Dreaming in Another Mother Tongue
First time, English. Next Time, J’sais pas.
I dreamt in French last night. It was tough-going. I had something important to say, but I kept butchering the words. My family stood in a circle around me, doubtful I’d ever get my message out.
I woke up in sheer frustration, like an interrupted wet dream. Quelle bordel!
“This is a good sign, this dreaming,” my language teacher Violette will say. “Your alternate language brain is kicking in.”
And she’s right. I have been studying with her since the new year.
The black and white film stills illustrating my story today are from Je Tu Il Elle, the revolutionary 1975 film by Belgian filmmaker Chantal Ackerman.
My father was a linguist who loved to learn a new language. —Dozens of them. When he got affected by a brain tumor at age 78, he’d get frustrated when his English vocabulary escaped him. But we’d have a good laugh because instead of pointing at the “Table,” he could say मेज़ in Hindi, or amkir in Karuk, or la mesa, in Spanish.
It turns out your brain has alternate “rooms” for other languages. We have capacities!
Though I studied French in Canadian public schools at 14 and later, worked briefly in France and Québec — my lessons still bump around in my head. It is a little miracle when the old vocabulary starts coming back, even though it’s been years since I practiced. I don’t start from scratch anymore. You never do.
My facility with French goes straight into la poubelle every time I try to master the common forms of past-tense and future conjugation. The most common verbs, to be, to have, to go — they’re irregular and there’s no way to learn except relentless repetition.
My teacher suggested I get a copy of a book called The Complete Guide to Conjugating 12,000 French Verbs, and I told her the alternate title is “Kill Me Now.” Tue-moi, maintenant!
What I love about studying with Violette, what makes repetition easier, is that we talk about things I want to talk about, from politics to my love life.
Each week I write a short essay. Week 1, we discussed the death of Jean-Marie Le Pen. I, the clueless American, did not know he was a devout active admirer of the Vichy government in its heyday, that he was devastated by Hitler’s loss, and considered his whole life to be a wretched struggle against De Gaulle.
Week 2, I described my first kiss.
Week 3, I told the story about the time someone got so drunk at my Christmas party they had to be carried out to the car. “Mon amie était tellement saoule vers la fin, qu'elle a dû être portée jusqu'à la truck.”
This will come in handy again, I’m sure.
My teacher’s gift is her patience to help me reach deeper than I think I can go. I explained to her, in French, that when I type personal stories from my life in translation, I experience them as a raw observer, with pathos I’ve not felt before. I realize things about my family, my culture, about how I’ve grown, that I’ve never contemplated in English.
If that sounds mind-blowing, I agree. Let me explain: