When I was nineteen I started working at the Missionary Training Center. If you don't already know, the MTC is a magical place in Provo, Utah where Mormon missionaries come to learn how to teach and speak a foreign language before being sent to their missions all over the world. I never went on a mission, but the MTC has a special place in my heart.
My job was to put on a uniform, pull my hair into a bun, snap on some latex gloves, and assist in the proper care and feeding of some 2,000 missionaries. I cooked food, I served food, I washed dishes. And after the lights went out and the feeble-hearted went home, I learned the true meaning of dirty with my real brothers. The few. The proud. The Night Custodians. But that's another chapter.
It didn't take me long to realize that this job was the shiznit. I mean, what other job lets you meet thousands of single guys, learn every language on the planet, eat leftover cookies, AND get paid??
I loved interacting with the missionaries. They basically have no contact with the outside world except through you, their loyal lunch lady. I know this because A) I was constantly asked the scores of sporting events (to which I never knew the answer), and B) flirting with so many boys while wearing so little makeup has never been so easily achieved in the history of men and women.
I believe I ended up writing letters and emails to a solid baker's dozen of elders that I met while serving their food and washing their dishes. Couldn't resist the hair net. You know who you are.
But I wasn't just in it for the addresses. Or the cookies. My real motive was becoming a linguist.
Often when I handed some strapping young lad a plate of tots, he'd say, "Gracias" or "Merci" or "Xie Xie." Oh! What a fun game! I started asking what the proper response was. "Denada!" "De rien" "Bu ke chi!"
After a while I'd try to beat them at their own skills. Even if they said thank you in English, I'd respond in their appropriate language, with something sassy like, "I like your necktie." Then one day I decided I really wanted to learn something in every language.
I began to recognize what language their name tags were written in. Turns out Asian alphabets are way easier to distinguish than European ones. So, I got pretty familiar with Chinese, Japanese, Korean, Vietnamese, Thai, Cambodian, even Mongolian. Not that they were easier to learn, but I felt more confident passing some dude and saying, "Joom Reap Suah!" if I could tell his name tag was in Cambodian.
It helped that most of my coworkers were foreigners or returned missionaries, so I could mooch lessons off them, too. That's how I learned the really fun stuff. Like, "Fang ma guo lai!" (Chinese for come fight me), "Mais beijos!" (Portuguese for more kisses), "Quitate la ropa!" (Spanish for take off your clothes!) and some even worse things in Samoan.
By the end of my first year of work, I was a little obsessed. I always carried a pen and scrap paper in my pocket. I'd ask missionaries how to say something and I'd write it down phonetically and try to memorize it. An Elder Claflin taught me loads of French. Elder Jolley taught me some Mongolian, and Gaffney Bulgarian. Elder Boyer used to practice Chinese with me every single day. One time he lost me in a full on conversation and said, "Oh sorry, I forget you don't actually speak Chinese."
The sweetest moment for me was when an entire district of Taiwan-bound elders presented me with a Mandarin Book of Mormon and Hymn Book they had signed. Another was when my Guatemalan coworker tenderly hand-wrote for me all the lyrics to Gasolina.
All mushiness aside, some things did suck about my job. One was, no matter how many missionary friends I'd make, they ALL left eventually. Every two months or so I'd have to start all over. Even my loyal friends serving their entire two years in the MTC had to go home one day.
And, unfortunately, I found that my lofty goal of picking up twenty plus languages simply en las calles wasn't super realistic. Even at the MTCizzle. Maybe if I'd put all that effort into one single language, I would be decent at it.
But hey, I still have all my notes and dirty scraps of paper, written in thirteen languages by homies helping a sister out. And I love that nearly every time I meet someone who speaks a foreign language, I can say at least one word or phrase to them, usually more. And they always smile.
Being a cafeteria girl wasn't my dream job. It sure didn't help my resume. I didn't make a lot of money. I didn't even date any of my missionaries. But I ate lots of cookies. And I had one
Ganbei
