American Teeth

I’ve recently discovered a cooking magazine, Cuisine Actuelle, that I can check out of the library. I’m trying to do “five-day menus” to avoid having to go grocery shopping every other day, and this magazine has tons of easy, inexpensive recipes. I thought we would save time and money by stocking up weekly, cooking in 2 or 3 day batches, and living on leftovers the other few days. It worked theoretically,  until I was confronted by the shocking amount of butter in these recipes. Whereas I used to buy a 250g block of butter every month, I now have to run down to the corner store every other day to pick up another pack.

It’s clear that Cuisine Actuelle is in the pockets of Big Butter.

Oh! I’m so..so…-j’en ai marre!! Went to a bookstore with Ms A+ today, walked through a magical March hailstorm to get there. Upon arrival things were OK; found a book about May ‘68. “How clever,” I remarked, “it’s bound in the shape of a pavé, like the stones the Mai ‘68 protesters were throwing. Even the cover has the texture of a stone!” So that amused me a bit. From then on it went south. First I see a cookbook with a frosted doughnut on the cover, and Stars and Stripes all over the jacket, titled gateau U.S. Alright, I know they think we’re all junk-food junkies, but: A DOUGHNUT IS NOT A CAKE!!! Fine, I’ll take a look inside to find a good chocolate cake recipe. Nope. Nothing but scones, biscuits, crumpets…hunh?! What kind of Red Blooded American would let this get published? None of them. It was published and printed in France, and written by a Frenchman, who seems to have either skipped his geography lessons, or got got off at the wrong train station.

Well, we have to love the quirky preferences cultures import from abroad and appropriate. The foreign actors they most admire, musicians they most idolize; singers, directors….And authors. Authors like Russel Banks. I picked up one of his paperbacks in that same bookstore today, and saw that it was translated de l’americain. Now, this has always been a sore spot with me.

De l’americain.

Nick Hornby is always translated de l’anglais. Australian author Jullienne Van Loon, de l’anglais. The Canadian Margaret Atwood, de l’anglais.

“Well,” you might be thinking, “that’s kind of them, giving us ‘mericans preferential treatment.” Only, that’s not what they’re doing. They’re saying we don’t speak “correct” English, we have our own unique language. They’re knocking us down a notch. Or as the British would say, they’re taking us down a notch! Your very welcome for that translation

In France, joblessness  is on the rise/on the decrease; consumer spending is going up/going down, same for GDP…we don’t know anything anymore–the numbers keep changing, ah, getting “revised.” Are jobs going overseas? Just ask my Jewish Hypochondriac, who does practically all his business with China and Romania. Are jobs hard to find? Just ask my {unemployed chequiers langues students, some of whom have apparently been out of work so long that the keyboard was invented in their absence.

Are some French businesses trying to stay competitive? Just ask a recent student of mine: The director of Human Resources of a giant French software company, who was explaining thusly why the staff is no longer only in France:

“Well, we’ve started to outsour– to, um, build strategic alliances abroad…”

My bamboo consultant has a co-worker who takes English lessons, too. Someone once said the two of them were as different as vanilla and chocolate. I would say it’s more like a watch battery, and a space shuttle launch pack. And the bamboo guy isn’t the battery. Poor watch battery. His alkaline is almost all gone. But he’s sweet and harmless, and is moderately excited about going to Euro Disney this weekend with his kids. I mean, he’s not going out of his way or anything; his wife bought the tickets, is packing all the food and gear, is getting the kids out of bed, dressed, fed and buckled up in the car; but he’s ok to get up at 9am and drive there.

His English is far from perfect. It took me 45 minutes to get the above information out of him. Going out on a limb, and knowing that he’s allergic to verbs of all stripes, but not yet having learned from another teacher that one time in class watch battery couldn’t remember his sons’ names, I asked him the ages of his sons. His response follows: (bear in mind that it’s not uncommon for students to mistake ‘hour’ with ‘year. It’s a phonetics thing.)

