Regardez moi, je parle français!
To be quite honest, I should say, “Je parle seulement un petit peu de français.” Since knowing French (supposedly) can open a lot of doors in this region, I’ve enrolled in a twice-a-week beginner class at Algonquin College. I had an introduction to French way back in 1990-1992, but never sought out opportunities to use it. I remember picking it up relatively quickly back then; hopefully I can do the same again, provided my mental acuity hasn’t atrophied to the point of no return. I’ve secretly been going about day-to-day activities while chanting (not aloud) the conjugation of the verb être (je suis, tu es, il est, elle est, on est, nous sommes, vous êtes, ils sont, elles sont) and formulating in my head a couple of sentences with which to astound my instructor and classmates. (I'll let you know if it works; I'm guessing I'll chicken out at the last minute.)
Too bad I didn’t know then what I know now, i.e., too bad I didn’t know in the early 1990s that I would eventually end up living in Ottawa, or I would have kept up my French lessons. Another thing: too bad that when the federal? provincial? government rolled out their bilingual agenda, it was met with resistance in my local community. I calculate it was back in my grade 4 days that every student got a bilingual kit to take home, complete with one of those 45 rpm records. There was a book of some sort in primary colors featuring comics-style Canadian children conversing in both official languages, and the record contained songs meant to facilitate fluency. I want to say that a beaver character figured prominently in the book—but the whole memory is really hazy, as if I had repressed it. I dutifully listened to the soundtrack. Why I thought it was my duty I don’t know: the kits were distributed with little fanfare, and there was certainly no promise of any immediate, tangible academic reward. As I search back in my memory, I am tempted to say that I recall an expression of displeasure or distaste on my teacher’s face as she handed out the kits. (Mind you, this might be another unreliable memory. It’s difficult to say, for this particular teacher’s countenance seemed oft given to that same downturn of the mouth; she did not appear to possess a naturally sunny disposition.) In truth, living as we did in southern Manitoba, staunch Progressive Conservatives with strong anti-Trudeau sentiments, the bilingualism campaign stung: it was perceived as a slight against Low German- and German-speaking communities everywhere. All part of that “Western alienation” phenomenon.
Of course, these are only impressions that I’ve formed. I don’t recollect that I’ve ever mentioned it to anyone before. I believe I discarded the kit soon after receiving it, thinking I would never need to know French anyway, and almost ashamed for having kept it as long as I had. I have a suspicion that the kits were perceived as propaganda, part of the fallout of the Official Languages Act. In any event, there was pushback on the push for French to be taught in our school. Fortunately, the German we studied instead did help me better understand some aspects of French grammar when I got to it. Yet every once in a while over the years, I’ve found that the tune and chiasmic lyrics “Bonjour, my friend, how are you, mon ami?” jostle their way from some far recess of gray matter to assert themselves in my consciousness. Just think if I'd memorized the entire song! I coulda' been a contender.
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