Je suis en Francophile, et vouz?
I have never forgiven the
French Huguenots for not wielding more influence and forcing their language on
the natives when they settled in D’Afrique du Sud. Maybe the heat was shocking
to their systems (which, hello, but what then was their excuse in so much of
equally hot Afrique where the natives were forced to become native
French-speakers?), but they seemed to not be bothered when the Dutch took over the
Mother Tongue department and allowed the creation of Afrikaans.
Forward to me at age 14, when
I heard that I had successfully passed my audition and that I was going to be
attending the performing arts high school in Pretoria. The thing that thrilled
me the second most was that I would finally be able to take French as a subject
– never mind the fact that I was barely able to speak English then.
Unfortunately, my plans
were soon foiled when one of the teachers advised my parents that, since I was
starting school almost in the middle of the school year, I should rather take
German, as it would be easier for a native Afrikaans speaker to catch up on.
Grateful to at least be in
the school of my dreams, I heeded the advice and took German instead. Perhaps
(and more likely) it was because I had no interest in it, but I did NOT find it
easy to catch up on at all. Whenever I walked by the French class, I looked in
with longing at all the lucky students as they “ecoute et répète” the flowery aural delights that so effortlessly flowed
from the young, beret-wearing teacher’s mouth.
I finally had my chance in
college, when we had to take a third language for a year. My choice was French,
of course. It was basic, conversational French, but I totally immersed myself in it. The result is that I can now, almost 20 years later, say: “Pardon me, I can’t speak French.
Do you speak English, please?” in French, with a perfect French accent.
I can do the same thing in
Egyptian Arabic, German, Italian and Spanish. It’s a nifty and impressive party
trick and especially with the Arabic, I managed to score a few free cab rides in D.C.
Last year, during a trip
to Taiwan, I had the amazing privilege to stay with a host family in Taichung
City for about a week and a half. The mother was unable to speak any English,
and I was unable to speak any Mandarin (except for “good day”, “thank you”, “you’re
welcome”, “South Africa” - accompanied by a gesture of pointing towards myself - and enthusiastically shouting - because there’s really no other way to express it - “I love
Taiwan!”). She would speak in Mandarin to her daughters, who
sometimes translated, when it was necessary for me to be privy to what was
being said. One day, during one of the non-translated conversations, I suddenly piped up and said: “Yes! I KNOW!” And then I added
something that was completely relevant to the discussion.
I was met by incredulous
stares and stunned silence. It almost seemed as if I had learned to understand snippets of Mandarin, here
and there. But it wasn’t true comprehension, because honestly, I know NO other
Mandarin except for those four things stated above. So it was more like somehow
– possibly via osmosis - catching the basic gist of what they were talking about.
Of course, they were far more sceptical about my continual denials that no, I
REALLY could not understand Mandarin.
And sadly, I don’t think I would
ever be able to.
I’m not done romancing
French though. I desperately want to wrap my brain and tongue around that language and read
and even possibly, one day, write in it.
For now, though, I have to focus on whipping L'Anglais into proper submission.
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