Post #5: There’s no cure for this. But what’s the alternative?
I’ve been reading a slim Portuguese volume called As Mentiras Que Os Homens Contam—The Lies Men Tell—and it’s charming the pants off me. The chapters are mercifully short, and I read a new one every night before bed. Savor it, like a good Riesling. I chuckle, I guffaw. This is a seriously funny book.
On this particular night, in paragraph two of my latest chapter, I run into a word I haven’t seen before: caixão. I know that caixa means box and that the ão suffix makes things bigger, so caixão must mean big box. A few lines later I get it. Caixão means, ah, ah, what’s that word again? It’s the box you put dead people in before burying them. You know the one, right? It’s called, ah, ah… Damn it, why can’t I think of the word?
A torrent of related terms floods my mind: hearse, procession, gravestone, undertaker, pushing up daisies… But not that word.
I try to picture myself at a funeral—maybe that will jog my memory. Well. The funeral that jumps to my mind is my own mother’s, twenty-nine years ago. I had to choose the box myself. I remember standing in the funeral parlour, the reality of having no more parents just beginning to sink in, while the funeral director showed me samples of mahogany and cherrywood. It was not a fun time. No wonder I’ve blocked out the word.
But I haven’t blocked it out. I remember it in French—cercueil—and I now know it in Portuguese. Just not in English. I call up its distinctive hexagonal shape and imagine myself opening it, hoping to find its name inside. Nada.
This wouldn’t have happened to me at thirty. Or forty. Or fifty-nine. There’s no escaping it: it’s the beginning of the big biochemical blowout, the synaptic switch-off, the slide into vacant-eyed oblivion. By the time I get to Brazil I’ll probably have no words left, just chin hairs and missing teeth.
What am I doing, trying to learn another language when I can’t even remember my own? I should just invest in a rocking chair—a model that comes with knitting needles and a lapdog—and call it a day.
But no, I can’t do that. I’m enjoying Portuguese too much. And if I give up on my sputtering synapses, I may as well buy a nice little plot and bury myself in my own… ah, ah… it’s coming, it’s coming… my own coffin!
10 thoughts on “Blog: That’s So Brazil”
Better to lose a noun than a verb. Sandra Shamas apparently lost her nouns, then got them back as her body readjusted to age.
That’s interesting! Will have to research this.
That’s true, Drew! I remember her describing the loss of the the word “salt” and describing it as that white shakey stuff lol!
C’mon, you make 60 sound so old. Don’t you know it’s the new 40?
Oh, I know. I just hope my brain cells got the memo. Thinking of you as you get through this final round at AM.
Funny, I thought the word you had lost was actually “casket” … seems more akin to “caixa” perhaps?
This might not be an age thing, but rather a sign that you’re entering that space where language fluidity is really catching on. I often had bouts of “English word forgetfulness” when in an Italian immersion program in Rome during college. It felt a little like that period of vertigo just after you flip into a pool.
Interesting and optimistic perspective. I’ll buy it!
This may not be a sign of aging, but rather of greater language fluidity. I often had bouts of “English forgetfulness” when in a language immersion program in Rome. It reminded me a little of the vertigo you get after flipping into a pool, when you can’t figure out which way is up.
Hi, Gabrielle, only now I saw it post, but I remember you telling me the “caixão” history – lol. Well, I’m in my thirties and I’m forgetting names (in English and in Portuguese) all the time, but I strongly believe it is part of the learning process.