Last night was the final class in my latest cycle of French classes. Yes, I have finished French Level 2… again. For the record, this is the third time I’ve taken Level 2. I first took Level 2 two years ago, then took Level 3, then after a discombobulating break, I returned last fall to a Level 1 and 2 intensive class. I then tried Level 3 once again but found myself lost in the first class, so I descended back to Level 2.
“It’s not that I’m stupid, it’s just that I don’t try hard enough,” I explain to Mr. P, who like ma professeur is distressed by my inability to advance. I then try to blame Mr. P for not adhering to a strict French-only speaking policy within our home. Of course, that would be a marital disaster.
The thing is, I love the English language. I love reading it. I love writing it. I love learning new words. I love finding out about its history, its evolution, the ways it can be used, and the ways it has been misused. I am and always have been a total English geek.
Intellectually, I know that learning French would not detract from my English, and may even enhance my all-around phraseology. But when I sit down to study my French vocabulary, I’m looking at boring, everyday communication: We live in an apartment. (Nous habitons dans un appartement.) That belt is inexpensive. (Cette ceinture est bon marche.) Who likes to do yoga? (Qui aime faire du yoga?) It’s such linguistic regression.
Every French class, it’s the same. 14 people sign up, all enthusiastic to learn French. Most commonly, they took French in high school or college, and they want to travel in France and not sound like an ignorant American tourist. But by the last class, it’s me and maybe 4 or 5 other die-hards, and we’re proudly conversing in stilted French like children. Oh well. There’s always next semester.
