Chapter 16 — French -1

Pat Goodrich, the Headmaster’s genial secretary, called through the open door, “Alice is here, Ben.” “Good. Protect me for half an hour, will you, Pat – unless the President of the United States calls.” Ben Sawyer stepped to the door, welcomed Alice Benson and showed her to a chair. He took another -- not behind his desk. “Jerry tells me, Alice, that you will have some time on your hands this spring.” “Yes, I have finished all but one course in French drama for my degree and that meets only three times a week in Portland. I will be living at home.” “I wonder if you could find time to help us out. I have five ninth graders who are paralyzed in French 1. Pete Rossignol and Andy Chatfield don’t seem to be reaching them at all. They can’t go on for the second term sitting helplessly in class, getting more and more discouraged and building up fear and resentment for French. They will have to start French 1 again next year and, it appears to me, with little prospect of doing much better. What they need is to hear the language, to get the rhythms of it, and to build some basic vocabulary, to get enough confidence to speak a few words in French and to enjoy it enough so the prospect of French 1 next fall will not be terrifying. They need not meet every day. There need be no homework, examinations or grades unless you find that machinery useful. They will get no academic credit for the course. We could, between ourselves, call it French -1. “When they finish it, they will be up to 0. No pressure. Would you like to try it?” “Would it be all in French?” “That’s up to you. Whatever you say. They don’t know any French now, so you can’t hurt them. However, our French Department is pretty well committed to the Direct Method. Total Immersion as it were. This could be fun.” “I agree. That’s the only way to do it. How many kids are we talking about?” “Only five. There’s Billy Edwards, a total loss so far and afraid of the language. Butch, uh Oscar, Hummelman, universally known as Butch, a sharp little boy who just came to school from Florida with no background at all. Alec Horton, quick, enthusiastic, good at math but a slow reader. Tim Feinman is an excellent violinist for his age but spaced out in French. Finally Arthur Sikes, rather slow, inclined to be self indulgent with not a very good opinion of himself. He is eager for recognition and needs more than anything to do something right.” “Maybe games, songs, jokes, a little role play?” “Right, Alice. That’s just the sort of thing.” “Let me think about it. Is there a salary connected with this?” Half an hour later the conversation concluded with both parties laughing delightedly at the possibilities. “Oh,” said Alice, turning back from the door, “Where do we meet? Judging by the kind of curriculum we have been discussing, the sound-proof music room under the assembly room would be the best place.” The administrative machinery went into gear, schedules were changed, and the five found themselves headed for the music practice room the following Monday for French. “What French?” “Who’s the teacher?” “Why did we get kicked out of French 1?”

