same way with bun, Eritrean coffee. Each morning, my grandmother rises early to make coffee. Scooping it, adding water and turning on a machine doesn't exist for her. In Eritrea, coffee is a time-honored tradition. It's a moment in your day to share with family and friends as you savor three rounds of fresh coffee. It's as if time stops.

We're in the garage, and my grandmother sits on a low stool. She roasts fresh green coffee beans over a charcoal fire using a shallow pan. When the beans are browned, she wafts the aromatic smoke towards my face, and I respond by using my hands to further direct the smoke. She returns to her stool and pounds the roasted beans into grounds and then funnels them into a clay pot. Adding water, she sets the pot on a mini-stove.

I watch her furrowed eyebrows, the concentration. When the coffee is done, a coarse cloth filter is stuffed into the pot, and finally steaming coffee is poured into small, ceramic cups.

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We sip, watching. We understand. Words don't exist. At least, for the moment.

Martha Pitts '01 is an English major from New Orleans, L.A.

'A Glimpse Within' is a weekly column in which we ask members of the Princeton community to share personal experiences. The 'Prince' welcomes submissions of about 650 words to The Newsroom.