Français 101

Oui, d’accord (Yes, okay)

If you’ve ever moved to a new country and don’t speak the language, the best way to integrate with some passable ease is to appear agreeable. Oui, d’accord. Yes, okay. This ensures the other person that not only am I willing to agree with them, but also hides the fact that I’m unable to follow up with any probing questions.

This is the first and possibly last phrase I’ll ever utter in French.

Oui, je suis d’accord (Yes, I agree)

In an unintended move to mirror my life with that of a personal hero, David Sedaris, I left my comfortable confines of an increasingly suffocating LA for the lush seaside of northwestern France. As some have joked I left the west coast for another west coast. The perfect irony lies in the fact that I have always proclaimed myself as a) not a beach person and b) a city girl. Not only am I choking on my own words, now I need to do it in a foreign language.

Sedaris writes with great visual effect about his experience living in France while struggling to grasp the language, expounding on moments that I can now relate to. A particular scene puts him in the waiting room of a doctor’s office, stripped down to his underwear, because he responded with oui, d’accord in agreement when given instructions by a surly french nurse that he did not further clarify. As he sits in his underwear, other fully clothed patients begin to enter the room. And as the french are apt to do, they let their eyes graze towards his disrobed state while simultaneously ignoring him. (A particular skill I strive to obtain.)

I haven’t found myself naked in a waiting room, at least not in the literal sense. But each time I’m tasked to interact with someone using my dismal french, it def feels like I’m naked. And with exasperation I’m grabbing at a towel that threatens to slip off lest I expose my ignorant American self, aka my greatest weakness. 

Je compris pas (I did not understand)

In another Sedaris example, he paints a typical picture of a french class with students from across the globe. Everyone is trying to get a point across with whatever words they’ve collected in this adult french conversation course. There’s something about being misunderstood that activates an insecurity covered with a thick layer of anxiety blasted through an infrared lens of bubbling frustration mixed with suppressed rage. It’s annoying. We all know what we want to say. But the ‘how’ is murky. Ce n’est pas clair. It is not clear. The tools we have in tow are a loose button and some mismatched thread when we really need a laser and a team of experts. 

A classroom conversation will often sound like this:

Teacher: What did you do this weekend?

Mongolian student: I sleep. Give son to karate.

Thailandese student: Mmmmmmmmmm. *small shrug*

Me: I visited my grandmother. No, my husband’s grandmother. We drink... Tea? I think. That is all.

Japanese student: I make cakes. Also... Hmmmmm.

North African student: *Long pregnant pause followed with huge guttural sigh* Ugggghhhh.

YES girl, yes. That heavy sigh said it all, and for all of us.

Je comprends (I understand)

To some surprise I find myself writing in french with milder ease. Probably because I can take the time to sort out les mots (the words) and la grammaire (the grammar). If I could slip notes to people instead of using my mouth and forming sounds that are likely uncomfortable if not offensive to the recipient, I’d def do that. I might be confused for being deaf or mute; I don’t feel far off from being either.

Je voudrais (I would like)

The only thing I do semi-confidently is order food. Je vais prendre un sandwich du poulet. It’s the only thing I care about, so it’s the area in which I make effort. Just don’t ask me any further questions, like how I want the meat cooked. Choix du chef, oui ça va. I rather be disappointed than embarrassed, which applies to many aspects of my life.

Je ne sais pas (I do not know)

When questions in français are thrown my direction, my typical reaction is to panic. To a degree I understand the words being spoken to me. But my brain decides to hightail it while my body remains stuck in place, eyes widening and my voice mustering a Pardon? Maybe it’s performance anxiety. Like not being able to pee when I know someone is in the neighboring stall. I will wait until the room clears before excavating my bowels, and I will wait until this french person loses interest in me and moves onto something else.

Ça va (It’s okay)

If you ever decide to learn french, or want to pass off like you know what you’re doing, find yourself saying ça va about 100 times throughout the day. It encapsulates “What’s up? How’s it going? You good?” It translates to “It’s okay?” which oddly enough satisfies some measure of my daily need for validation. It’s a short and sweet phrase that you pose as a question and respond in kind with. Ça va? Oui, ça va. It’s one of the few things in french that I don’t hate.