1974. Everybody was kung fu fighting.

Fists and feet were flying and we made these absurd sounds like a chicken being strangled when we attacked. Bruce Lee and Chuck Norris had beaten the snot out of each other in the Roman Coliseum and Jackie Chan was already kicking ass and taking names. I was taking the first baby steps in the martial arts, learning basic stances and training my hands not to tuck my thumbs inside my fingers when I made a fist.

Kung fu was my second language.

I’ve thought about this a lot and I’m sure one or two of you are scoffing at me right now, but hear me out.

We usually think of language in terms of words. Of sounds. But look beyond that for a second. A language has a vocabulary. It has patterns. It’s purpose is to help you communicate an idea—to persuade, to dissuade, to impress and express. The correlation didn’t hit me right away. In fact, it was some years before the parallels became obvious.

1983. July 4th. Independence Day here in the States. Everybody’s blowing stuff up.

I’m in my back yard on Long Island with a friend of mine on a particularly windy day as we set off fireworks. I’ve got a cherry bomb in my right hand a lighter in my left. I’m right-handed, so I kept the explosive in my throwing hand. Makes sense, right? Well, I couldn’t quite get the fuse lit with my spaz of a left hand in such strong winds, so I switched the two.

I thumbed back the rollers and the flame went up, licking the edge of the fuse. And then, much to my surprise, the fuse started a mad dash toward the cherry bomb in my left hand. It didn’t take its time. It didn’t saunter, or meander. It ran for the packed powder like it was rushing to catch a bus.

Had I had the firework in my right hand, I might have thrown it out and away from my body in one fluid motion. But having it in my left hand removed me from all the muscle memory I’d built up over the years and I pulled back my arm in preparation to throw. I got that small explosive just even with my ear when it went off. I was lucky to have kept my fingers, but the burns on my palm lasted a good long while. The ear took the brunt of it. I didn’t hear anything out of that ear for more than a month. To this day, it’s only at about 50% and I can’t separate sounds in noisy rooms or crowded malls. It’s all one jumbled mess.

After the first few weeks of deafness, I rode my bike a few blocks away to where my cousin lived and had a “talk” with her. She was deaf, you see. She’d been born that way. I asked her to start teaching me sign language.

For a while there I got pretty good at it, though my fingerspelling always sucked. But, of course, my hearing eventually improved and I didn’t quite see the need to keep learning sign. Not when I only knew one person I could talk to.

It was thinking about that experience that got me to remembering that language isn’t about sounds at all. It can be a series of motions. Kung fu was a language, after all. It has a vocabulary, a syntax, a way to “answer.” Look for it and you’ll find language all around you.

As I learn Chinese, I find that all the old rules hold true. You’ll remember the vocabulary you use most often. The basic blocks and strikes. The wax on and wax off. The paint the fence and wash the car. Those jumping spinning kicks I used to do when I was half my current age fell by the wayside years ago because, ultimately, they’re not useful in day to day “conversation.”

Last night I met with my private tutor again, and I find that I enter into our conversations with the same mental attitude that I used to have when I was sparring in kung fu. Of course, she’s a native speaker and I’m still a Newbie, so it’s a little like a toddler trying to kick Jet Li in the shins. Heh.

So think about it, folks. How many languages do you really “speak?”