The English language is estimated to contain about 1 million words, and like every language, it is ever-expanding. However, only a small fraction of these 1 million words make it to your everyday conversations. In fact, there are approximately 171,146 English words that are currently in use, and the vocabulary of most adults with English as the first language is estimated to be about 20,000 to 35,000 words.
Though language and vocabulary size are difficult to measure exactly, a general look at these numbers is enough to see the interesting situation they point to: We barely use the vast majority of words in the English language, and somehow, we seem to do just fine.
The data makes English, or language in general, sound so simple. Yet the process of learning it, and everything that follows, is way more complicated and personal than 171,146 words could describe. It’s a journey unlike any other.
And so I have learned that not knowing a language is like looking at the world through a foggy window. As you learn, the fog clears — and what used to seem like random blotches of color behind the window start to become clearer, take on different shapes and forms, until you can finally recognize them for what they are and enjoy the view on the other side.
I started learning English when I was 5. On my first day at kindergarten in Turkey, the English teacher approached to welcome me and started speaking to me in English, hoping to familiarize me with the sound of the language. I remember being so scared because I wasn’t prepared for this kind of miscommunication; none of what she said made any sense to me. In retrospect, she probably said nothing more advanced than “hello” or “how are you,” but in that moment, her words held a mystery.
As I continued my English learning journey through the years, I often thought about that first day with the English teacher. It was incredible to experience the process of language learning, to see myself go from being scared of a simple “hello” to someone who learned to use this new language as a powerful tool with which I could express my emotions, share ideas and immortalize on paper my most personal thoughts.
People often ask me what language I think in, and I don’t quite have a good answer. At this point, my brain is a mess, mixing words and phrases from the different languages I know, constantly changing: It’s a chaotic maze of words.
And, sometimes, I reach the border of the translatable. There, the languages that normally exist happily together in my mind disaffiliate, and I struggle to connect them in a way that feels right.
There, the languages that normally exist happily together in my mind disaffiliate, and I struggle to connect them in a way that feels right.
These are words of my parent tongue that have no translation, no equivalent. These are common expressions and sayings that left my life as soon as I left Turkey: the words I yearn for constantly in my life in the States.
Kolay gelsin: May it come easy
One of my favorite things about Turkey and its people is the sense of community. People are, especially in the context of work, respectful toward others’ efforts, and they understand the difficulties that come with work. One of the most common phrases of everyday life in Turkey is “kolay gelsin,” which translates to “may it come easy.” Often said to people who are working or studying, this phrase is a way of acknowledging one’s efforts and wishing that their work gets easy, that it doesn’t tire them out.
There’s a cleaning lady I see every week after one of my classes. She’s always waiting as we leave the classroom, and people walk past her without saying a word. It’s not considered odd for strangers to not greet each other here, but the Turkish part of my brain struggles every time I see her.
I feel myself wanting to form those two words, to tell her “kolay gelsin,” but I get stuck because I cannot find any word, any expression in English that conveys the same meaning, the warmth, the support.
Those are the moments when I feel the language barrier the most. The window gets foggy again, and I’m trying to reach out to something I’m familiar with, something that I know is there, on the other side. But I can’t see it clearly from the fog.
Usually, after a moment of frantically searching my English vocabulary for the good-enough “kolay gelsin” equivalent that doesn’t exist, I quite awkwardly just say “hello.”
The first few times I greeted her, she didn’t respond, but one day, she started saying hello back. Now, each time we run into each other, we exchange this simple greeting.
It’s not only her. I have this experience with so many strangers I see on a daily basis: the guy who works at my favorite coffee shop, the girl I see studying there every time I go, the cashiers in every store I visit — the list goes on.
“Hello” doesn’t have the same meaning “kolay gelsin” does in Turkey. It doesn’t carry with it the feeling of being seen, of your work being acknowledged, of having someone else, a complete stranger, understand you, support you. It lacks context.
It doesn’t carry with it the feeling of being seen, of your work being acknowledged, of having someone else, a complete stranger, understand you, support you.
But it’s not nothing. It’s my way of holding onto a part of me, a part of my culture, to something much bigger than words, than language, even if it’s just in my head.
Çok yaşa, sen de gör: Live long, may you see it too
Turkish is elegant. Even in the most common, everyday sayings there is a humane, affectionate element. When someone sneezes, the Turkish reaction is to say “çok yaşa,” which means “live long.” This is similar to saying “bless you,” but where the response from the other person is a simple “thank you” in English, the Turkish response is much more graceful: “sen de gör,” or “may you see it too.”
The idea behind this response is that for the person to see you live as long as they have wished you to live, they too must live a long, healthy life. In a way, you’re not only thanking them for their good wishes, but you’re also wishing the same for them. But the language is so beautiful, so poetic that instead of saying “you too,” you tell them you wish that they will “see it too.”
