Last Night A Language Blog Saved My Life

“…I feel like people who haven’t tried to live somewhere else and learn a language just don’t get it. To them, it seems logical that if you live somewhere and interact that you’ll just magically become fluent. It’s crazy how NOT true that is. And then when I explain this to people I get mad at myself for not being magically bilingual like people assume; like I’ve failed...It’s not a fun conversation to have…” (from the comments section of the post ‘Will You Be Fluent in French after Living in France for a Year?’ on ouifrance.com.)

Il fait un froid de canard.

Or brass-monkey weather. In other words, the last couple of weeks have been bloody freezing. Strasbourg, like most of Europe, has not been exempt from the cold snap blowing in from Siberia.  Each morning, the canal that runs parallel to my office is covered in sheets of ice. On the other hand, it’s been mostly gloriously sunny and dry. I can just about tolerate the freeze if there’s a lot of light around.

Speaking about a deep freeze, the atmosphere between my colleague Claudia and I has been decisively frosty of late. True, there has been an unofficial entente cordiale over the past few weeks but the overall outlook has not been good. Things come to a head one Tuesday morning when Claudia asks if we can talk. She shuts the office door. She means business.

I’ve been expecting it. I welcome it. Just that morning I’d been praying for an opportunity to clear the air. The previous week, I open up to Sophie about it after she calls me aside for an informal 1-2-1. She’s already picked up on my aversion to ask for help. It’s not that I relish the idea of snitching but it’s no longer tenable to keep it to myself. I try to be fair to Claudia. She has been of great help in getting me acclimatised to the role but I spill my heart out to Sophie about other issues. Her snappiness. Her perennially jaded outlook. Her increasingly condescending way of instructing me. Her over-reaction and you-might-be-sacked scaremongering when I make honest rookie mistakes. 

On the plus side, I'm becoming more self-sufficient. Sophie is both sympathetic and mildly appalled. It’s important that I feel free to ask questions, she explains. Rather than looking like I’m using initiative, it would be seen as suspicious. Sophie offers to arrange a friendly intervention after she returns from leave the following week. She can relate. She tells me an anecdote of a blazing row she had with a colleague after a year of simmering tensions. Now they're like peas in a pod. I agree to the mediation idea; reluctantly at first but more convinced by the end of our long heart-to-heart.

Claudia beats us both to it. She says she senses discomfort. I concur, as tactfully as I can manage. I thank her for her help thus far. I venture to constructively point out my concerns, stressing that I am aware of the subjectivity of my claims. She asks for examples. I have a number to cite both recent and otherwise. She responds defensively. I am not surprised. She calls me arrogant, strange, judgmental, inexperienced… I tell her that she is being immature and that I knew she would take it too personally. She thought I liked her directness. I do. I just think it's possible to be frank and still use tact. She asks why I didn’t speak up before. Because I’m new. Because I’m confrontational by nature so sometimes go to the other extreme. I didn’t want to fly off the deep end so early into a new job. She’s chagrined. It would have been better to say something than let resentment fester. True. It’s just difficult to get the timing right.

We verbally thrash it out for at least an hour. During that time we are able to contextualise our grievances. Claudia’s manner of mentoring me is harsh because that’s how she was trained for the role. I explain that I stand out whether I want to or not. We both feel like outsiders. I might not fraternise with colleagues as much as the others would like because I'm recovering from the unpleasant working environment at my previous job. Claudia has been at The Organisation long enough to have heard and seen so many things to leave her disillusioned. Matters aren’t so smooth between us yet that I can directly ask her why she doesn’t return to her adopted home, London but I politely (I hope) insinuate. It is a cathartic experience. It will be a lot easier for us to be frank with each other now. I’ll feel freer to ask questions. Claudia said it shouldn’t matter what mood she’s in. A closed mouth doesn’t get fed.

She falls ill not long after our discussion and doesn’t return for the rest of week. I'm glad she brought it up when she did.

One of her salvos lingers more than the rest though. You know, some colleagues find is so annoying when you take a long time to express yourself in French. I demand to know why she’d say that. I’m already paranoid as it is.

I have to face it. The wall I hit with French in the UK way back when hasn’t automatically crumbled on moving to Strasbourg as I’d anticipated. I start having lunchtime meetings with a gifted multi-linguist colleague who works in the Chateau. Bernard is half-Swiss, half-Guadeloupean. With straight, sandy-blond hair and misty-grey eyes, he could pass for an olive-skinned European. He speaks English like a dream, despite never having lived in an Anglophone country long term. He puts it down to knowing German thanks to his dad. He’s very encouraging about my efforts in French. To a fault. I have to beg him to correct me. He doesn’t think it’s always necessary. The important thing is to practise by speaking, he insists, the rest will come. After I push him he admits,

Sometimes, in searching for the right way to express yourself, you tend to speak French in an English way.

Why didn’t you tell me before?

I don’t mind being corrected. I just don’t like the idea of speaking wonky French for extensive periods without realising. Better to stop me mid-flow and iron out the kinks straight away before the mistakes fossilise.

A few days later I meet up with another Francophone with a German connection, my new acquaintance Murielle. It’s a Tuesday evening. The same day I have had that conversation with Claudia. My post-meridian brain has kicked in. My conversation is laboured, like I have a mouth -and brain- full of toffee. Murielle is patient but it is harder work for her than it should be. She suggests I speak in English sometimes just to feel more at ease. That’s exactly what I don’t need. I concede, briefly switching to English to explain some of my frustration.

Wow, it’s like there are two different versions of you; the one who speaks English and the one who speaks French, she exclaims.

My linguistic impasse reduces me to tears several times that week. it triggers another overblown existential crisis... Mid-30s and nothing to show for it, blah, blah, blah...  I make alternately angry and forlorn imprecations to heaven. I pray for a breakthrough. Any would do.

It comes in an unexpected form. One afternoon, during a lull in activities, I research ‘Language frustration plateau’ online. God bless the internet. I discover a few blogs that speak to my pain. My personality disappears when speaking another language. Check. Everyone back ‘home’ expects me to be fluent by now. Check. How the heck do I move past this plateau? Check. I’m worried I come across as thick. Check!

It’s just the psychological fillip that I need. There’s nothing like finding empathy through others willing to be open about their experiences; good, bad, indifferent.

This week's soundtrack: Heavy Rockin' Steady by Beatchild and the Slakadeliqs