Queen of the Dodo Birds

Try as I might, I do not have an ear for language.

It always irked me that my dad — fluent in three languages and close to fluent in several more — never spoke to us in Hungarian (or Romanian, for that matter) when I was growing up. It felt like something essential had skipped a generation, and I was left without the gene.

That gap became especially clear when I took Latin in middle school. What was a nice Jewish girl doing taking a dead language most closely associated with Catholicism?

Two reasons. First, I knew Latin was the mother tongue of so many modern languages, and I hoped it might help me build a stronger vocabulary. Second, I knew I didn’t want to take Spanish or French. So — Latin it was.

My teacher was Mrs. Motiu. And her nickname for me was — and I am not exaggerating — Queen of the Dodo Birds.

Can you imagine a teacher today calling a student a dodo bird?

And yet, friends from those early 1980s years — and even a few former teachers — still call me that when they see me. I laugh every time. Because it’s true: language, in the traditional sense, never quite landed for me.

But over time, I realized something else had.

The languages I do speak are not grammatical. They’re relational. I speak the language of service, of laughter, of showing up. Of sitting at a table long enough for the real story to emerge. I understand the jargon of philanthropy — the alphabet soup of the nonprofit world — but more importantly, I know how to translate it.

Because impact, like language, is often misunderstood.

We talk about impact in metrics and outcomes, numbers and dashboards. Those things matter. But impact is also a story someone tells years later about how they felt seen, or supported, or brave enough to try. It’s the quiet shift when a family aligns around shared values, or when a group learns how to listen across difference.

Change has a language too. Sometimes it’s loud and declarative. More often, it’s halting and imperfect — spoken with uncertainty, translated over time. Real change requires patience, fluency, and a willingness to keep clarifying what we mean.

And then there is legacy.

Legacy is the longest language we speak. It’s rarely spoken outright, but heard in patterns — in what we fund, what we avoid, what we repeat, and what we repair. It lives in the stories we pass down, and in the ones we never quite get around to telling. It’s not just what we leave behind; it’s what we model while we’re still here.

There is also a language of connection — one I’ve come to understand deeply.

It’s remembering what matters to people. Holding the small details others might miss and reflecting them back at the right moment. Noticing what someone repeats, where their voice softens or shifts. Making sure people feel seen, heard, and understood — not performatively, but steadily and humanly.

This language doesn’t rely on perfect words. It relies on attention. On presence. On care.

And I’ve learned that when people feel understood, they’re more willing to trust. More open to change. More able to articulate what they want to protect, what they want to grow, and what kind of legacy they hope to leave.

Which makes me wonder:

What language do you want to speak? What do you want people to hear when you show up?

When others tell your story — or your family’s, or your organization’s — what words do you hope they use?

And if the answer isn’t clear yet, that’s okay.

Learning a language takes time. So does learning how to name what matters most.

That’s the work. And it’s a privilege to help hold it.

With my best wishes for a beautiful, safe, healthy new year,

Queen of the Dodo Birds, circa 1985.