I hear American English, my parent's native language, and mine. I also hear the Polish and Italian that were spoken, in my neighborhood, as a boy. I hear my dad's soldier German. I hear the French I was taught in elementary school. I hear the French I learned, in France, from my schoolmates, in Collioure and Port-Vendres. I also hear their Catalan. I hear the patois of the Dordogne, where we spent the summer. I hear the taught Spanish of my brief French schooling, the migrants I worked with at the vendage. I hear the Greek of family friends an co-workers in diners. I hear the French of those canadiens I knew in Montreal. I hear the Spanish and Catalan of those I knew in Castelldefells, I hear the Italian of the masons I worked with, and the French of those Italians, who had worked in France and Switzerland. I hear the Arabic of family friends, and co-workers and I hear the Dutch and German, and Italian of technicians I worked with. I have endeavored to understand and to engage them all. It has been my privilege to know and love them all.
I have communicated with a great many people, without fully understanding their language, or they mine. The primary factor for understanding is respect, followed by good will and good fellowship.