My French is very good. And it should be: I started studying French in high school; I majored in French in college; I have a master's degree in French Studies; and I have lived and studied and worked in France on four separate occasions for a total of about eight years, or one-fifth of my life. My French is not perfect--I have an accent, and I make grammatical mistakes, and there are words I don't know--but it is very good, and there are basically no life situations or conversations or reading material that I don't think I could handle just fine in French.
But I still often feel like I only understand a fraction of what's going on around me while I'm in France. Why? Because even after all my studies and all my time there, I still lack huge portions of French cultural context. Most of the background, the subtext, the soundtrack, the footnotes of conversation and posters and the daily noise that make up our interactions with the world around us get filtered out by my brain when I'm in France because they seem to be just noise, with no meaning or importance. I can't even tell you how much I miss, because there's absolutely no way for me to judge how much cultural information is around me that I'm simply unaware of. All I can say is that there are a lot of inside jokes that go right over my head.
When I first moved to France in 2002, I was over at some friends' one night while they were watching Qui veut gagner des millions ? (the French knock-off of Who Wants to Be a Millionaire?). There was a new contestant who was at the easiest level, and my friends were outraged at how easy the questions were: "Everyone knows that!" "Our five year-old could answer that one!" and so on. I finally told them, very quietly, that I had absolutely no idea what the answers were to any of the questions--that I'd never even heard of the topics. My friends stared at me like I was brain-damaged. They didn't realize how culturally specific the questions were, and how rooted in French history and pop culture. The challenge of living in a foreign country is how very often you feel stupid, just because you don't have the same knowledge, the same cultural context, as most people around you.
There are some examples of insider details that I did understand, but they're few and far between, and I'm inordinately proud of them. A couple that come to mind:
1) The chain of movie theaters that I went to regularly, UGC, had an ad that it ran before most movies. The screen showed a dark blue background, with bubbles floating up, as if it were filmed underwater. Words flashed rapidly across the screen (in French): "Anguish," "Stress," "Anger," "Rushed," "Long Lines," "Movie Sold Out." Then the words "UGC Prompto: The Anti-Stress of Cinema [phone number]" would come up, advertising the way to reserve your movie tickets ahead of time. Okay, fine. I'm guessing that most good French students would be able to understand all the text in the ad with no problem and would probably assume that the underwater bubbles were just some random background graphic chosen for no particular reason. But any native speaker would look at those bubbles and mentally identify them with the French word "bulles," bringing to mind the French expression "avoir les bulles," which literally means "to have bubbles" and figuratively means to be upset or angry about something. The bubble graphic was (subliminally?) underlining the angry, upset words flashing across the screen, and I was always very pleased to "get" that one.
2) One of my co-workers at the office was very plugged in to the French political scene because his mother was mayor of a small town in the South. One day last summer, he was telling me about the rumor that President Nicolas Sarkozy was actually separated from his wife Célia; that she was being paid some specific amount for each public appearance that she made with him; that their divorce would be announced in the coming year, once his presidency was more established; and that Célia was already in a relationship with a man named Marc Lévy. I responded, "Et si c'était vrai !" ("And if it were true!"), which made us both laugh. What was so funny about my seemingly banal expression of surprise/disbelief to all these stories? Well, Marc Lévy is a contemporary French author, and Et si c'était vrai is the title of one his most popular novels (made into the movie Just Like Heaven, starring Reese Witherspoon and Mark Ruffalo, in the U.S.), so my response was actually a mild little pun. I love verbal banter, but the opportunities for me to make even this kind of very weak pun were very, very rare in France, just because it was unusual for me to have the context, to recognize the names of all the people involved and rapidly be able to pull in a relevant comment about one of them.
So, after six years of feeling like I'm missing out on a lot of what's going on around me, what is it like for me to be re-immersed in my native context? Stay tuned for Part 3 . . .
Thursday, July 17, 2008
Tuesday, July 15, 2008
Context, Part 1
A couple of years ago, I attended my high school class reunion. I had a great time, but it was a very strange experience for me. Why? Well, part of it was the normal class reunion experience of seeing people with whom you have a shared history, some of whom you haven't necessarily seen in many years. But for me, this was amplified by the unusual sensation of being surrounded by a group of people with whom I had not only a shared culture but also a personal history.
Three or four of my closest high school friends--people I still see once or twice a year--were there, but there was also the girl who was my reading partner, starting in first grade and all through elementary school. Another girl whose grandparents lived three doors down from me, with whom I spent many, many wonderful summer days playing with hula hoops and eating Pringles in her grandparents' RV parked in the back yard. Classmates who told me that they see my dad in Wal-Mart every week and remember that my ex-brother-in-law was in the Navy and know his brothers and sisters. Since he and my sister got divorced in 1986, most of my closest friends today don't even know my ex-brother-in-law's name, much less what he did for a living or anything about his family. But there I was, surrounded by people whom I hadn't seen for 10 years or more, who knew so much about my life's history. They knew my historical context.
