“We can stand here like the French, or we can do something about it.” – Marge Simpson
After a year-long hiatus from French language classes, my body of French knowledge deteriorated down to various ways to politely demand cheese and wine. So, this fall I decided to take an intensive, twice-a-week French class for total beginners.
Re-learning basic French does feel futile. But French is not like arithmetic, where the knowledge that 2+2=4 doesn’t need to be continuously renewed. This is French, where “Comment tu t’appelles?” could be “Comen to tapple” or “Como tu tappel” or “Come to tapels,” depending on how well I’m guessing.
My pronunication is steadily improving, to the point where I can hear how viciously the French language is being murdered by my fellow students, 3 out of 5 of whom are native Spanish speakers. French is a challenge to anyone who speaks Spanish, because many of the articles deceptively look the same. A native Spanish speaker in my class giggles every time he says “elle” in reference to a female, because “el” in Spanish is a man.
Since all the other students are French-speaking novices, I’m totally the smartest person in the class. Plus, all the homework in my workbook is already completed. It’s like I flunked a grade in school. I’m cruising.
