Wandering Reflections II : Scenes from an itinerant life (Paris).

I hear a group of young French students attempting a faux American accent. I am not sure what the subject of their conversation is. Sitting in a trendy café in central Paris, I eavesdrop with lazy superficiality, preoccupied with my thoughts and the comfort of a blueberry muffin. I come often to write and work in this coffee-shop. I hear the words “poster-boy” and “Hug a Tree” articulated in the most un-American intonation. Hug, for example, is enunciated with the incorrigible French habit of adding an aspirated “H” when entirely unnecessary and removing it wherever crucial in English. Hug then, spoken by these casual-chic-youth, reminds me of the company that sells warm furry winter boots. Let us not go around Ugg-ing trees, for goodness sake. That would be far too much capitalistic fervour, even for America.

I’ve lived for more than two years in France now. And I speak French. No, not the broken, tourist-guide-book-level imagined of all expats, landing in this hexagonal country run over by striped t-shirts and billion pharmacies. In fact, I speak French with the casual ease of someone who does not have to conjugate verbs in his head, loves learning languages and made ( read: is always making) tremendous efforts to pick up linguistic nuances. I am currently learning Spanish as my fifth spoken language. This is not hollow pride or vain pomp; it is a demonstration of effort, ability and sincere motivation to integrate and appreciate. Language, after all, is our bridge to a new culture.

So it perturbed me when, earlier, the café server addressed me, in his version of English, assuming that I cannot speak French: “Excuse me, would you mind to move pleez by ze window? I av three peoples waiting.” His accent was no better than the absurd grammar. I replied coolly in French, “Not a problem at all”. Hurried excuses, faltering pretexts as to why he assumed I’m a non-francophone. I let it pass.

French self-proclaims (or is masterfully marketed globally) to be the “most difficult to learn” and, in the same sexy breath, the “most beautiful” language in the world . One could easily debate those claims but beauty and difficulty are subjective perceptions. I do think, however, that the myth of its difficult pronunciation, inscrutable grammar and unachievable accent has enveloped French in elevated charm and lasting mythology. What we cannot learn must be, people accept, beauty beyond reach. It makes me wonder if the French could be made to learn Mandarin Chinese or sing with the mellifluous tonality of the Italians. Beauty and difficulty, then, are also not the prerogatives of any one language or culture.

I got up to order my muffin. This time the same server was offering food suggestions. They were in English. Again.

“Oui only ‘av two tips of moofin twoo-day.” I placed my order, not changing my level tone. A blueberry muffin. He realised his error, faux pas. Blunderingly he apologised in French saying “There are so many English-speaking tourists in the neighbourhood, I keep forgetting to switch”. Sure, monsieur Moofin. Except, only two minutes ago, I had spoken to him in French far more fluent than his painful English.

This has happened many times to me in Paris.

I think of tourists who come to France, having eagerly brushed up their “Bonjour, merci, au revoir” only to have their hopes of assimilation dashed by the English-speaking staff in a Parisian boulangerie. I used to be one of those travellers. I love languages, words, etymology. I was crushed by their indifference, their inability to reciprocate my efforts. Often the reasons cited for this occurrence are: many of the French in Paris speak fluent English, others merely wish to practice their English with native speakers and yet others want to save you the trouble of running out of vocabulary after the initial pleasantries. They are doing you, earnest visitor, a benevolent favour. The best explication I read once on an online forum was a French teacher saying, “Don’t be disheartened. And in any case, French people are not your professors, they are under no obligation to help you progress or feel intelligent.” Bruising logic or linguistic arrogance?

But today, this is no longer the convoluted scenario I encounter.

If spoken to, I can comfortably carry out an entire conversation in French (as I do with French friends and family). So why do people in cafés, shops, other public places assume I cannot speak French, without giving me a chance to open my immigrant mouth?

The parsimonious explanation is: “well, you don’t look French”. I find this reasoning to be deeply problematic. It hinges on the assumption that “looking French” equates with a certain physiognomy. Does phenotype trump phonotype? And what does it even mean, in the public conscience, to “look French”? Bluntly put, it means “looking white”. Whether we like it or not, this is the rampant, facile conclusion. Yet there are innumerable Sri Lankan and Bangladeshi second-generation French citizens whose external features are not unlike mine. Interestingly, many of them only speak French, not even English. Why couldn’t I be one of them?

The other hypothesis is, of course, that “tourists frequent this neighbourhood and, consequently, everyone is greeted with French-ified English”. This is, however, categorically untrue.

For one, I cannot see the French casting away their linguistic pride so easily, so willingly for hordes of unnamed tourists. Also, the very clients who came in to this coffee-shop before me were two Swedish girls (Scandinavian appearances). They were welcomed in chaste French, which they had neither bothered to learn or speak. “We are from Sweden”, one of them said in a thick accent.

We all have accents, except that some of us use them to speak multiple languages albeit with great care. Accents are acquired heirlooms, mirrors of our past and our histories. They say where we come from. But they do not represent where we can go.

So why do I care about these quick judgements in transient interactions? While linguistic exclusion in this context might seem benign, it is the implicit bias and endemic racial profiling that I find frustrating. I wonder if I looked different (paler, wearing blue-white striped t-shirts, straw-coloured hair), would people mistake me for a French person? The only time someone mistook me for being a native Frenchman was when a group of middle-aged American tourists shouted gleefully back(after I helped them with street directions in English) to compliment me: “Good English, good English!”. Patronising and unnecessary. Is it okay to tell someone they speak “good English” unless you know, explicitly, that they have acquired it as a second language? Perhaps, the intention counts more when it is married together with a complimentary remark.

I believe in the power of words. Words are portals — doors to the bridges that can leads us to each other. And language is that bridge. We can meet each other half way if we try.

Only, I wish people would not block others on the other side, without even knowing how many door-keys someone might have. Keys polished and hewn with care over weeks, months or years.

So next time, give someone a chance — don’t assume they are a specification based on feature before getting to know them as an individual.

Maybe I will surprise you, maybe I do have the right key, not the perfect key but one that fits. You have to let me open the door. You have to let me lay down a bridge between us.

Meet me half-way.