“Boy Two-six hours. Boy One-two hours”

I went into my friendly neighborhood couscous place today, Friday, to order some take-out for lunch.  The place was totally empty. The owner jokingly said, “ah non. On ne fait pas l’importer vendredi…surtout pour les anglophones.” We don’t do to go orders on Friday, especially for anglophones. He was smiling while he said it, so I felt he was joking, but I wasn’t sure, given the timing: I had placed my order at noon, just as the local Muslims were heading off to the mosques for their Friday prayers, the holiest moment of the week. A time when NOBODY should eat; and god forbid a predominantly Muslim restaurant serves a Heathen American at the very moment the prayers are starting.

Amongst my co-workers, we might be tempted to call it ‘bulk stupidity,’ or to be less harsh, maybe ‘…ignorance,’ but here, in the public domain, we’ll just call it ‘refusal.’ As in refusal to open up and learn. In all honesty, it might be more like refusal than inability. It’s a mystery why some can immediately accept a new word you throw at them, like ‘homework’ and others are scratching their heads for hours. While we’re banging ours.

But I’m OK with those kinds of people. They’ve been programmed by The French Education System to learn other other languages ONLY by translation. While we’ve been programmed by Our English Language Training Center to teach ONLY through demonstration. Which works better with some students than than with others….

“your daughter isn’t watching TV tonight, because her teacher gave her three hours of ______”

• “excerise?” You mean like jumping jacks? No.
• “sports?” No. Her French teacher gave her three hours of____
• “pages?” Getting warmer….

And so it goes. But they have my sympathy. I think I’m so used to students who get it right away, that I still get dumbfounded by the ones who don’t. Everyone learns at their own pace.

“you can go to your corner store and buy one bar of soap, or to Auchan [like Walmart] to buy soap in______”

• “the soap department?”OK: corner store-one bar. Auchan-20 bar-package. At Auchan you buy in____.
• “mass quantity?” Ah, yes. Another word?
• “mass amount?” yeah, but just one word.

No, the ones who really get my goat are the ones who, once they learn that the missing word is ‘bulk,’ go: “mais en francais…..”

It’s as if their grey mass has turned into bulk denial.

There’s a student who asks to have lessons with me, if possible. Flattering, you would think.  Yes, it’s always flattering to be wanted. But it takes more energy that you could imagine. You’re being help up to a certain standard; a higher standard than normal. “With great responsibility comes…..” you’re reminded at your swearing-in ceremony. So when I see my Jewish Hypochondriac’s name on my planning, I have to prepare myself: get a good night’s sleep the day before, flush my sympathies for the Palestinians down the drain, erase my concerns for Chinese labor and health codes (he does business over there) and brush up on pharmaceuticals.

I love my students; I find most of them very touching. Their motivation, naivety, determination, passion, openness. I especially love the people who treat me like their confessional priest. They’ll just pour out their life story; my jaw agape, they’ll tell me all about their transgressions.

Even their ignorance I love. I want to try and find beauty in their ignorance. Otherwise I could have a coronary a day. From my impatience, you see. Sometimes you get someone who just doesn’t get it. I’m going to be cruel here, and say it’s a stretch to imagine that they ever will. But ya gotta give them credit for persevering.

A month into their lessons and still not able to say, “my name is [___],I am French, I speak French and English”–those are the ones who ask, “quand est-ce je vais avoir le de click?” When will it all fall into place? When will it all make sense? When will I get it? I calmly tell them that I [honestly do] believe that the “de clic” is a myth, that if they just keep plugging along, they’ll progress little by little.

I had two students today who asked me about they “de clic.” The first was very cool; a little impatient with himself, but far better than he thinks he is. “When will I have the de click? When will my English be as good as your French?” he asked, and I shared my theory with him, and told him he was making great progress. Which is true.

The second was a return student in a new group that just started this morning, but it was her fourth week. She had already been in another group of “true beginners.” The “my name is[___], I am French…” (although in her case, Russian) club. She arrived at 2pm and 20 minutes later she says (in French) “Hunh! I’m starting my 4th week, and I still can’t say ‘I speak French at home, I’m speaking English now.’ You would think I would have the “de click” by now! I wonder if this place is really worth it!”

Yeah. It’s better to pass the buck, to blame the state, for not having the “de clic,” than actually trying to apply yourself. Pffft! Russians!