Immersion
I could not speak French. In spite of years taking French throughout grade school and high school, any sense of fluency eluded me. Saint Louis, being a French city on the Mississippi, featured the Sisters of the Sacred Heart, who arrived in St. Louis during the late 18th century as refugees from the French revolution. The nuns founded schools which featured daily goute and periodic primes, while trying mightily to impose a bit of finesse on young boys and girls in St. Louis. The founder, Mother Duchesne, was canonized by Pope John Paul II; however, the Pope made no mention of French fluency miracles at Barat Hall in St. Louis.
Shortly after arriving at college in Philadelphia, I hatched a plan. I would concentrate early on core curriculum courses such as English, History, Economics and Science, thus preparing the way to spend my Junior Year in France. I had already chosen the University d’Aix -en-Provence, not far from the Mediterranean and Cote d’Azur.
All this planning may have sounded good, but a nagging question remained: how do I dare enroll at the Universite d’Aix when I could not speak French? I could read it. i could write it. But when I tried to understand a French woman speaking, comprehension was hopeless.
Ultimately, I elected to cast away caution and adopt an age old human strategy: immersion. Before I knew it, I found myself on a flight to Marseilles at the beginning of my junior year. My French family, les Bernadous, picked me up at the Marseilles airport and we drove north to Aix and to their home on the outskirts of the City in the shadow of Mont Sainte-Victoire and Paul Cezanne.
Upon arriving chez Bernadou, I immediately recognized one of the great traditions of French culture, which is to include multiple generations in one family living environment while refusing to farm out the older generations to segregated facilities. Grandparents, parents and children all greeted me as the curious new American.
Barely had I finished unpacking in my room, when Madame Bernadou arrived at my door to lead me into the dining room where she placed me at the head of a long table filled with Bernadous, all of whom were looking intently at the new house guest. Soon after the meal started, my face began to ache as I had been smiling for too long and too widely as a substitute for being unable to comprehend or speak the language.
Panic is a strong word and attaque de panique is even stronger, but it is fair to say that my grand experiment with immersion had reached a point of no return. Just then, Mme Bernadou offered me another helping of haricots verts. Thinking quickly, I replied, “non, Madame, je suis plein”.
The children at the table began snickering and looking at each other but the moment passed.
Minutes later, here came an offer of puree pommes de terre from the smiling Mme Bernadou. Once again, I demurred by saying: “Non, merci, je suis plein”. At this, the dam broke and the entire table broke into uproarious laughter. Any thought by my French hosts to take it easy on their American guest vanished. Monsieur Bernadou whispered to me in broken English that when I was asked if I wished to have a second helping of green beans or mashed potatoes, I had responded that “ No, thank you, I am pregnant”!
My face no longer ached because it was burning red! My embarrassment was total but I never forgot that in French, to say you are full, as we mean it in English, the phrase is Non, merci; je n’ai plus faim. As for the immersion strategy, I can report that it works, as one never
forgets, but thick skin is an absolute prerequisite.