I had the privilege of interviewing French immersion students the other day, all of whom took part in the Concours d’art oratoire.
The French public speaking competition is open to students across Canada and in Vernon, students from Beairsto, Harwood and Seaton took part.
I’m in awe of these kids who are learning a second language or, in some cases, third and fourth language, and the ease with which they converse in French.
At one point, I figured I’d take to bilingualism with ease. I studied French from Grade 8 to 12, and into first-year university. Mind you, in Grade 12 my French teacher wrote, “I doubt if Katherine will ever learn to speak French,” which may have had more to do with my penchant for chatting with my friends — in English — and less than a lack of ability in the language.
I somehow managed, while travelling through France as a young adult, to get by. I was able to get what I needed in shops and restaurants, whether in small villages or big cities. Of course, there was the time I was accused of pretending I didn’t understand when the usher at the Paris Opera seated us. I had no idea I was supposed to tip her, and she did not take kindly to my ignorance. Let’s just say that my enjoyment of Swan Lake was somewhat marred by the usher’s rudeness.
Before travelling to China, I listened endlessly to a Mandarin language CD in the car and by the time we arrived, I could manage a few phrases of this very difficult language: hello, how are you, thank you, good-bye, and the all important, “I don’t speak Mandarin.” Of course, usually when I said that, people assumed that I did indeed speak Mandarin and would proceed to converse with me.
I found the people in China absolutely delighted with my pathetic efforts to speak their language, although I was mocked slightly by the barista at Starbucks in the Beijing airport for my pronunciation of goodbye, zài jiàn. (For the record, I did not touch western food while in China, but still had to have my coffee.)
When we were kids, we travelled on sabbatical through Europe. While in a restaurant in Orléans, France, my dad was sick of his kids whining about what they did and didn’t like — I was 12, my sister 10 and my brother 17 and with slightly more sophisticated tastes — that he decided he would do the ordering for all of us.
His French was not spectacular, but he tried. He pointed to a few things on the menu and declared, “We’ll have five of these.” “These,” unfortunately turned out to be cervelles. In French, that sounds lovely and romantic. In English, it’s calf’s brains. And while I will eat virtually anything now, as a pre-teen there’s no way I was going to touch brains, which looked exactly like brains on the plate.
Needless to say, my dad was not impressed. But connoisseur of offal that he has always been, he tucked in with gusto. My sister and I enjoyed a meal of pommes frites. Yes, French fries. Mind you, there is nothing like potatoes that have been twice-fried in duck fat.
Now, with my daughter in French immersion, I’m dredging up my very rusty French. As she’s only in Grade 2, my language skills are such that I’m able to help with her reading and can usually understand what the teacher is saying to the kids in class, although actually speaking French is another story. But it won’t be long before she will have surpassed me, and I look forward to her teaching me what she knows.
Plus if we ever get the chance to return to France, there’s no danger she will order some kind of mystery meat.
– lifestyles@vernonmorningstar.com
