The Strange Mathematics of Speaking Six Languages

“How many languages do you speak?” It seems like a simple question, but it’s a tough one for me to answer. I’ve studied six, but I don’t speak six. I can’t count each language I’ve tried to learn as one, because my competency in each is different. And assigning fractions just seems silly. Are my two ­semesters of college Italian worth a half? A third? And where would that leave my 283-day streak of learning Norwegian on Duolingo?

The simplest answer to how many languages I speak is two. Eagle-eyed readers will notice I’m writing this in English, but I could have composed it in French. I took 12 years of it in school, made it my college major, and studied abroad in France. Am I fluent? Sure, but I’m fluent in English. And using that word for both implies equal levels of, well, fluency. This is hardly the case.

I can have a conversation on just about anything in either language, but my topic catalog in English is certainly larger. You want to talk particle physics? En anglais, s’il vous plaît! [In English, please!] I still won’t fully understand, but in this doomsday scenario in which I need to know the difference between a quark and a neutrino, it better be happening in my mother tongue.

Here’s how I explain the difference in my English and French abilities: English is like sitting, and French is like walking. I’m really good at both, but obviously sitting is easier. I can sit indefinitely. I can’t walk indefinitely, but I can go pretty far. When I walk, I don’t have to concentrate on putting one foot in front of the other; I just do. Still, the chance of a misstep is not zero. Occasionally I stumble, and it’s not as shocking as it would be if I were to, say, suddenly fall out of a big, comfy chair.

I mentioned I took Italian in college, and to continue this analogy, Italian is like jogging. I can jog for a decent distance, but not as far as I could go if I were walking. And with jogging, I do have to concentrate on what I’m doing, because I find the pace difficult to maintain. When I jog, I have to focus on not slowing down to a walk. But I also can’t speed up and start running.

And by running, of course, I mean speaking Spanish. In fact, Spanish isn’t just running for me; it’s running in a race. The whole time, I am laser focused on that finish line, and when I get there, I’m spent. I might even need to be carried off the track.

Now, Norwegian is also like running a race, but this time with hurdles. The level of difficulty is much higher—as are the chances of me falling flat on my face. And despite my aforementioned dedication to Duolingo, some hurdles are still too high for me to clear. I cheat a little by going under or around them, trying to Norwegify English words whenever I talk to the one native Norwegian speaker I know.

And then there’s Greek. You’ve heard the saying, “It’s all Greek to me”? Well, here’s what Greek is to me: It’s running a race, with hurdles, while being chased by a lion. Pure panic. The pace is totally out of my control:

I keep up or get swallowed up. I don’t even look for the finish line because I know I’m not going to make it there. This is where my track career ends.

So, where does that leave the language count? Clearly ‘six’ isn’t the right answer, just like ‘two’ doesn’t paint the full picture. That’s why I prefer to think about it this way. I feel cheap taking credit for English—it’s effortless. But I am proud of the other five and of all those races I’ve run, whether I was going for distance or speed, or just trying to make it out alive.