A little sugar helps the medicine go down...

I love coming across one of those Aha! moments. One of those, but of course! moments. And such was the result of much back and forthing this week concerning friends at the school.

Meetings, language, cues, nuance, diplomacy. How fascinating to have opposing views on such important subjects.

The situation in question concerns an English family and the school, but it could be a replay of numerous meetings held between teachers and British/Anglo-Saxon parents over the past few years. Our school, the only Rudolf Steiner/Waldorf school that goes through to high school situated in a particularly attractive location in Europe, attracts many internationals. And, of these, there are a number who contemplate/dream/plan to settle permanently in la belle Provence. You can put whatever spin on this you choose. Is it the English reconquering a land they've coveted for centuries, more than a millenium? Is it simply the new sunbelt of Europe? In any case, with computers and flexible working conditions, housing prices being a bit more reasonable on this side of the channel, this option has tempted a number of families over the years.

There've also been a number of visiting families from other English/Anglo countries: Americans, Canadians, Australians. But in general, they are visitors for a set time period, and then they return home. It's a family adventure, no more.

Our school welcomes with open arms these families. The teachers accept the children who manage minimally the local language, and we all pitch in to make it work. But what happens when the parents don't know and have difficulty learning French? What happens when that Provence dream turns a bit sour when they realize that the job market here is supremely difficult? It's not always as easy and smooth as one might wish. How much can the school help?

I digress. I have set the tone, but truly what I want to consider is how bad news is presented during a meeting. It is dawning on me that the French and Anglo-Saxon viewpoint are opposed in this delicate situation. From my personal experience -- and that of a few friends -- it is clear to me that we Anglo-Saxons need a bit of sugar with our medicine. Face it, we were many of us raised with Mary Poppins as an important cultural icon. We need to be reassured that all is not evil, that there are redeeming character traits (in our child for example) or that there is hope for improvement, or that this meeting is simply a chance to inform and plan future collaboration towards a solution.

I know that I (and I believe many others of my culture) simply shut down and panic when bad news is dished out first. It's rather terrifying, I'm not ready, what? hunh? but when? for how long? whoah.... isn't there anything positive you could say to soften the blow? For us diplomacy is defined by the art of couching/framing/preparing the negative information with a bit of the positive. We are thus reassured (in this case as a parent, but this could be a business meeting, job discussion, the list is long) that our child is seen as a whole and complex being.

By contrast, a few of my French (particularly Parisian) friends have a tendency to avoid what they see as sugar-coating as being dishonest and simply putting off the inevitable. They distrust and are wary of such tactics -- that's how they see them. Get to the point, why have you called this meeting? Diplomacy is deemed being brutally honest.

Or, as a (French) friend astutely put it, what do you want the person in front of you to walk away with? Do you begin with the bad and end with the good? and thus hope that the lasting impression will be better? or do you begin with the good and end with the bad, and your partner thus walks away depressed?

Curiouser and curiouser. And so, I am seriously contemplating more discussions on this topic and making a proposal to the school to I hope, more adroitly welcome and manage what is clearly a growing population for us.

From Paris to Provence - Lingual Shifts

Unless otherwise noted, all materials on this blog are (c) 2009 by Madeleine Vedel

I went to school in Paris, and lived there for two years. Six months into my studies, I went to Arles for a summer internship, met Erick, and from that point on, though I worked in Paris, I spent my weekends 'dans le Sud.'

I arrived in Arles on the 22nd of June, the morning after the Fête de la Musique. I was a bit dazed by the warmth of the air, the good southern smells, and the light. When I'd spoken with the young man at the photo festival office about finding a place to stay here, I'd assumed from his accent that he was Italian. I was surprised to discover he was actually Marseillais.

My French was pretty good at this point. I'd been following a French graduate level program in Arts Management in Paris. I had followed courses about the structure of the Ministry of Culture, arts as an economic force, accounting for non-profits, psychology for future directors and producers, the history and structure of Radio France, where to find funds, etc., I was justifiably proud of my communication and comprehension abilities. But, as I was soon to learn, it had its limits and a time of humbling was just around the corner.

