I just bought my first Marxist newspaper today. The doorbell rang and a young woman in her twenties, outfitted in the obligatory green workman’s coat, stood at the door to my apartment and began to rattle off a sales pitch for L’Internationaliste in French.
I stopped her and told her “Désolé, je suis américain. Mon français est très mauvais.” (Sorry, I’m American. My French is very bad). She smiled, apologized and continued her sales pitch in broken English. I told her that the only Marxist doctrine I subscribed to was the one laid down by another Marx, viz: “I’d never join a party that would take me as a member.”
My comment flew over her head. I handed her a two-Euro coin, toasted the proletariat, clasped hands with my new comrade and closed the door wondering if my joke would have even been appreciated if my French had been fluent. A missed opportunity for widening the gap between two ideologies?
When I landed in Paris in the fall of 2001, the total of my French language skills consisted of four years of high school French (which I failed), twenty years of The French Chef and forty years of Pepe Le Pew cartoons. I recalled only a few of my French lessons from Southbury High: Bonjour, Jean (“Hello, Jean”), Comment allez vous? (How are you?), and Il faut chercher un pickup (“He has to find a record player”), this latter phrase, of course, being particularly handy for many everyday situations:
WAITER: Le suprême de volaille au sabayon de poireau est délicieux ce soir. C’est une spécialitié de la maison. (The white chicken meat with leek sauce is delicious tonight. It’s a house specialty).
ME: Oui, mais il faut chercher un pickup (Yes, but he has to find a record player).
or:
FRENCHMAN: Je suis tombé et je m’ai casse le cou. J’ai mal au coeur…beaucoup du sang…. (I fell and broke my neck. I feel nauseous…lots of blood…)
ME: Au secours! Il faut chercher un pickup!! (Help! He has to find a record player!!)
I’ve never taken any classes here though there are many to choose from. My schedule always seems full. But it really is just laziness on my part. I have my Berliz, Assimil and Michael Thomas lesson CDs that I’ve burned onto my iPod so I can learn to conjugate the passé compose of aller and devoir as I sweat while cycling at the gym. I rent French movies and switch on the subtitles for the hearing impaired to follow (a little bit) what is being said. I read children’s picture books and graphic novels. TV stations here show many old American television series in French so I can follow along (one hasn’t lived until you’ve heard Peter Falk’s Colombo in French).
But mostly I subscribe to the School of Immersion and Seat of the Pants. I’m surrounded by French and, whether I want to or not, I have to deal with communicating. I’ve learned a few stock phrases that crop up in la vie quotidienne, every day life, which, if one thinks about it, is about the same in any language. These phrases are those that we use everyday, everywhere, all over the world, phrases that talk about the weather, family, vacations and such. Then there are the little moments, the excuses, such as Pardon! (Pardon me!), Désolé! (Sorry!) and Je n’ai pas mes lunettes (I don’t have my glasses). This last is very useful when you have no clue what your baguette cost so you just hand the shopkeeper a fistful of change and smile.
Words are important here, it defines status and respect. There are two different ways to say “you” for example. Vous is used in formal, polite situations (“Comment allez vous?”) while “tu” is more familiar (“Comment va tu?”). Madame and mademoiselle is a tricky business, one denotes a married woman, the other a young woman or unmarried woman. One errs on the side of “Madame”; it’s a sign of respect. A friend, a young woman who has a child, was incensed when a taxi driver referred to her as “mademoiselle”; he showed a complete lack of respect.
There’s a part of me, I confess, that doesn’t want to learn French too well. In cafes and restaurants where the tables are so close you can barely slip a single page Socialist manifesto between them, it’s hard not to hear what’s being said. But the white noise is soothing, everything sounds nice in French. I can sit and eat, drink or write without worrying if Jean-Claude is cheating on Agathe or the new boss is taking the company in the wrong direction.
What has happened, however, is that because of my limited language skills, I choose my words with more thought. I try to find the easiest and best way to say what I mean. In doing so, I stop and think a bit more, even plan out what to say and how to say it before I arrive at a restaurant or a store. It’s helped me in my writing and, to an extent, in my life here. I speak slower, admittedly, and patience runs thin. But it’s not a bad thing to actually think about what to say before you say it.
So I’ll read my Marxist newspaper, in French. And I’ll continue to pick and choose my words carefully. To paraphrase that other great Marx, outside of a Dog, Words are Man’s best friend.
Inside of a Dog, it’s too dark to see them.
How would you say that in French, mon vieille?