Another common response to “live long” is “hep beraber,” which means “all together.” You told me to live long, but no, let’s live long together. What a nice thing to say.
Both responses are so common that nobody thinks about their significance. We just say it. It’s only when I find myself in English-speaking environments and English feels inadequate that I appreciate the intricacies of my parent tongue.
Because it’s difficult to hold down the words I’m used to when someone sneezes and nobody in the room tells them to live a long, healthy life. Because it feels insufficient, too individualistic to respond with “thank you.” Because I miss the love, the collectivity inherent in the words I use.
My friends sometimes mock my fascination with the language surrounding sneezing, but I think the sense of community and support central to most Turkish people reflects even to the language we use.
I find it beautiful.
Canın sağolsun: May your life be well
One of my favorite Turkish phrases, “canın sağolsun,” is used when someone experiences failure or disappointment. It literally translates to “may your life be alive/well” because the logic behind it is that despite this person’s mistake, all that matters is that they are alive and well.
If your friend fails an exam, if someone owes you money but can’t pay it back or if they can’t keep a promise they gave you, you might tell them “canın sağolsun.” In a way, it’s acknowledging their mistake, agreeing that the situation is disappointing, but showing them that the problem isn’t more important than their well-being and your relationship.
My best friend loves this phrase. When we were growing up, she used to say it to me all the time. When I was feeling down about something, struggling with school or beating myself up about a mistake I made, each time she told me “canın sağolsun.” Each time I knew she meant it, and I instantly felt so relieved, so loved. She gave me perspective, reminding me that “you’re healthy, you’re alive, minor problems come second.” She had the power to make me feel good instantly, and all she used were these two words.
She had the power to make me feel good instantly, and all she used were these two words.
Here in Berkeley, when I make a mistake and am worrying about it, I have such a hard time convincing people this is the case. They say “I’m sure it’s not as bad as you think,” or “it will be fine, don’t worry about it.” I love my friends, and really appreciate them trying their best to help, but I can’t help but crave those two words that used to give me so much comfort. It’s the need to know that even if it is as bad as I think, and even if it will not be fine and I do worry about it, they will be there for me.
“Canın sağolsun” has no equivalent in English, at least nothing that conveys the same feeling. I miss hearing it, and I miss being able to say it to my loved ones when they’re feeling down. For the time being, I am stuck with “you’re fine,” “it’s OK” and “don’t worry about it.”
Güle güle git, hoşçakal: Go smiling, stay nicely
When it’s time to leave, “goodbye” has two versions in Turkish. The person who is staying behind, says to the person who is leaving, “güle güle git,” which means “go smiling,” or “go as you laugh/smile.” There are variations of this expression. For example, one can shortly say “güle güle,” which means goodbye, but literally translates to “smiling smiling.” Or, when someone is going on holiday or a trip for a short period of time, you might tell them, “güle güle git, güle güle gel,” which means “go smiling, come back smiling.”
The person who is leaving, in turn, says to the person they are leaving behind, “hoşçakal,” which means “stay nicely,” similar to “stay well.”
There are so many other ways to say goodbye in Turkish, and in rare cases, actions accompany language. For example, another favorite of mine is “su gibi git, su gibi gel,” which means “go like water, return like water.” This is a way of saying goodbye to someone who is leaving for a long time. The tradition involves tossing water from a pitcher or glass behind the person who is leaving, as you tell them to go and return like water. The idea is that you want their journey to be as easy, as smooth as the flow of water, so that they can complete their trip and return to you safely. I can’t count the number of times I’ve gotten into a car before leaving my home for a long time, looked back to see all of my favorite people crying with pitchers of water in their hands and had that water thrown behind me as the car started moving.
Goodbye is goodbye no matter what words you use to say it. But sometimes it’s the little things you hold onto, such as the wish that your journey will be “like water” or that you will go and return with a smile on your face that make the big difference.
There are many other examples of common Turkish words and sayings I struggle to say in English. Words are easy to translate, but they lose their meaning when stripped off their social context. After all, language is merely a bunch of words until meanings and value are attributed to it by the culture, by the people who speak it.
In my time away from home, my use of language has evolved greatly. I often find myself mixing words from Turkish and English in a single sentence or changing with English words to make references to Turkish. My closest friends in the United States are now familiar with some Turkish words and phrases because of the way I speak. It’s fun, and it creates a space to share our cultural and linguistic identities.
At the border of the translatable, I will always miss my parent language when I can’t speak it. But language evolves, and so does my relationship with it. So perhaps, as my life unfolds and I navigate through the chaotic word-maze in my mind, I will see that there have never been any borders.
That’s the silver lining.
Contact Merve Ozdemir at mozdemir@dailycal.org and follow her on Twitter at @ozdemir_merve_.