Were I forced to pick one adjective that best represented me, it would undoubtedly be francophile. From having attended and worked at a French immersion summer camp to four years of high school French to being a French major, the language comprises an integral part of my personality and the person I am as of now (though that is certainly liable to change).
I don't know exactly what it is that attracts me to the language and the rich cultural and particularly gastronomic history that comes with it. My Irish-Ukrainian heritage and American background does not necessarily lend itself to a predisposition towards anything francophone. I'm guessing it was a combination of my family influence and a desire to live up to every liberal elitist stereotype that drove me towards the language of Rousseau and Voltaire.
Given my immense interest in French you can imagine the overwhelming sense of joy I experienced upon learning of my acceptance to a major university in Montreal. My ill disguised excitement led me to tell anyone who would listen about the innumerable opportunities for conversing with locals in the native tongue and exploring the Old City, never at a loss for something to do. Along with mildly annoying many of my friends and relatives, I was also deceiving myself.
When I arrived in Montreal to begin my studies my head was buzzing with cliched images of me strolling along a cobble stoned street clutching a freshly baked baguette and stopping every now and then to talk with the locals about the highly charged political atmosphere, or the merits of a good cassoulet. What I discovered instead was that I may as well have strapped on a beer gut and put on a t-shirt saying "These Colors Don't Run", for the moment I opened my mouth to speak my American accented French announced to everyone within earshot that I was clearly incapable of communicating in anything short of simplified English.
Embarassed and intimidated by the ease with which shopkeepers, bellmen, janitors and the homeless switched from French to English, I reverted back to my mother tongue. I went to bed my first night feeling slightly defeated. How was I supposed to practice my French in a city where it makes no difference to people whether you speak French or English (this of course being a slight exagerration, I have since encountered a number of people for whom English is clearly a struggle)? I decided to put it from my mind, and continue introducing myself in French, then reverting to English when my accent was detected.
However, once I began to settle into my normal class schedule and became familiar with city (an ongoing process I might add, on both counts), the fact that my French was receiving less action than the Pope began to wear on me. Finally the answer I was searching for came to me. Having overheard several of my floormates conversing with the cafeteria staff in French, I threw my hat into the ring and introduced myself. I struck up a conversation with the Haitian woman running the sandwhich counter, and confessed to her my insecurities about speaking French in a city where nearly everyone is bilingual. What she told me was the single best piece of advice I have received since I moved to the city.
She told me to be insistent with my French and be fearless of blunders. "You must make mistakes to learn" she told me. I knew she was right, and it was a refrain I had heard a million times over, generally from exaperated teachers striving to explain their students' poor performance, but her follow up is what really caught my attention. "Tell them, 'No. I will not speak English. I moved hear to speak French.' Be agressive.'" I took her at her word and the next day put her plan into action.
At first, the woman at the coffee shop was unyielding. "So you'd like a large chai latte? Where are you sitting? I'll birng it over." "Je m'assieds juste la." I responded, gesturing towards my seat by a potted fern. "Okay, it'll be just a few minutes." Though I knew she was trying to be polite in accomodating my mother tongue, the unspoken battle beneath the niceties was reaching a boiling point. Each of us was adament in our chosen method of communication, unwilling to budge. It was as if the partisan congressional gridlock from back home had manifested itself in this unassuming Montreal cafe. I held my ground. Finally, success. "Voila ton latte monsieur. Avez-vous besoin d'autre chose?" "Non, je suis bien maintenant, merci!"
This conversation remains the zenith of my francophone exploits, and all at once I fully understood what the woman behind the sandwhich counter meant. It is a mantra by which I plan to abide for the duration of my stay, and will hopefully lead to the realization of my cliched Franco-Canadian fantasies. Half of getting what you want is knowing when to make people feel uncomfortable.