“Cause we flunked it, dummy.” They pounded down the stairs into the basement room, stared around at the dull cinder block walls, high windows, dull blue carpet, piano, six chairs, Two drawer file cabinet with the corner of a sheet of music sticking out of a drawer, paneled lockers along one side, two music stands shoved into a corner. Feet on the steps outside the door, and in came Alice! The boys were startled. Here stood a woman, a young woman in neat red slacks, a white shirt and a blue scarf under a down ski jacket. She carried a tote bag. Is she the teacher? A woman teacher? “Bonjour, mes amis,” with a smile. Butch gobbled, “uh ... Hi.” “Mes amis! Quelle gaucherie! Je m’appelle Elise. Bonjour Elise. Alors, encore.” She turned and left the room. The boys looked at each other, at the closed door. It opened. “Bonjour, mes amis.” “uh ... Bonjour, uh... Miss,” from Billy. “Ça va mieux, mais pas assez. Bonjour Elise, Elise! Comprenez vous? Elise. How you say en anglais? Alice? En francais, Elise. Mais, Encore” Again the closed door. Again, “Bonjour, mes amis.” “Bonjour Elise.” “Ah, tres bien, tres bien. Comment appelez-vous?” to Billy. “Je m’appelle, Elise.” “Uh ... Bill Edwards.” “Enchanté Guillaume.” She shook his hand. “Et vous?” to Butch. “Oscar Hummelman.” “Enchanté” “His name’s Butch,” interjected Alec. “Butch, en francais? C’est Butch, non? Butch, je suis enchanté de vous faire la connaissance.” Alice got all their names, chattering in French all the time. Then, without a moment’s hesitation she pulled from her bag a fish line with hook and sinker, sprang cross-legged to the top of the file, hung the line from her finger to the floor and started jigging, saying mournfully, “Pas de poisson, pas de poisson.” Then, pretending to have a fish and hauling it in, “Aha, la grande morue!” “Pechons!” She passed out lines. The boys picked up the game quickly. After catching two or three codfish, Billy pulled mightily on his line, suddenly let it go slack. “Beeg poisson. He got away.” Alice helped him. “Grand poisson, trés grand.” She spread her arms. “Il s’éschappe. Au diable!” Butch most mournfully caught “pas de poisson” for a long time, then put up a terrific fight, got his fish right up to the edge of his chair. “Hey, it’s a grand Tiburon” “Un gros requin, Butch. Garde vous. Les dents, très pointus” Coupez la ligne. Le couteau. Coupez,” She reached over and cut. “Très bien, mes pecheurs. Maintenant retournons au port.” She rowed. “Nous ramons le bateau. Tout le monde rame. Alec, Butch, Ramez vous.” “Alors, arrêtez. Nous sommes au quai’: A demain, mes pecheurs. Bonjour.” And she was out the

door.

“Quest que c’est shark en francais?” asked Butch. “How the hell should I know,” answered Arthur with a Gallic shrug. Next day. “Bonjour, mes amis.” “Bonjour, Elise” “Questions?” she asked, looking inquiring.

Butch: “Shark in French?” Alice: “Comment dit-on shark en francais? Le requin. Beaucoup de dents. Très pointus.” She showed him. Everyone laughed. “Maintenant, les dents de requin sont…? She looked the question. Billy remembered triumphantly. “Pointus!” Thus the “class” went on from day to day with games, songs, and jokes. There was the day Alice played the piano and sang “Sur le Pont d’Avignon.” When they got to singing it themselves, she grabbed Arthur and danced with him. He was at first embarrassed, red-faced, then delighted. She danced with each in turn and not a neat little heel-and-toe dance, either, but an athletic event. They sang “Frère Jacques” of course, but Alec knew words in English, words often sung in triumph on the bus returning from glorious victory on a distant field:

“Next Thanksgiving, next Thanksgiving Save some bread, save some bread Stuff it up a turkey, stuff it up a turkey Eat the bird, Eat the bird.”

They sang it in translation:

“Jour de fete, Jour de fete Sauve du pain, Sauve du pain Farce le dans le din-don, Farce le dans le din-don Mangez vite, Mangez vite.”

They sang it loudly – in unison, while Alice beat on the piano andante, fortissimo. Tim declared he could play it on the violin and did. All hands voted it much better than Frére Jacques ringing a foolish bell. The rather dismal little cell under the chapel became a grocery store, a restaurant, a gymnasium, a ski slope, even a soccer field. The walls were bright with posters. A map of Maine taped to the door showed the names of French explorers and early settlers. Baron de Castin, his Indian wives and distinguished children held a prominent place with merry brown Champlain, the King’s geographer, and the shifty La Tour. Diagrams, pictures in colored chalk of birds and beasts and fish, of trees and flowers illuminated the chalkboard from day to day. Vocabulary took a hop ahead when Billy thought to look in the back of his discarded French 1 book for a word. He brought the book triumphantly to “class.” “Le texte! C’est stupide, ennuyant. ‘La plume de ma tante.’ fils d’enfer!” She slung it out the door. Billy retrieved it and never brought it in again. But he used it as far as it went. Vocabulary took a giant step when Tim found the French dictionary in the library. He knew better than to bring it in, but all five boys bootlegged words out of it. In May Alice introduced them to the medieval play Pierre Patelin. It appealed at once because the clever lawyer is outsmarted by the apparently stupid shepherd. They acted it for the school assembly to enthusiastic applause and were besieged with requests to join the group, requests which they haughtily rejected. Alice did not limit her efforts to the music room. She dropped into the studio where one of “her boys” was painting a pot with colored glaze, talked quietly to him in French, left him laughing, and moved on to others in English. She went to Alec’s basketball games, coached Tim on the ski slope – he hadn’t known he could ski in French – and urged Arthur to “patinez plus vite” on the pond. When spring came, she rode in the coaching launch with Gus Cunningham to urge on coxes Butch and Billy.

