Subconscious English
Description
Vocal Characteristics
Language
EnglishVoice Age
Middle Aged (35-54)Accents
North American (General)Transcript
Note: Transcripts are generated using speech recognition software and may contain errors.
Chapter one. Your great story. Well told, everyone has a story to tell. Everyone is a writer, Some are written in books, and some are confined to hearts. Savi Sharma Winter is cold in Germany, and the only thing I knew in German was beer and Octoberfest. Just a few months shy of 17, I could not board my T W a flight out of Los Angeles, California, to my new adventure fast enough in late January of 1988 when I was nine years old in Cali, Colombia. I remember going to church with Mama, says Anita, my grandma seated front row. Always after the preacher did his thing, I would pull a chair, stand behind the pulpit and keep on preaching voice if grisly as the amens and Gloria, adios would shower from the audience. So when my uncle, who lived in Germany, heard of a school of theology that was about to open, he thought of me and sent me a letter to see if I was interested in attending. The note came in at just the right time. I took my little savings from my bus boy days at the local Sizzlers restaurant in Europe a valley, California, and set my heart on German girls and beer. Three days after arriving at seminary, the aged professors gave each of the 14 young men a placard in German. Mine stated that I was from Colombia and was earning income from the sale of Bibles and missionary adventure books in order to be a priest. The translation of pasture in German is more along the lines of a literal pastor of sheep. So the sign stated Priest, something everyone understood. Being just a few days in a new country. My culture shock had not worn off yet as I witnessed new attitudes. Germans seem to be more serious and direct than those in the US, a new language that my ear had to become accustomed to. And everyone was so tall. Even the air was somehow thinner and colder than my childhood winters. Back in Phoenixville, Pennsylvania, I had a feeling that morning was going to be a baptism by fire, an immersion in cold German snow. At 7:30 a.m. Sharp click. It or punctuality was the actual first word I learned in German. The van dropped four of us young seminarians, each with suitcases filled with books to sell in an upper middle class residential neighborhood in western Heidelberg. We went to buy two. Gabriel, also from Colombia, took to the left. I took to the right. We would somehow meet behind the block. We were both nervous. No beer or German younger Damon young ladies were on my mind. I just wanted to survive the cold gray morning and the snow crunching beneath my boots. I took two steps back, just as they taught me and smiled. Just hand them the plaque. Guard and smile. They said I could see the shadow approaching through the glass door, and it was very angry. Mm. I didn't even know the German cuss words yet, but I'm sure that's what the shadow was, hurling my way as it became larger and louder, and the door opened violently. She was 7 ft tall and husky, donning a thick white bathrobe and sandals, and she had a brown beard. Her face was getting ready. By the second, she was so upset that she could not speak. Her breathing just became heavier, huffing and puffing the condensation of that chilly morning like a raging bull. And I was a target. I knew I had to say something. Anything, or I was Bavarian Cemal noodle toast. Um uh, mine Frau. Uh, actually going now. How's that? For starters, I had just learned the German difference between mine feminine and mine masculine. But I had to translate it in my mind. Remember the rule and she had a beard and I was confused and scared. And German wasn't in my subconscious yet. So it simply did not manifest naturally. And what came out is what came out based on the little comprehensible input I had managed to internalize and only three days in Germany. And then I mentioned I was scared. So So I said, My masculine wife. Excuse me in German. I forgot the word Damn lady. I just called her my masculine wife. As my knees began to shake, her left eye just twitched as she dropped her jaw. Just a bit. Hurry, Harold, Hurry! I handed her my placard and said, Dina blumen a scene, Sir Shun, Your flowers are very beautiful. As I pointed to her dead flowers buried under a foot of snow on my left. Nothing I emphasized said once more. Well, I motioned to her blumen and made direct eye contact. My towering masculine Frau started laughing and laughed louder and louder, slapping her knee until she had tears. She gave me a big hug and invited me in for Bavarian Cemal Little and T. Her name was Hilda, and over breakfast we talked a bit in German and a bit in English. Her English was as good as my German, but Hilda was the nicest woman ever. I concentrated as hard as I could and not staring at her beard. But after a while I got used to it. Then she did the unexpected. She gave me the money for all the Bibles and books I had in my heavy suitcase. Now my jaw dropped a bit as tears began welling up. As I left, I looked back as she waved Alfred Kazin. She looked at her flowers and said Sam, shaking her head and smiling. Sir, I had her at sir, and so started a journey into new language exploration that would forever change my life.