One day, not more than two weeks after my arrival, Erick invited some friends to join us for lunch. And, I got maybe half of what they were saying? What the.... How is it I can't follow these people? OK, at this point in my language development I still found it hard to be in large groups in a bar where everyone is talking at the same time and the ambient noise makes distinguishing what people say pretty near impossible. And, as I've noticed, I can lip read in English pretty well, but not in French (nor in Japanese). So noisy bars are places I simply give up on communicating beyond smiles, grimaces and sign language.

However, this was a quiet lunch with three friends. The kind of situation I was pretty good at. One spoke simply and I could follow him (he was from St. Rémy de Provence, just around the corner). I found Erick's accent lovely and very easy to understand. Yes, there were some 'gs' at the end of "juin" and "faim," there were some extra syllables in my name (in Paris, my name is pronounced ma dlen, in Provence, ma de lay ne), and Marseille was said in three (Mar say yuh). But the artist friend Pierre just barreled along and I swear, no more than 50% registered (a Marseillais pure souche as they say here, meaning approximatively with deep roots). And then that friend from the Pyrenees. Goodness, what language was he speaking?

Well, such a setback is simply a challenge to be accepted, n'est-ce pas? And so I set about learning the local dialect. Erick took me to the local library and selected a number of Marcel Pagnol movies for me. One by one I worked my way through them: La fille du Puisatier, La Femme du Boulanger, Manon de la Source, César, Fanny, Marius and a few others featuring Fernandel one of his fetish actors.

The first time I watched La fille du Puisatier, my comprehension stumbled completely when the father (played by Raimu) comes to fetch his daughter and is greeted by the woman who has taken her in -- a grand old biddy, heavy-set and ferociously acting the role of protective watch dog over a young woman wronged and her new baby. They went at it verbally (as the French will do, and even more so in the South), words flying, insults, anger, volleys of words filling the air space. I'm told that Raimu did a lot of improvising in these movies (if you don't know this actor, he is a cross between a classically trained actor of the great tragedies and Jackie Gleason). The local accent, the speed of speech, the sheer intensity of it all... I had to stop and start the VCR again and again to get simply the gist. It took over a year to actually understand the argument.

But I did, and what a proud moment it was. Slowly but surely the local accent and the speed of speech has become normal to me. Erick's accent is quite gentle, almost lulling, but Leo and Jonas' neighborhood nannies were quite "du pays" as are some of the market vendors, my baker and his father, and other friends who proudly hale from Marseille. I have to confess that when Leo once said to me "j'ai fang" I nearly bit my tongue. I corrected him to say "faim". But hearing Jonas' nannie say his name with three long syllables was no longer a surprise. There are even times when I'm on the phone to Paris, and the Parisian on the other end of the line thinks I'm from the South!

When you live here, you start pronouncing the 'es.' All last syllables get their due. Comme ça is said as 'co me sa.' Whereas in Paris it will be 'com sa.' And when saying the city name Arles, be sure to emphasize the A, the Re an the Le.

Over these past fifteen years this singing language has come to feel right to me, and the clipped tones of the Parisians, interspersed with "euh" sounds if not pretentious, then other. My own speech has taken on the lilt of extra syllables, fully pronounced "s's," but I draw the line at adding a "g" to my month of juin, or Leo's second name Augustin. Now, if I were to add the phrases "ma foi" or "peu cher" (this latter pronounced 'peu sher re' of course, then I would truly become a local.

Arriving in Paris -- Linguistically challenged.

Unless otherwise noted, all materials on this blog are (c) 2009 by Madeleine Vedel

When I first arrived in France, I landed in Paris. This was the city I knew best in France, and the place where my French had gotten up to speed when I sojourned in a few families for six weeks during my 16th summer. This time I'd come to Paris to go to graduate school in Arts Management. I wanted a Master's Degree, but preferred the exoticism of getting it in a foreign country to contemplating an equivalent school in NYC or Boston. The travel bug had definitely not been worn out by my year in Japan. Au contraire!

