French, Friendship, and Family Ties

The “Brunelle” family tree, dating back to the late 1700s

By Stacie Charbonneau Hess

Recently, I rediscovered my great-grandmother’s family tree. It’s a coneshaped collection of names that ends with my great-grandmother, Jean Blanche Brunelle, born in the late 1890s. My family and I estimate, by the number of rows in the cone, that her lineage is traced back to the late 1700s. The research required to produce this kind of document is a baffling endeavor someone must have taken on with gusto (a forward-thinking relative of my mother’s) with the gumption and commitment to write it all down.

Since COVID, I have taken to sorting through old pictures and artwork that encapsulate my life and my family’s memories. Life seems more tenuous now, begging us to slow down and take stock of our everyday blessings. Studying the cone again, I noticed something I didn’t when my mother first gave me this image. Among the names are, not surprisingly, Françoise and Marie Therese, but also Charlotte and Madeleine. My own daughters’ names are Charlotte and Madeleine, spelled just that way. I named them long before I saw this cone-shaped image. I suppose it could be a coincidence, but I like to think that somewhere there is, and always has been, ancestral knowledge guiding me. I could have named my kids Ashley or Jennifer, but somehow these names, French in origin and traditional, felt right, even though my own name is decidedly American and (I think) even a little boring. Sorry mom, but I used to long to be Anastasia or Mariel or Penelope.

When I talk to someone who is fluent, who has full command of a language of which I only possess a rudimentary command, I am humbled

Speaking of ancestral guides, last year a friend of mine called me out of the blue and mentioned that she found a place for her and her daughter to take French classes. Would I also be interested in coming on Saturdays with Charlotte? I immediately agreed, and signed us up for a ten-week session. Then another.

Every Saturday for six months, Charlotte and I headed to Providence to Alliance Française. It’s a local chapter of a national organization, a nonprofit that exists to carry out cultural activities. The school is situated in a modest house in a residential neighborhood of Providence, with a garage that is affectionately called “la maison” where Carrie and I took classes. Our kids headed upstairs to draw, listen, and learn in French. For ninety minutes each week, Carrie and I fumbled through our French conversations, our entire class consisting of six people at different levels of beginner. One of our classmates was Canadian and pronounced everything “wrong” according to our Parisian teacher, who had a sweet way of correcting our (nearly) every word.

Like most people, I took a language in middle and high school. When we began taking classes last year, I had a couple years of Latin and six years of French under my belt, but let’s be honest, decades have gone by. I have always loved listening to French music and singing the songs, but I never took the time to commit to learning the language for real, until now. Still, I bragged about my command of French. “My grandparents all spoke French,” I would say. “It’s in my blood.” When we went on a family trip to Montréal, though, I spoke what I thought was French to our server and she immediately answered me in English. When I finally stepped foot on French soil in June of 2018, I thought my Rick Steves and Duolingo crash-course would have me covered. I could read signs and menus, bien sûr, but when I opened my mouth to speak, I felt mute, unmoored by my inability to translate my thoughts into coherent phrases and sentences.

Now here is where I state the obvious: I am a writer. I teach writing, too. In my classes, we learn about power and rhetoric — who gets to speak, who has the mic. People who can speak have power to ask for what they want, create a new reality for others and themselves. So what do you do when you don’t have the words? In my writing classes, I am the leader, the “expert.” I am used to being listened to, and because of this, I believe that what I say matters.

Not so in French class! It’s so strange to be straining to understand and to be understood. In French, I am at a clear disadvantage. When I talk to someone who is fluent, who has full command of a language of which I only possess a rudimentary command, I am humbled, vulnerable. In Zoom, I cannot compensate with hand signals and body language, so I must have the words.

In learning a new language, I have learned that I need to be willing to fail. I need to be okay with using the wrong tense. I might open my mouth and want to say “I went swimming today even though it is winter” but it comes out “I swim at beach but the water is very cold.” I can get my point across, but not eloquently. I am used to being an expert, I am used to being eloquent. Now I have to settle for sounding like a first grader.

