On Language and the Finnish Stereotype

Last year, before I went to China for the summer, my biggest fear was that my language abilities would betray me. I may speak Chinese fluently, but I’m limited in my vocabulary. For example, my exposure to political and scientific vocabulary were in English, used and refined in English speaking settings. In more complex conversations in Chinese centered around academia or expressing opinion, I can’t hold my own.

I spent a lot of time in last summer in China staying quiet, thinking about things I wanted to say but not having the adequate vocabulary to express it. As a result, I felt unable to connect at a deeper level with others. It took longer for me to determine if a response was a person-specific quirk or a wider cultural trait. I didn’t have enough experience with pop culture to understand what parts of society are shaped by it and how.

When I speak Chinese, my personality feels trapped, straining to break out of the confines of my vocabulary. How can I feel known or understood if I can’t express myself? How much of me is me in another language?

When I first told everyone I was moving to Finland for grad school, I expressed my desire to learn Finnish as quickly as I could despite my program being taught in English. In response, others would say, “but everyone in Finland also speaks English, so you’ll be fine.”

Before moving here, I read a lot of blog posts from foreigners recounting their travel experiences in Finland. The most common observation tourists make about local Finns is how closed off they are. Not rude, but reserved, keeping to themselves, seemingly unwilling to talk to strangers.

Once I got here, the other international students I met warned me of the same. “Some international students can go their full two years here only making friends with other international students,” my orientation leader told me.

At the start of September, I tried out for and joined a hockey team where I’m the only non-fluent Finnish speaker. When I first met my teammates, we stared into the corners of the room in silence until my captain explained that they’re embarrassed to speak English for fear of getting it wrong.

I won’t quickly forget the way my teammate’s eyes lit up when I asked her in Finnish what she was studying. And how she slowly and patiently repeated sentences to me in Finnish so I could practice my comprehension.

In August, I bought second-hand furniture from an older Finnish man who didn’t speak any English and asked his grandson to be present as a translator. I remember how impressed the grandfather was when I spoke to him in the limited Finnish I knew, how friendly he became after.

Expecting others to accommodate for me because the expectation is that Finns know how to speak English creates a divide. There’s discomfort in speaking a language you may know and understand but don’t feel confident using. When I’m in the locker room, listening to my teammates talk and laugh, a familiar feeling of frustration arises: how much of me do they see? How much do I see of them?

I’m lucky. I’ve found the quickest way to learn Finnish in an immersive environment. When I first came to Finland, the language passed through me as only sounds; there was nothing for me to recognize, nothing that stuck. When I joined the team, I listened to my coach talk, fascinated by how information could be conveyed to everyone except me. Even with visual context, I couldn’t understand the basic idea of his words.

But now, a month into taking Finnish class, my brain has created new grooves for words to fall into. I listen to my coaches and can snatch at their words, piece together meaning.

At the root of language is communication and connection, but some experiences transcend words:

Yesterday at practice we played a small area scrimmage. Before we began, my teammate came over, pointed at herself, pointed at me, and made an exaggerated slapshot motion. Then she looked at me and grinned wide.

Things are looking up.