When I arrive in a country where I have yet to master the language there is a certain rhythm to how things progress. The first time, when I was 16 (after four years of study), it took me two weeks of concentrated listening till the normal speed of language clicked, and I was able to follow it. At first, I had the sensation of hearing words I knew sprinkled like little islands of awareness in a sea of slurred gobbledygook. The next stepping stone was a delayed reaction. I would automatically say, "what?" and then two seconds later, I'd comprehend what I'd heard. Rather akin to a phone conversation with a built in time delay. This made for very dis-jointed conversations. I'd be listening intently, say what? then the person would start explaining and then I'd interrupt to say, no, no, I've understood. Next?

The two week point was critical. I awoke up one morning and click, what had felt like a train steam-rolling through my skull on a daily basis suddenly sounded normal. Now, As I write this, I also realize that I am well-known amongst friends and family for speaking quickly. I'm reassured that I don't garble my words nor mumble (a dear friend from high school was the most sincere mumbler I've ever known.. and yes, I can still understand her, and she me). But I do clip along at an impressive pace... in each of my three languages. I do try to slow down for friends who're not native speakers of my languages. Truly!

I am also known for being talkative, bavarde, garrulous, loquacious... as you choose. This is frequently out of my control (particularly after a very strong espresso). However, when I come to a new country. I close my mouth and I open my ears. Ahhh. I don't exactly blend into the background, but I do position myself to listen, over-hear, follow, participate discreetly in gatherings and conversations whirling about me. I did this with ease in Japan (and slept with phrases flowing like waves through my dreams), and I returned to this state in Paris. This period generally lasts about three months. At which point, I become more confident, more able, and words start to tumble from my mouth.

I arrived in Paris in early January, and had a couple of weeks to find an apartment and get settled before school started. I was still in Japanese mode -- quiet, patient, amenable, assuming that people in charge would actually wish to help you resolve problems, etc., I'd also adopted a language tic from Japan -- to begin a sentence but not to finish it. It is rude to complain or specifically attack someone and risky to say too much in general in Japan. As such, if you had an issue with someone and you wanted to convey that to a friend/colleague, you'd simply say, "Mmmm, that woman. . . mmm neeeh, so desune...." and they'd get the picture. No need to go into detail.

This is not the case in France. Complaining is an art, and arguing a necessary skill. I've since adapted, and can hold my own in a political discussion at the dinner table, but right off the boat, I was a neophyte to say the least, in a land where the mastery of the spoken word and well-organized thoughts to pummel your opponent into submission is frighteningly common. A run-in with the France Telecom during my first month in Paris would have lain me low had my co-renter not been with me. Was I up to living in this country?

The apartment I ended up moving into was already partially inhabited by a young German woman who was depressive and out of work, but familiar with the French/Parisian system. Her telephone was limited to only local calls, and I wished to be able to call my parents, friends, etc., in the US. So, we set out to change this. However, the telephone bill was still in the name of a prior renter who'd departed more than a year before. At the France Telecom offices we presented our dilemma: change the name of the line to mine, and permit international calls.

--No. Not possible.

--Oh? But...

--We need the signature of the person in whose name the line was put.

--She's gone.

--Then we will assign you a new number (not an idea my German co-renter was keen on).

And we went round and round. I sat there mutely while my co-renter became more and more aggressive and nearly attacked the France Telecom agent across the desk. They were battling fiercely with words flying through the air. Who would back down first? This was a test of wills, to hell with what was permitted, standard procedure etc., rules were made to be bent in any case. But whose authority would win out in the end?

Ten minutes later, we walked out with a new contract and all in order.

Whew! Stunned, even a bit sick to my stomach from the nastiness of the moment, I wondered when (or if ever) my French (and my person!) would be up to negotiating the French bureaucracy. I was caught in a moment of serious cultural dislocation. Perhaps if I'd come to Paris directly from New York, but spending years in friendly Seattle, and ever so polite Japan had shifted whatever New Yorker aggressiveness I might have had to weather the Parisian front. Onward and?

