Except there is one huge caveat: I speak very little French, barely enough to not sound as if I’m overtly drunk, but maybe giving the suspicion that I might be “on something.” How was I going to communicate important things to Juneyd? Before I let the panic rise a little, I reminded myself that I am a grown-ass lady and can easily handle two young boys at a museum. No big deal. You got this, I told myself.
So, I pick him up and and we’re here, standing in line waiting to buy tickets. He and Des aren’t really talking to each other. I hope it’s just a little phase where they have to warm up to each other, but the silence is uncomfortable to me. So, I surreptitiously take out my phone and type out, “What did you do during the vacation?” to my Google translator. I read it quickly, then turn it off and put the phone away. I practice the phrase once in my head. Then again. I turn to Juneyd:
“Qu’as-tu fait pendant les vacances?”
Shit! I think I mispronounced the e in “pendant.” He looks at me quizzically.
“Quoi?”
“Ummm…”
And I repeat it slowly.
After my third attempt, Desmond steps in and says it or something similar to it and Juneyd answers me in a rapid succession of beautiful French syllables. I immediately feel relief and gratitude for Desmond, and then a shallow shame.
You see, Desmond is 6 years old. Since we came to France 4 months ago, he has seemingly effortlessly picked up the language while I have struggled to learn new words and improve my Spanish-accented pronunciation. Yes, I’m going to say it. At that very moment, I felt jealous of my 6-year-old son. I, the grown-ass woman with a master’s degree, felt jealous of the linguistic abilities of my kid.
I try to shake it off. No big deal. This is awesome, right? My son can speak and understand French! That’s great! But I still couldn’t shake the shame off of me.
Before I know it, we’re next in line for tickets. The cashier calls us forward and I walk towards him. I already rehearsed what I was going to say: One adult and two children, please. I even anticipate the next question: How old are the children? And I answer flawlessly. And then...he asked a third question. What was that? I squint my eyes and lean forward and ask him to repeat more slowly. He does. I still don’t understand. Dammit! I apologize and ask him to repeat one more time. I still don’t get it. Finally, I ask him if he speaks English or Spanish and am crestfallen when he says no. I look over at Des and ask if he could translate for me. I pick him up so that he could see over the countertop.
“He wants to know if you want to see the 3-D film.”
I put Desmond back down and answer the cashier without making eye contact. I pay for the tickets, the rest of the transaction is exactly as I had planned it. Uneventful. We show our tickets to the machine and are inside the museum.
*****
*****
Desmond and Juneyd run off to see the moon exhibit. Tears spring to my eyes as I think about those feelings from my childhood. I wonder if Desmond feels the same way about me. Is he embarrassed to have his friends hear me speak my crap French? Does he wish that he had a French mother who could communicate with his teacher, his friends’ mothers? My heart feels heavy. I sit down on a bench.
I start thinking about my mother’s experience as an immigrant to a new country. The stories she told me of all the times she was bullied and made fun of because of her accent. Did she know that I was that embarrassed of her? That I didn’t want her to talk to my friends or my teachers because of the way she said some words? I feel an incredible sense of guilt and sadness. I remember all the times I found myself impatient with a person who didn’t speak flawless English: when speaking to a tech on the phone, when providing customer service to a customer at my work, when trying to give directions to a child whose mother couldn’t speak English.
I may consider myself an expat, I may be bilingual, I may fluently speak the most useful language for travel, but that doesn’t mean shit here. It doesn’t mean anything to my son in his day-to-day life. I’m still an immigrant in France, trying to communicate in a language that I’m trying to learn but don’t have a grasp on quite yet. My hopes are that I can be treated with more respect than what I gave to non-English-speaking immigrants and those who speak English as a second language that I encountered in the States. I want my son to recognize that I’m trying my best and I hope he doesn’t feel embarrassed by me in the process.
So, be kind to the immigrants who come to your country, especially the mothers whose children speak better English than they do. Cut them some slack. Be patient with them. Offer them words of encouragement and support. I promise you that if you do, it will encourage them to learn your language and love your culture even more.
And that mom, the one with the little boy who’s doing all of the talking? She may trip and stumble over her words while mispronouncing most of them, but she will walk away, hand-in-hand with her son, head held high.