KENNEBEC ACADEMY

Founded 1885

Scientia Vires Inducit

William Edwards 45 Deerthorpe Drive Mamaroneck, New York

Dear Mr. Edwards:

I have put off answering your letter of December 21 until the faculty had discussed Billy’s situation and taken action. You are disappointed in Billy’s achievement in the first term. So are we. He could have done better. Still, we must both recognize that he is only fourteen, growing fast as adolescence catches up with him, and he has had a considerable adjustment to make to his new environment. Let us first consider his French. Apparently this term was a serious setback. We teach languages now by the Direct Method. That is, a student learns French as a French child does, by hearing French, talking French, and later by reading French. He is not learning French equivalents of English words but is associating the French word with the object it represents. If he hears “Voici le soldat,” instead of saying to himself, Voici means Look at; soldat means soldier, so the guy wants me to look at the soldier, he just looks around for the soldier. At the beginning, not only did Billy not listen, but he did not do the reading assignments, so had nothing to say or write either in French or English. Consequently, the first term was a failure.

We have taken him out of the French 1 class in which he had no chance of success and put him in a small group with an inspiring teacher who will, we hope, overcome the boy’s induced abhorrence of foreign languages, introduce him to the sounds and rhythms of French, give him some grasp of elementary vocabulary and prepare him for a French 1 class next fall with a different teacher. The D on his record in the ninth grade for a single term of a beginning course, which in any case he will repeat next year, will be insignificant. The algebra presents a more difficult problem. As you told me, last spring, Billy’s math background is deplorably weak. Fractions and proportions frighten him. Apparently he ignores them and hopes he will never see one again. Positive and negative numbers confuse him. He has, in short, developed a classic case of “math anxiety,” a state of mind in which his mind goes numb, he doubts if the problem has a correct answer and is sure that if it has he will not get it. January 22, 1992

His math teacher has recognized this and is seeing him regularly for extra help. Mr. Marvin is a very understanding young man and extremely conscientious. Not only does he understand mathematics, he understands people who don’t understand mathematics. I believe he can get Billy started in math this winter. As you know, Billy is far from being a dull boy, and I have every reason to believe he will succeed. The faculty, particularly Billy’s advisor, Peter Floyd, argue strongly for keeping Billy engaged in some kind of physical activity. A boy cannot study all day and needs a release for his physical and nervous energy. He is in an intramural basketball program that takes only a short part of his day and is well worth it. Experience has shown us over and over again that taking a boy out of athletics as a punishment or for extra study time is counter-productive. Billy will be all right academically, but it will take time. Right now he is an impulsive young animal who sees no farther ahead than the next meal. He has not learned what his strengths are and for what he wants to use them. This will come. Furthermore, we must both remember that we are not gods. We cannot make our boys into the men we are or the men we wish we might have been. All we can do is to help them become the kinds of men they will be proud to be. Then I believe we will be both surprised and delighted. Whether Yale is part of this, I don’t know, but the little apples fall near the tree. If you find it convenient to visit the Academy, be assured that I will be glad to discuss Billy’s situation with you in greater detail. It is possible I will be in New York some time this spring for an alumni dinner, of which you will receive notice soon. We might meet then. In the mean time, call me on the telephone any time.

ES/pg Sincerely,

Benjamin Sawyer, Headmaster