french made

Mademoiselle Minor did not like me. Now that I think about it, disdain is probably a better word than dislike in this case. Mademoiselle Minor disdained me.

My pronunciation was above reproach, my understanding of the plus que parfait and other innumerable verb tenses was ahead of the class. But I was never to be her protégé. I was much more interested in passing notes with a small handed boy named Jason than I was Mina-birding conversational exercises. Mon Dieu, how many times did we have to practice ordering a cheese sandwich?

I’d given up any desire for protégé status in junior high. Monsieur Jeffries had noted my language skills on the first day of our eighth grade class. He asked where I’d picked up so much French.

Ma mere, Monsieur.

And my mother’s Nana Mouskouri records. But I didn’t tell him that. It didn’t matter; by the end of that first semester, I was the teacher’s pet. Girls who wore Unit Belts and had names like Natalie and Tiffany would make fun of me within earshot, and snatch my test papers when they were returned. I soon found I was less ashamed of my Payless shoes than I was of my perfect grades.

We moved soon after and I landed in Mme Minor’s fourth period French II.

My test scores were still high. But I was new, and I needed to be liked more than I needed to be smart. That did not included being liked by the teacher. I took her disdain with not the smallest bit of smug satisfaction and passed notes with cute soccer players, and chirped, “Je prends un sandwich du fromage” when it was my turn.

Years later, while away at college where I’d abandoned my journalism studies to major in Spanish, Grandma Marcel asked me to help her in the kitchen. I sautéed yellow squash while she prepared coque Saint Jacques. She gave directions in French, I answered in English.

“You do not speak French anymore?” The French have a delightful way of singing their sentences.

I smiled.

“Oui, mais comme une vache espagnole.”
(Yes, but like a Spanish cow.)

I remember that she laughed and pushed a box of Godiva chocolate across the counter to me.

I can still order a cheese sandwich in French — or anything else I might find appetizing — but it’s with no small amount of regret that, when planning for our Moroccan vacation, I am scarcely able to read through websites without a certain degree of difficulty. It’s especially sad, when I consider that I have no idea what became of that soccer player — or any of the other schmoes I was so bent on impressing.

In the grand scheme of things, learning to flirt may have been just as valuable as learning another language. But I’ll let you know for sure when we get to Tangiers.