This felt like a very strange juxtaposition to my daily life in Paris, where most of my friends knew very little about my life history. Oh, everyone knew that I was American, but their ideas of what that meant, of what my childhood and life might have been like, were based on what they'd seen on TV and in movies. Most of them would politely ask where I was from, and knowing that there was little chance that they would have heard of it, I had my stock reply of, "Minnesota, it's-in-the-center-of-the-country-on-the-border-of-Canada, where-the-Mississippi-River-starts" (sadly, that gave them a much clearer idea than it would to most Americans). Occasionally, I would be pressed for the name of my hometown, and it was always funny to see how many French people actually recognized the name "Mankato" from their years of watching La Petite maison sur la prairie as children. But there was no easy way for me to adjust their mental image of my history from that of the Ingalls family to my truth of a childhood of riding my bike to the swimming pool and eating Pringles in my friend's grandparents' RV in the backyard. Context is hard to communicate.
I think that's partly why immigrants tend to group together in a foreign country: shared cultural context is a powerful bond. It was comforting to hang out with other Americans who missed peanut butter and knew the same TV-comedy punch lines as I did. But even though we shared the same culture, a big chunk of personal history was always missing, because family and past friends were far away and rarely seen in person. And even though the other Americans probably understood about riding bike to the swimming pool in the summer, many of them seemed surprised to learn that it gets warm enough to swim in Minnesota (I couldn't believe how many of my American friends asked if I really needed to get an air conditioner for my apartment here in July)!
But even though a part of my historical context was always missing for everyone I knew in Paris, those were the people with whom I shared my day to day experiences: metro rides and strikes, office tasks and tales, dinners and movies and parties and fights and laughter and worries about loved ones thousands of miles away. They knew the name of my boss and what project I was working on that day, and when I was stressed out or happy and why. They shared my life, my present context.
Skip back to my class reunion, where I was surrounded by people who knew my history and couldn't begin to imagine my present-day life. When classmates asked where I was living, and I said, "Paris," the most frequent response was, "Wow . . . what's that like?" And I would just shrug and say, "Oh, it's really pretty normal. I mostly just go to work and plop down in front of the TV to eat my dinner at the end of the day." Which was true, except that I did it all in a context where I could buy fresh baguette and croissants and amazing cheese whenever I wanted, and see the Eiffel Tower on my way to church on Sunday morning, and wander through the courtyard of the Louvre on the way to meet a friend for a drink. A very normal daily life, in a very special context, which I somehow didn't think I'd be able to explain to my Pringles-eating playmate.
On either side of the ocean, it often feels like half of my context is missing.
Three or four of my closest high school friends--people I still see once or twice a year--were there, but there was also the girl who was my reading partner, starting in first grade and all through elementary school. Another girl whose grandparents lived three doors down from me, with whom I spent many, many wonderful summer days playing with hula hoops and eating Pringles in her grandparents' RV parked in the back yard. Classmates who told me that they see my dad in Wal-Mart every week and remember that my ex-brother-in-law was in the Navy and know his brothers and sisters. Since he and my sister got divorced in 1986, most of my closest friends today don't even know my ex-brother-in-law's name, much less what he did for a living or anything about his family. But there I was, surrounded by people whom I hadn't seen for 10 years or more, who knew so much about my life's history. They knew my historical context.
This felt like a very strange juxtaposition to my daily life in Paris, where most of my friends knew very little about my life history. Oh, everyone knew that I was American, but their ideas of what that meant, of what my childhood and life might have been like, were based on what they'd seen on TV and in movies. Most of them would politely ask where I was from, and knowing that there was little chance that they would have heard of it, I had my stock reply of, "Minnesota, it's-in-the-center-of-the-country-on-the-border-of-Canada, where-the-Mississippi-River-starts" (sadly, that gave them a much clearer idea than it would to most Americans). Occasionally, I would be pressed for the name of my hometown, and it was always funny to see how many French people actually recognized the name "Mankato" from their years of watching La Petite maison sur la prairie as children. But there was no easy way for me to adjust their mental image of my history from that of the Ingalls family to my truth of a childhood of riding my bike to the swimming pool and eating Pringles in my friend's grandparents' RV in the backyard. Context is hard to communicate.
