Language gains . . . and losses

We are two weeks into our language classes. We got in, last minute, with the help of a friend from church who had enrolled in a class at the University. The placement exams had already been administered, but because we wanted to join, we were allowed to get in without placement, choosing our own levels. Matt decided to start from the first level and brush up his high school French, while the secretary recommended that I try Level 4--their highest--to see if it would work for me.

As it turns out, the first level is not basic at all, as participants had to introduce themselves in French, are doing listening comprehension exercises and learn the descriptive pronouns. Far from your basic "Je m'appele..." In turn, my class is basically a current events-French history-cultural overview class in French. Our professor is an amusing walking encyclopedia. He can talk about European Union integration, French language history, the role of women in the justice system in no order, and yet finding an order. Of course, when he does explain the different types of the "sujonctif" I know I will have a low grade in the final exam--but, hey, I am way beyond grades now. I do want to improve my French, and if I can hear all sorts of French culture issues in the meantime, so much the better.

And "improving" French is the issue here. As as sociologist and educator I read and heard my share of bilingual issues...does it help the child learn better or does it hinder his or her educational progress? How does it affect identity? How does it affect the relationship with the family members? Of course, all this is embedded in the problem of migration where we often encounter the problem of language. At the same time, while I make no claims that my French is nearly as good as my English, I am having my own share of "major questions" as I am trying to make my French better: am I ever going to be good at _one_ of these langauges, or am I losing my mastery of all, while trying to learn a bit of each?

Over the Christmas break, a family friend casually mentioned over cookies and coffee, that he could hear a change in my Romanian pronunciation. Nothing new, since I have heard this already, years ago, after spending some time away from the country and speaking English almost always with my University friends. Then, in telling a story he checked to see if I "still" knew what empathy was, since I had lived abroad for so long. Ironically, I know what it means precisely because I learned the word in English first, since my high school senior education did not really require that I know "empathy" prior to beginning my University studies abroad.

The cookies-and-coffee linguistic encounter left me with some questions about my lanaguage development, especially since I could clearly recall the derision encountered by Romanian emmigrants who would return, during my childhood, and would say, with their "American" accents "Um..what's that word....?" I know I would not become that. And yet, there I was, with "something in my vowels" and with my "empathy" questioned.

Fastforward to French class--I am sitting next to this nicely talkative Jordanian young woman who is doing her last stages of French Traslation MA in France. She sounds French to me, and the more I hear my colleagues speak, the more I wonder if I belong in this "highest level." When I speak, it feels as thugh my tongue is tied and my heart races when I need to read alound my xeroxed one paragraph from "Le Monde" or "Le Figaro." Still, I tell myself it does not matter--at least I understand almost everything the professor talks about. So, my new Joradanian friend casually mentions that I have an American accent!

It then hits me: in the U.S., when I go to the bank, the clerk would sometimes speak to me in Spanish, or other times would ask where I was from to make conversation. I am clearly from "elsewhere" so I cannot possibly have an American accent. But I have it in French! And in Romanian!

Then, just today, I pick up the phone to hear my uncle from Spain finally being able to get through after our failed attempts to connect. We make small introductory remarks about our move to France, and then, all of a sudden, he says it: "Oh, you really speak badly. . . You should probably get a cat or something and speak in Romanian to practice." I laughed, he laughed, and no one was offended. It was all in good faith and in good humour. And yet, there it was again: my failed languges coming across all over again. Sure, it's no reason for an identity crisis: I can just tell myself I am cosmopolitan, a woman displaying the current trends of transnationalism of our age. And yet at some point one has to face the reality of how easy it is to not belong. All it takes is a slightly mispronounced sentence.