I have been stressing out about French. Have you noticed? Likely not, because you think I’m still obsessing about the Royal Wedding. Forget that. I’m over it.
No, French is my ongoing obsession, more than ever now, as the stakes creep higher in equal proportion to my rising self-doubt.
What if I can’t do it? What if, no matter how much I study and how long I persist, I never pass beyond the blundering idiot phase of language learning? Oh, sure, I’m less of a blundering idiot than I was three years ago, when I couldn’t say, “I want to walk up the hill.” But the subjunctive has its own mode of blunder induction (did you catch that, French-speakers? Its own mode?). The more I learn, the more I blunder.
Now, these rising stakes of which I speak so melodramatically. What are they? Well, you know. Employment. That about sums it up. You see, I miss Canada.
Did I just say that? Well, yes. It’s not that shocking, is it? It is to me. Here I’ve been adventuring around the world with my new selfie-stick, appearing borderline invincible, but the truth is, I’m growing weary.
Not of the around-the-world bit. That still gives me thrills. But the in-between bits. The missing my family. The hassle hassle hassle of everyday life. Does it take two hours to go to the bank and the pharmacy in Canada? No, it does not. I miss Canada. I miss home.
“What could possibly go wrong?”
But you see, I’ve placed a rather large wedge in between myself and my homeland. I’ve quit my Canadian job. And now that the doddering Ford is poised to shipwreck the entire Ontario education system, the wedge has grown. French is my only hope.
No, wait. Things have turned the wrong way. French is not my “only hope.” It is not my only path home. It is not my only path anywhere. Sheesh, do you know how over-qualified I am to do pretty much anything? Well, okay, that’s a little vain, and likely untrue, but allow me a little hyperbole. I need it these days.
I must reframe my thinking. I must come up with a motto.
I’ve got it:
“French is Fun!”
It started out that way. It was a stimulating intellectual pursuit. The kind that staves off Alzheimer’s. Like crossword puzzles. Tricky, but fun. Invigorating. Life-giving.
When did I start letting it demoralize and demote me in my own esteem? When did it become a burden instead of a joy?
We put such pressure on ourselves, don’t we? To be like those around us who seem to master things effortlessly. To become the future selves that we envision, at the expense of our present selves. To attain, attain, attain. What if it’s all just an illusion that interferes with the living of our real, attainable lives?
So. I am doing away with The Book that instigated this particular diatribe:
I have this book of practice exams. I just wrote on the inside cover, in large, turquoise letters, “I HATE THIS BOOK.” It was written to torment me. The questions are stupid. The answers are stupid. The premise is stupid. Even a French-speaker could not succeed at the stupid exams in this stupid book. Whoever wrote it obviously got up every morning, rubbed his or her hands together in delight, and cackled, “Now, what new torment should we inflict today on our autodidacts? Shall we offer a CD with no track numbers? Mix up the multiple choice corrigées in the back of the book? Provide writing samples that are double the required word count? Demand knowledge of business practices and specialized terminology that are obscure in any language? Oh, I know: let’s require that they record themselves answering stupid questions, and then force them to listen to their stupid responses! Oui, ma chérie, that’s it. And then, in the end, we’ll tell them that even if they pass the test, they’re still a bunch of imbiciles.” Cackle, cackle.
“Préparation à l’examen du DELF B1.” Preparation, my tush. Preparation for what? Death by self-degradation, page after page after page.
No. I won’t do it any more.
I will embrace, shamelessly, books like this:
True story. I read it cover-to-cover last yesterday. It was fun. I learned how to say “flat” and “sharp.” These might be useful words in my future. Unlike “Préparation, My Tush,” which requires me to know words like “treasurer” and “bodycurl.” For Pete’s sake. Bodycurl?!
No. I will leave the DELF preparation process for the experts in France, who will spend the month of August teaching to the test. I will leave the verbal blunders for the other experts in France, who will spend the month of July loosening my tongue in various creative ways. And in the meantime, I will play language games and read storybooks and breathe, breathe, breathe.
And what about those high stakes that prod and poke and goad me all day long?
Forget them, for now.
For now.
This is now. Later will come, and then we will see what later brings.
In the words of my wise friend, “Look around yourself at endless possibilities or, if you can’t see them yet, believe your life is teeming with them. It is. Try not to focus so single-mindedly on one perspective, on one scenario. Life offers many. Keep your eyes open for them.”
My goodness, I’m thankful for friends like that. Friends I can call upon in my hour of linguistic despair, to remind me that my life (every life, in fact) is teeming with possibilities. Maybe I will move to France! Maybe I will become a travel writer. Maybe I will take up paragliding. Maybe I will move to Winnipeg. Maybe I will stay right here. Maybe I will buy some make-up. Maybe I will be a trollop. Maybe I will be a nun. Maybe I will get a secure, full-time, pension-laden teaching position in the province of Ontario. Maybe I will get my doctorate. Maybe I will explore Tahiti. Or Toronto. Or both. Maybe I will master the subjunctive. Maybe I will fall in love. Maybe! All of these things are real, within-reach possibilities. None is impossible. None is inevitable. And none is beyond my capabilities, should I so desire. The path may not be made-to-order, but that doesn’t mean it’s a dead end. Maybe I’ll take a road trip through the Alps!
Maybe, maybe, maybe. Open yourself up to the maybes, Natasha. And in the meantime, live your present life, and paste your new motto on your forehead:
“French is fun!”
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