I think that's partly why immigrants tend to group together in a foreign country: shared cultural context is a powerful bond. It was comforting to hang out with other Americans who missed peanut butter and knew the same TV-comedy punch lines as I did. But even though we shared the same culture, a big chunk of personal history was always missing, because family and past friends were far away and rarely seen in person. And even though the other Americans probably understood about riding bike to the swimming pool in the summer, many of them seemed surprised to learn that it gets warm enough to swim in Minnesota (I couldn't believe how many of my American friends asked if I really needed to get an air conditioner for my apartment here in July)!
But even though a part of my historical context was always missing for everyone I knew in Paris, those were the people with whom I shared my day to day experiences: metro rides and strikes, office tasks and tales, dinners and movies and parties and fights and laughter and worries about loved ones thousands of miles away. They knew the name of my boss and what project I was working on that day, and when I was stressed out or happy and why. They shared my life, my present context.
Skip back to my class reunion, where I was surrounded by people who knew my history and couldn't begin to imagine my present-day life. When classmates asked where I was living, and I said, "Paris," the most frequent response was, "Wow . . . what's that like?" And I would just shrug and say, "Oh, it's really pretty normal. I mostly just go to work and plop down in front of the TV to eat my dinner at the end of the day." Which was true, except that I did it all in a context where I could buy fresh baguette and croissants and amazing cheese whenever I wanted, and see the Eiffel Tower on my way to church on Sunday morning, and wander through the courtyard of the Louvre on the way to meet a friend for a drink. A very normal daily life, in a very special context, which I somehow didn't think I'd be able to explain to my Pringles-eating playmate.
On either side of the ocean, it often feels like half of my context is missing.
Monday, July 14, 2008
First Incident of Being Seriously Annoyed by a Stupid American
Huge shock: it happened at the Post Office. I went in to buy stamps and mail a couple of letters. I asked for a roll of stamps and 20 international stamps and immediately peeled off one of each to put on my letters. When I removed the domestic stamp, I noticed that it was marked "42 cents", which means that it will no longer be sufficient the next time postage rates increase, so I asked, "Oh, the rolls aren't permanent validity stamps?" The postal worker burst out laughing and said, "Well, that's a new term!" I guess I looked confused, because she finally added, "No, they're not Forever Stamps." Yeah, "permanent validity stamp" is laughable, but "Forever Stamp" is a name we can all take seriously.
The postal worker continued to chuckle and asked what I had called them again (evidently so she could repeat the funny joke to all her vocabulary-impaired colleagues). I refrained from asking if the Forever Stamps come with a promise ring, and instead just said, "'Permanent validity Stamps," adding in an appropriately sneering tone, "I just moved here from France, and that's what they're called there." And where they've had them for years, and where you'd be hard-put to buy a domestic-postage stamp that isn't permanent validity, unlike the price-labelled domestic stamps still sold by the stupid U.S. Post Office, I thought to myself but did not say out loud.
I am a paragon of self-restraint.
When I got back to my apartment, my one piece of mail today was my "A Paris" magazine, the quarterly publication of the City of Paris, letting all us Parisians know what's going on in our hometown, promptly forwarded to me by the lovely Poste française. Very appropriate for Bastille Day. Take that! you stupid American postal worker woman.
Also, today I was shown an apartment by a real estate agent who was carrying a binder labelled "Inportant [something]" The label was printed, not hand-written, so someone had to look at it at least twice: once while typing and once while sticking it on the binder. Had I been able to see the rest of the label, there is no doubt in my mind that I would have seen at least one inappropriate apostrophe as well.
If someone doesn't take me out for ice cream soon, I'm moving back to Paris.
The postal worker continued to chuckle and asked what I had called them again (evidently so she could repeat the funny joke to all her vocabulary-impaired colleagues). I refrained from asking if the Forever Stamps come with a promise ring, and instead just said, "'Permanent validity Stamps," adding in an appropriately sneering tone, "I just moved here from France, and that's what they're called there." And where they've had them for years, and where you'd be hard-put to buy a domestic-postage stamp that isn't permanent validity, unlike the price-labelled domestic stamps still sold by the stupid U.S. Post Office, I thought to myself but did not say out loud.
I am a paragon of self-restraint.
When I got back to my apartment, my one piece of mail today was my "A Paris" magazine, the quarterly publication of the City of Paris, letting all us Parisians know what's going on in our hometown, promptly forwarded to me by the lovely Poste française. Very appropriate for Bastille Day. Take that! you stupid American postal worker woman.
Also, today I was shown an apartment by a real estate agent who was carrying a binder labelled "Inportant [something]" The label was printed, not hand-written, so someone had to look at it at least twice: once while typing and once while sticking it on the binder. Had I been able to see the rest of the label, there is no doubt in my mind that I would have seen at least one inappropriate apostrophe as well.