Homework in a Bi-lingual Household

Unless otherwise noted, all materials on this blog are (c) 2009 by Madeleine Vedel

I spent my weekend reading with Leo, re-reading the book he was to have read and written twenty lines on for today. It was an intense span of at least ten hours, side by side (the book is 217 pages long, an early reader, but still ...). He's having a very difficult time actually absorbing what he reads. Vocabulary words he doesn't know, and a disconnect between nicely pronouncing a phrase and actually giving it sense; sense that sticks and comes to life as images in your brain. Normally, I read in English with Leo. We read nightly a chapter or so of Harry Potter, or a dragon book, or The Black Stallion, or the Squire books by one of the Monty Pythons. He prefers that I read in English with him, and truth be told, I've a better stash of youth literature in English than in French. In France, either you read English literature translated into French, or any number of an infinite array of cartoon novels (Tintin, Les Daltons, etc.,). I'm still looking for an equivalent collection of addictive kids' literature actually written in French.

When you raise a child bi-lingually, you are effectively doubling the vocabulary he needs to master at any given age. There are times it feels easy. Kids pick up so much with such facility. But, there are times when the difficulties (often unforseen) make you doubt your choice. Leo was always a very cerebral child. At an age when other children have words spilling out of their mouths in an unstoppable flow, he stuttered. I could hear him figuring out what language the person in front of him comprehended, and search for the appropriate word or phrase. He was already translating in his head, and thus language wasn't a simple element that you absorb and spit back out, but an intense struggle from day one. He still occasionally puts an adjective after a noun in English, simply translating verbatim from French.

I switched him to the Waldorf school precisely because the French public kindergarten director thought the fact that I was raising him bi-lingually was wrong. And there, yes, I found a multi-lingual, multi-cultural haven. It has certainly helped, at least for all of us to feel somewhat normal in what is undeniably becoming a very international and culturally mixed world.

I'm not the first in my family to live in a foreign country, and my children are just the next in a line of numerous bi-lingual kids (German-English, Greek-English, Spanish-English) in our extended family. So, I was just doing what I thought right for an American mom living abroad. I'm less emphatic with Jonas, my second, not unsurprisingly. And, as is often the case in a situation like ours, the language of the boys between themselves is French. But with me, the rule for both of them has always been that we communicate in English, no matter that my French is perfectly fluent and that I and Erick always spoke French together. My many au pairs were also amateur English assistants, helping me give the boys an English environment to grow up in. My thought was, with all their friends, their schooling, their father, their French cousins, etc., speaking to them in French, I had to do whatever was possible to make English a real and useful language for them.

With Leo, it's now at a point where his teacher reassures him when he writes poorly in French that it's ok, his maternal tongue being English, he too is like a foreigner in her class. I differ with her on this point, and wish she'd be a bit more demanding of him. But, point taken, he works far more on his English reading and writing skills with me than on his French. And yes, I wonder when and if it will all get sorted out for him. Spelling rules in both languages are horrid. And pure memorization as a way of learning them is not something he's willing to accept, yet. So, rather than 'mauvaise' it is 'movese'. A clear understanding of letters and their sounds, but a complete disconnect between what he reads and what he writes.

How much of this is having the two languages at once?

I picked up French in junior high and high school. I was a good student, and even now, I find myself correcting the usage of accents and such on many a French friend's papers. So, I learned the basic rules of this foreign language, got it, and then learned to speak it and communicate with it. I had no bad habits from a childhood of random spellings, etc., to undo, but nor did I have the automatic knowledge of whether a word was feminine or masculine (still one of my issues with French, no matter my apparent mastery). And still, I do not write well in French. My grammar is good, but not my phrasing, my 'syntax' as they say here. How will I improve it? I do read more in French as time goes on, but then, that messes up my English for the translating work I do. The head is easily tricked. Whereas I'm able to hold relatively easily to the spoken variations of the languages I speak, writing is a completely other art for me.

The summer I got up to speed with my Japanese -- my intensive nine-week third-year program at Middlebury -- I returned to university and proceeded to write the worst English of my life. Japanese is structured completely differently than English, and often has very long and heavy sentences. I wrote technically correct sentences. There was a subject and a verb in there somewhere, but then there were oodles of dependent clauses just cluttering up the text. I was temporarily under the influence of Japanese syntax and it took me all semester to get my English style back again.

So, I have given my children the joys and privileges of being bi-lingual from birth, and perhaps saddled them with the frustrations of never mastering either the one or the other? In any case, they have the untold pleasures of friendships and family on both sides of the Atlantic, and that outweighs a lot of the small stuff.