The Ignorant Mute

The following post was originally handwritten in a French café on a Friday afternoon. Included are the original tangential observations, italicized here to ensure clarity.

I just ordered a café. It came with a long packet of sucre, extra fin. If I close my eyes, it almost tastes like hot chocolate with a not-so-subtle hint of metal and bitter aftertaste. I’m trying to be French. That means that I’m trying to cultivate an appreciation for—or at least a tolerance of—the little things so dear to every Francophone heart. Wine is a work in progress: I’d say that I’m at (I just witnessed an adorably indie couple kissing goodbye across the street. PDAs are a national pastime here.) the caveman stage. I’ve discovered fire and the wheel is pretty nifty, but I still gag after every artesian drop. Beer’s not much better; I’m a pioneer with an unsophisticated pellet-trading system.

I blame my American college career: I’ve been conditioned to view alcohol as a necessary means, an unpleasant bus ride to a tropical destination. (My café is cold now; even worse.) I don’t boast a refined pallet: I still get a hard-on when I hear a box of shells and cheese being opened. Maybe I just don’t have the tongue to distinguish between Nati and the top-of-the-shelf. Sue me.

But, boy, do I look the part. I rock the suffocating jeans, pristine V-necks with just-the-right-amount of chest hair joining the party, my polarizing Euro-‘stache. I got the look down. (A chocolate lab with a naked neck just gingerly strolled by me. There’s a lot of that here.) But to my unfortunate detriment, the French mime exists only in (“Borderline” is playing right now, and I’m sitting in a French café. I'm having a moment.) re-runs of Animaniacs. I have to talk. I have to speak French.

But that’s when it all becomes real. I can pretend that each thoroughly-coiffed bombshell that passes my table was raised on Nickelodeon and PB&Js. If I disregard the plucked eyebrows and baguette under arm, that man with the killer aviators could have lettered varsity and received his first kiss at the Homecoming game by a girl named Melissa. But when he talks—when his language provides a cage-like context—I know he’s never tasted peanut butter. He’s never heard of Kenan Thompson or Kel Mitchell, and Pierre was actually the one who popped his cherry.

“Useless Desires” is now playing. Another moment.

I can force down every glass of Merlot. I can hold a candy cigarette ‘tween my middle and pointer fingers. I can cross my legs till my boys are blue. But I can’t fake the language. Madame Rouchet scares the Yankee shit out of me, and I guess language acquisition is sort of why I’m here. The next time a homeless man with a concave face accosts me at my bus stop, I need to be able to clearly comprehend his hollow threats so that I can best ignore him and continue to stare at my dirty Vans.

I almost drank half of my coffee. Baby steps, you know.

--C.Z.

Other thoughtful analyses concerning my European excursion thus far:
1. Six-year-olds here have better styles than most American teenagers. I find this partially attributable to the utter absence of Hot Topic.
2. I’m continually shocked by the number of French I’ve witnessed eating McDonalds fast food. After all, eating a Big Mac is like biting into American capitalism.
3. Sixty-five-year-olds here have better styles than most American teenagers.

The Ignorant Slackjaw

I told at least three-dozen people before I left that I looked forward to being uncomfortable. I distinctly remember the words coming out of my mouth, and I think that I remember the reasoning that propelled them. It went something like this:

Discomfort denotes mental unease, but it connotes the kind of mental breaking-down-and-rebuilding-for-a-better-tomorrow shtick that’s (purposefully) only mildly suggested in every TV commercial I’ve ever seen for the U.S. Army. Even high school dropouts with mustaches crusted over with chewless tobacco realize that when they sign away their freedom, they’re in for an ass kicking; however, the true and palpable extent of that ass kicking eludes them. As it did (and maybe still does) me.

I’m not comparing my excursions into the deep recesses of French language and culture to the corporeal damnation that is basic training. (Although, truthfully, I believe the parallels are numerous and potentially meaningful.) I am, however, becoming painfully, uncomfortably aware that my mustache is crusted over with chewless tobacco. Regardless of its self-conscious irony and capacity for “Eurotrash,” my mustache is a testament to the “satisfying, natural” taste of Red Man.

I was told it would be rough. But I don’t think the megaphone could have gotten loud enough for me to really hear it. I had romanticized the notion of discomfort to near Utopian levels; I equated physical and psychological smarting to a crisp afternoon of apple picking with Tickle-Me-Elmo. I shoved a key through the antonymic hole, if you prefer unnecessarily abstract metaphors.

The language barrier between my family and I is reinforced with steel beams. My comprehension skills are poorer than I had anticipated, and my fumbling, rambling attempts to converse with locals seem equivalent to branding my forehead with the stars and stripes. I’ve been studying the French language for six years, and I’m standing toe-to-toe with the unshakable feeling that I’ve nothing to show for it.

And although I can’t clearly express the whats and hows and whys, I still feel as if I’ve nothing to lose. I do feel like an underdog, but I guess the label isn’t manifesting into the same adrenaline junkie of yesteryear. I’m a different breed of underdog because I’m disadvantaged in a fundamental way, as opposed to a superficial one. My handicapped speech isolates me in ways that are much more profound and much more difficult to overcome. I can’t just be brave; this is about more than testosterone-launched spats of courage. I have to learn something. I have to learn how to communicate. And for me, the inability to communicate presents a discomfort that can’t be likened to any other negative stimuli.

Moral of the story: I got what I wanted.

--C.Z.