If someone doesn't take me out for ice cream soon, I'm moving back to Paris.
Thursday, July 10, 2008
French Resolutions
If you've read the comments on my last post, you know that all 2.5 of my regular readers have been insistently demanding that I start blogging again, here in America. Well, actually, there were just a few half-hearted inquiries as to why I had stopped writing, and now my former readers seem more excited about Ann blogging about the porn she's writing in Iowa, or something like that. Also, one reader compared my writing to compost.
It's so nice to feel loved.
Anyway, wanted or not, I do eventually plan to write about what it's like to be back in the U.S.A., but like some blind and soft-fleshed little creature crawling out from its protective shell for the first time, I'm not feeling quite ready to tell you my impressions of this strange and frightening new world just yet. So for now, I'll just share a few of the resolutions I've made to maintain my own personal integrity, as well as that of my adopted other-homeland.
THINGS I WILL NOT DO, NOW THAT I AM BACK IN AMERICA:
1) Use the word "entrée" to refer to the main dish of a meal. Has anyone in America ever noticed the striking similarity between "entrée" and "entry"? As in "beginning", or "starter", or "appetizer"?! That's right, folks, "entrée" means "appetizer", and I can't even stand to think about the idiot who got the entrée=main dish mistranslation started and managed to spread it nationwide! Every time I open a menu here, I spend several moments trying to figure out why the restaurant doesn't have any main dishes, but two separate categories of appetizers. So while speaking English in restaurants here, I will do my best to protect la belle langue française and never let the word entrée cross my lips.
2) Say "I'm good," when I mean "No, thank you." (For P & A)
3) Pronounce words in English as if they were French (sorry, Ann). I don't care how many cool kids whom I've never heard of (Stacy and Clinton, Ina? Seriously, I have no clue.) are doing it; it's just pretentious. I don't want everyone around me to think that I'm trying to be better than them just because I've lived in France and can pronounce French words correctly. I much prefer to live in the silent certainty that I don't need to pronounce French words correctly in English, because I've lived in France and am therefore obviously superior to everyone else.
4) Say "ATM machine" and "PIN number." (Actually, these are long-standing resolutions of mine which have nothing to do with loyalty to France, but they're important enough to merit mention here.) If you don't know why it's evil to say these things, please take a moment to consider what the final letter in each abbreviation stands, and then leave my blog and never come back.
5) Anything else that comes to mind.
P.S. Thanks to Ann for the lovely, if unsolicited, guest blogging. Feel free to continue whenever you want.
It's so nice to feel loved.
Anyway, wanted or not, I do eventually plan to write about what it's like to be back in the U.S.A., but like some blind and soft-fleshed little creature crawling out from its protective shell for the first time, I'm not feeling quite ready to tell you my impressions of this strange and frightening new world just yet. So for now, I'll just share a few of the resolutions I've made to maintain my own personal integrity, as well as that of my adopted other-homeland.
THINGS I WILL NOT DO, NOW THAT I AM BACK IN AMERICA:
1) Use the word "entrée" to refer to the main dish of a meal. Has anyone in America ever noticed the striking similarity between "entrée" and "entry"? As in "beginning", or "starter", or "appetizer"?! That's right, folks, "entrée" means "appetizer", and I can't even stand to think about the idiot who got the entrée=main dish mistranslation started and managed to spread it nationwide! Every time I open a menu here, I spend several moments trying to figure out why the restaurant doesn't have any main dishes, but two separate categories of appetizers. So while speaking English in restaurants here, I will do my best to protect la belle langue française and never let the word entrée cross my lips.
2) Say "I'm good," when I mean "No, thank you." (For P & A)
3) Pronounce words in English as if they were French (sorry, Ann). I don't care how many cool kids whom I've never heard of (Stacy and Clinton, Ina? Seriously, I have no clue.) are doing it; it's just pretentious. I don't want everyone around me to think that I'm trying to be better than them just because I've lived in France and can pronounce French words correctly. I much prefer to live in the silent certainty that I don't need to pronounce French words correctly in English, because I've lived in France and am therefore obviously superior to everyone else.
4) Say "ATM machine" and "PIN number." (Actually, these are long-standing resolutions of mine which have nothing to do with loyalty to France, but they're important enough to merit mention here.) If you don't know why it's evil to say these things, please take a moment to consider what the final letter in each abbreviation stands, and then leave my blog and never come back.
5) Anything else that comes to mind.
P.S. Thanks to Ann for the lovely, if unsolicited, guest blogging. Feel free to continue whenever you want.
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