It’s been interesting to see the differences and similarities between Jeremy and me during these last few days. In him I see parts of an old me; the me that first traveled to France full of wonder and expectation and not a lick of the language. I learned a lot about myself in learning French. I was younger than he when I began learning, and I pray that his student brain quickly grasps language acquisition. It’s impossible to think now as he thinks; I can’t shut my brain off to the words and meanings that flow freely to my ears. It is not always comfortable to say things exactly the way I mean to say them, but usually my point is understood.
First, I learned to be silent. Words on my part were fruitless. For some people it was easy to just jump in and make mistakes. I couldn’t grant myself the privilege. Instead, I ruminated on other things; the meaning of culture, the way people stand when they speak, the meaning of language, how lips come together at the corners to push only the plumpness of the lips outward, how the speaker came to know French, why people wore the same clothes for 3 days in a row, etc. etc. etc. My vision was my world.
Soon, words became intriguing and beautiful with their soft ‘j’ sounds and half-formed nasal words. They still held no exact meaning, but I began to gather an emotion from the ebb and flow from the melodic song of sentence formation. I also began to dream in French sounds (I used to think I might have been saying actual words, but I began these dreams much too early in my studies to say they flew up from my subconscious as full, whole sentences). The words called to me, beckoned me to taste them and know them. Like breaking off a too-large piece of crusty bread, at first it was awkward and almost painful to fit my lips around, but after reflecting on it, feeling its shape in my mouth, dissolving its meaning and nourishment, and adding repetitive chewing for memory’s sake, words gradually became sugary and alive.
Words also became hateful. They taunted me with their unknown-ness. Their cheery, sultry sounds turned acrid to my ears when my pride bubbled up at my inability to master the language as quickly as I would have liked. And for SHAME should I make a mistake. I felt the quick sting again to my pride whenever I happened to slaughter a pronunciation or verbal agreement of this sacred language.
And slowly and surely it became fun. After fighting heavily with pride and thoughts of perfection, I turned communication into a game. I don’t know the word for something? Aah, figure out another way to say it. The game of round-a-bout. “Excuse me, but could I borrow the thing you use to write with?” “Oh, I like how your pants go with what you are wearing on top!”
And what words have English counterparts? Sometimes a shot-in-the dark transposition of an English word to an English word with a French accent proved linguistically fatal…but, at golden moments, pulling a trick like that landed me with a high communication reward.
Jeremy arrived here on this land knowing nothing of the French language except ‘Hello’ and ‘I love you.’ These phrases work well in our little house, but using half of his knowledge outside of these walls could grant him a few slaps on the cheek. He is truly starting from scratch. He said the right side of his brain is screaming at his left side every time he tries to open his mind to language. Mr Mathematician Engineer Chemistry hasn’t quite come to know the logical mathematical side of all languages. That too will come. Until then, he will glare jealously at the children who don’t even reach the height of his knees who know how to conjugate ‘to go’ better than him. I remember that feeling well.
Tonight he sat me down near the kitchen sink, wine glass in hand, and asked me to help him with dishes. No sponge or drying towel was handed to me. Each item he pulled from the soapy water came with a question mark. What is this? What is that? Feminine or Masculine? I believe he even replaced some of our dishes in the sink, for repetition’s sake. Necessity, gumption, and a great desire to be involved with the country around him will eventually bring him to a place of communicating thoroughly.
Jeremy trusts me completely with communication. Sometimes he stands by my side expectantly, waiting for any translation that may come his way. I see him listening intently to any verbal exchange, searching for a known magic word to jump out at him. At other times he relaxes, and lets his mind wander about, discovering things about this city and culture in silence that would normally take longer, if words were involved to distract.
If I found my role in oration, he found his in direction. Many can attest that growing up directions weren’t my strong suit. (The first time I drove to Seattle by myself, but a girl of 17, I couldn’t figure out if Seattle was North or South of Auburn. South Seattle! seemed like a fine last-minute alliteration to guide me in my decision. Oops.) However, I seem to have managed just fine in my adult years, spending extra time studying maps or asking for detailed directions, or even just driving confidently ‘by feel.’ I don’t know when it happened, but somewhere along our travels, probably while I was in conversation, Jeremy took it upon himself to be our map. Before I knew it, he had memorized every street name and silent alley from here to the Garonne River. Although generally mispronounced, he always finds our destination.
I am sure he will have more thoughts on language the longer he stays here, especially when he begins school on Tuesday and the Mrs. won’t be there to step in. His classes are thankfully in English, and the world around him will still be in French.
You are so brave, I'm proud of you both! What a delightful story you have to tell!
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