If the Cambridge Center of Adult Education kept transcripts, mine would look something like this:
French Level 2 (fall 2006)
French Level 3 (spring 2007)
summer hiatus
French Levels 1 & 2 (intensive) (fall 2007)
French Level 2 (spring 2008)
two-semester hiatus
French Level 3 (spring 2009)
three-semester hiatus
I am entirely aware that this makes me look like a lazy, pitiful, dumb, yet persistent French language learner. Obviously this weekly 90-minute class with about 15 minutes of homework wasn’t translating into any sort of proficiency in the French language, making it impossible for me to progress beyond Level 3. By the final class, I would be so lost that I’d either retreat to a lower, too-easy level or drop out entirely in frustration.
Obviously, languages cannot be learned solely in a classroom; I needed to make a concerted effort to inundate myself in French. So I started watching French movies, listening to French podcasts, and reading French newspapers. I began using hiking as a way of practicing French on my captive French husband — simple stuff like “Il y a beacoup de feuilles sur le chemin” (there are a lot of leaves on the trail), to which he replies “Yes, there are” (in English). I bought a French grammar book that contains pages of nothing but grammar drills, which I work through on the stationary bike. I subscribed to Bien-Dire, a magazine for French language learners that includes an audio CD. I tried cooking with a French cookbook, though I was stumped by the quantities for ingredients (30 g de buerre? 1/2 litre de lait?) I’ll make an effort to understand French, but when it comes to the metric system, I’m hopeless.
I could tell all of this effort was paying off when I boldly signed up for French Level 4 in September. What a difference it makes, to actually understand the teacher, to not dread being called to read aloud, to be able to formulate questions in French without slipping into sheepish pidgin English. In fact, I’m one of the star pupils, with the native French teacher frequently asking me about “votre mari francais.”
“Parles-tu francais avec votre mari francais?” she asked me last week.
“Oui, mais il repond en anglais,” I answer, cooly, flippantly, making her laugh. I can scarcely believe that these French words are flowing so effortlessly out of my mouth and, even more amazingly, a French person admits to understanding me.
Of course, I have a long way to go. Everytime I listen to a Podcast, I am reminded how fast French people actually speak. Everytime I open Bien-Dire, I am overwhelmed by the sheer number of words that I must commit to memory if I ever hope to be considered fluent in French. And everytime I speak French to Mr. P, he invariably looks bewildered over a word:
“J’ai marché dans la boue,” I’ll say as we walk through the forest. (‘I walked in the mud.’)
“Dans la what?” he asks.
“Boue. Boue. Boue,” I’ll say, varying my pronounciation a little each time.
He’ll just lost in thought and then say “Ah! Dans la boue.”
“That’s what I said!” I insist, because to my ears, it is.