I have learned to be a student again. In learning French, I must often be silent. I must concentrate. I must ask a lot of questions. I must be willing to learn a new way of seeing the world, which is the result of learning any new language, or any new skill.

In a word

One of the subjects I teach in my community college classes is Native American literature. I am passionate about contemporary Native Lit, and all the ways that these books reveal knowledge and wisdom, ancient and yet living. Along with the Lit, I teach my students aspects of American History that they may not have learned in school, such as the Indian Boarding Schools. At boarding school, where native children were sent as a matter of assimilationist policies (sometimes against their parents’ desires), indigenous languages were banned. Teachers literally beat the language out of Native students.

At boarding schools, where native children were sent as a matter of assimilationist policies, indigenous languages were banned

Think of it: What is within a language that is so threatening? Whole worlds of knowing. Family memories, cultural knowledge. Ancestral wisdom.

While I fumble through my French, then, I keep in mind that I am learning the language of my own ancestors. It’s not the same, of course, as learning an indigenous language, but I am cognizant of the tie between culture and memory and language. I can’t help but think of indigenous peoples and what was lost when students were rendered silent by oppressors. The opposite is occurring now by the way. I am sure to tell my students that indigenous languages are more and more commonly being taught at all levels, even in universities.

New language technology

Like my students, I am finding new ways that technology can help me. I sprung for a subscription to Linguistica 360 ($19.99 a month) which comes with a well-produced, relevant podcast called “News in Slow French” (also in Italian, German, and Spanish). This is an incredible resource as every Friday I get the week’s news at a pace I can understand. (Turns out, COVID dix-neuf dominates the French news as well, as does American elections). Of course, I can’t understand every word on the first try, but I keep listening, and eventually I see how the pieces fit. I hear the expressions: Tout a fait! and Que le rideau s’ouvre! and I repeat them, like a mantra, as I drive in my car. (Absolutely! Let’s open the curtain!).

On Netflix, I found a French version of Chef’s Table. I rave about this to anyone remotely interested in French or cooking. This is a four-show series that features passionate French chefs and gives the audience a peek into their lives, their neighborhoods, their passions, and their families. I have watched it with and without subtitles and learn something new every time.

Here is another thing I’ve done to speed- up the process of immersion. I changed Siri, and even the navigation in my car, to French. Everywhere, my gadgets are telling me to tournez à gauche or tournez à droite – and listen carefully I do, lest I get lost. Granted, it’s a little hard to quickly process taking sortie 24 sur Route 195 in French (the French have long-winded numbers, and you have to do some math) but I trust myself and just let it sink in, hoping somehow that it does. Instead of saying “Hey, Siri” I now say, “Dis Siri” and hope she understands my commands.

I read that learning a new language can help stave off Alzheimer’s. I haven’t looked into the science of this, but it makes sense to me. On the other side of my family, my dad’s side, we have one remaining grandparent. My memére, Norma, has been in a nursing home for two years now. She has lived through COVID, and each time I visit she remembers little except for the Willie Nelson “Starlight” album I play for her on my iphone. She lives in the perpetual moment, telling me bawdy jokes from her youth or asking after her brothers, the “boys” she needs to babysit. The irony is not lost on me, this sifting through memory for words, that awkward gap when we can’t find the words.

In writing this article, I was going to share with you the humbling aspects of learning a new language. My ego, out the window as I stumble and mumble my way to comprehension. I thought I was writing a story about being a student again. When I saw that picture of my French heritage though, I realize that this is about something more. Learning French is not about impressing my server, or even my family and friends. I am doing this for me—this is my journey. Perhaps I am connecting with my ancestors by learning what they have always known. Each night, as I say bonne nuit and je t’aime to my youngest child, I am repeating the words – goodnight, I love you – that were spoken by the people who rest in that cone-shaped image my mother gave me years ago. Charlotte, Madeleine, Françoise, Jean, Yvette, Marie Therése. They are all helping me learn, opening my ears to the sounds of a language that created the experiences of my family long before I was born.

J’ai beaucoup à apprendre, bien sûr. Je suis patient. Je vais essayer, encore et encore.