A Language of Your Own

When I was a very small boy I didn’t speak English. My family communicated with me by using pictures. I would say something and they would get out various  books and when I spoke they pointed to things until I nodded.

An example; I once informed them that there was,”A howashay bin da cowashay”. After several books, even more tantrums (they weren’t very good at it) and a walk around the farm they finally understood. “There was an elephant in the cowshed”. Of course, I was the only one who could see said elephant, so much had to be taken on trust.

One day an electrician came to do some work and so I assisted him (fresh meat). Upon leaving he posed a question to my mother.

“Nice kid, when’s he going back?”

“Back where?” asked mum

“To France, he is French isn’t he?”

“No! He’s my son.” Picking up on my mum’s tone the electrician decided not to pursue the conversation and left.

Let me set the scene a two year old boy on a farm all day by himself (and you thought Forest Gump was strange) Your parents are in their forties and you have two older sisters. One of them relishes pinning you to the floor and licking your face or tickling you until you pee your pants. The other one listens to Rock’n’Roll, jives with you and tells you that Elvis is really God.

Your role model is a pretend friend called Johnny (cool name) and you have a pretend girlfriend called June (birthday month). You also have a horse called Red (no idea). June is quite lovely but always being kidnapped by red indians  native Americans and tied to a tree. Most of your day is spent sneaking into the enemy camp and releasing June, getting nettled, tying dock leaves to your legs (eases the sting) and inventing things that don’t work. The Native Americans only speak Sioux or Crow, June and Johnny only speak via you and you, at two-year-old don’t have anyone to talk to.

And they wonder why I had my own language.