Adventures in… Language
Je m'appelle Amy. J’ai 34 ans. J'habite en France.
There is nothing more humbling than not being able to understand. In my own language, I am a woman of varied interests and a semi-decent conversationalist. In France, I am unmoored. I am a child at the dinner table with the grown-ups, trying to laugh in all the right places. I make so many mistakes. My best chats are with a two-year-old; our vocabulary is about the same.
Travelling and living abroad becomes a bigger adventure without a shared language as a safety net. I’ve been lucky enough to live on three different continents. On the face of it, Tanzania and Singapore should be the places with the culture shock. Most British people have done a day trip to France or even spent a week swapping lives with someone in an exchange. We are neighbours; we are friendly rivals. However, the reality is that in those far-off places where most people spoke English, I could better express who I am. It’s hard to be yourself when you don’t have enough words.
I envy the bilingual. Imagine switching with ease, as simply as deciding to swim breaststroke instead of front crawl. What would it be like to dream in two languages? Two rhythms, two heartbeats would exist simultaneously: a Tardis inside the brain. There would be no need for translation, so nothing could get lost. Perhaps the truly bilingual have two personalities, but I suspect they might be more interesting than my French persona. She is very smiley and answers most questions with ‘Oui!’, which can lead to complications later down the line.
My language learning privilege is enormous. I can afford French lessons. I am permitted to pause a French series every ten minutes so I can ask what a word means. When I ask people to speak slowly, they normally do. They are patient. Nobody shouts at me when I mix up tu and vous. I've still been able to find work as an English teacher, despite my constant failure to master the French subjunctive.
I struggle to imagine how it would feel to be in a new country, without the right words, because you've been displaced by war or because home isn't safe anymore. Or because you’ve left home behind in search of something better. I am here by choice and not necessity – and that is a privilege in itself.
What I have learnt in my almost-year in France is that it is possible to make friends and fall in love without perfect communication. I have been able to get by with manic gestures, broken French and Google Translate. There is still space for connection. Also, apparently French people think an English accent is sexy. Maybe they’re just being nice while I butcher their language. But it’s reassuring. And, in the adventure towards French expression, wine really helps!
Great reads this week:
· I loved Sofia A Koutlaki’s piece about language and offence in her newsletter Some Little Language.
· Alexandra King’s essay in The Guardian about her year of miscarriages was stunning. Beautiful writing. Read with tissues.
· My long-awaited copy of Slug by Hollie McNish arrived in France this week and it is everything I hoped it would be.
Ask Amy
When I used to imagine my adult life, I always thought I would have an open-door policy. I thought that I would love it when friends dropped in for a cup of tea or turned up randomly, just to say hello. Now that I am in my adult life, I can’t think of anything worse. I love seeing people but I need to know when they’re coming. If they turn up unannounced, I might not be ready for them. I might not be wearing a bra. I might not have cleaned my teeth. I’m a planner, and I’ve made peace with this fact.
Whether you are a planner or not, you are completely within your rights to not want unexpected visitors, especially if you are dealing with the rigours of new parenthood. Your home is your safe space and, let’s face it, if you do have a newborn, there’s a high chance that you might be sleeping during the day. Somebody ‘popping in’ can generate stress, even if they are doing so with the best of intentions and just because they love you.
The difficulty here is that, unless you communicate this to your mother-in-law, she may not know that she is making you feel this way. Maisie Hill has an excellent podcast about communicating your boundaries, and that’s exactly what this situation requires. Maisie’s approach – and I don’t think I can say it better than her – is that you need to tell your mother-in-law that she should call before popping in, and then you also need to give a consequence if she does not respect your boundary. Something along the lines of, “I love seeing you, but I need you to call first, and if you don’t do that, I may ask you not to come in on that occasion, and to come back another time.” If she does turn up without calling, you have the right to refuse her entry. You can be the bouncer on your own front door.
Even typing the above statement made me feel a bit uneasy, and I think it’s because a lot of us, especially those who identify as female, have been conditioned to put the needs of others before our own. But setting a boundary like this isn’t unkind or selfish. It’s necessary for your wellbeing. Also, if you think about people who have expressed their boundaries to you in the past, you might find that you weren’t hurt by them at all. On the contrary, you knew the limits, so you probably felt safer in that relationship.
It might feel very uncomfortable but trust that this is the right thing to do. And know that you will have plenty of time with your mother-in-law and she will have time to bond with your baby. It will just be on your terms rather than anyone else’s. I wish you luck on the journey ahead.
If you enjoyed this advice column, there are more available on my website.
I’m always looking for questions to answer, so please do drop me a line if you need some advice. It is anonymous, of course.
I enjoyed reading this piece, Amy! It reminded me of the time I was a newcomer among Iranians and felt like a child mainly in terms of the excitement of getting to know a different world. Thanks for the shout-out too!