10 April 2003
My French Connection
by Savita Iyer
When I ask my 17-month old son where the
stars are, and he reaches his chubby arms
up to the sky, people within earshot, strangers
included, usually stop and give us a second
look. Not because my son knows where the
stars are, but because I'm asking him where
they are in French, and the incredulous
cannot seem to understand why an Indian
woman, who looks it every bit, speaks to
her son in fluent French.
I hate to admit it, but I'm conscious of
people's stares, and most of the time, in
an effort to pre-empt their questions, I
rush to offer them a thorough explanation
of why I'm speaking in French. "I was
raised in Switzerland, Geneva," I say.
"I lived there all my life until I
came to this country. I want my son to learn
another language besides English, and French
is the only one I know well." The looks
deepen.
"My parents still live in Switzerland,"
I continue, "and we will go and visit
them often. My friends' children speak French."
Many still stare me down, and again, I hate
to say it, but I'm intimidated—so much
so that if we're not around people we know
well, I'll often whisper to my son. Sometimes
I'll even resort to plain old English, hating
myself for doing so, because I know I have
every right to speak whatever language I
want with my child.
And yet there seems to be a host of reasons
why I shouldn't speak French. Some tell
me it makes no sense to speak French to
Sasha here in the States where everyone
speaks English. Others scoffingly say that
French is a snobbish language, spoken by
stuck-up people.
The majority of nay-sayers, though, cannot
seem to understand why I don't speak an
Indian language with little Sasha—after
all, righteous fellow Indians are the first
to tell me, I'm Indian, it only makes sense
that I should speak to my son in a language
that both befits and reflects my ethnicity,
rather than in one to which I have little
connection.
Wait a minute. I don't even speak an Indian
language fluently, and why should I? Just
because I look Indian and have an Indian
name? I've never even lived in India. I
grew up speaking English and French, I associate
as much with Geneva as I do with India,
and I have every right to because we're
living in a global world, where colonialism
set the stage for cultures to come together
and combine in new ways, for people to take
new customs and languages, to mix and match
with the old as they please, in order to
create their own belongings.
Through the years, many people have traveled
far and wide across the world, either out
of choice or because they were forced to
leave their homelands. Their children have
adopted new homelands as our own. We have
taken what they had to offer us, it became
as much a part of us as what we got from
our parents. The Moroccans, Algerians and
Tunisians, the Senegalese and the inhabitants
of Cote D'Ivoire, to name but a few, inherited
French as part of a colonial legacy, but
nowadays, the children of Sri Lankan Tamil
refugees in Paris and Geneva know no other
language but French. The same goes for everyone
else, including myself and my family, who
have made their lives in French-speaking
lands. The French language is a part of
us, something one doesn't even think twice
about and shouldn't have to think about
just because of the color of one's skin.
French, after all, doesn't come with a manual
of who can or cannot speak it. No language
should.
All my life, I have struggled to balance
different cultures. I was an Indian growing
up in Switzerland, and now I am an Indian
from Switzerland who has chosen to make
my home here in the U.S. Anyone in my situation
knows how hard it is to be caught in the
middle, but the years bring self-confidence,
and I like to think of myself now as having
a unique flavor, of which French is just
one of the many blending ingredients.
When I speak it with my son, it brings
to life my childhood—it makes me remember
endless summers in the Geneva countryside,
warm, melty Cailler chocolate licked out
of the packet, the softness of Nivea Body
Milk on my young skin as I cuddled close
to my mother on winter evenings, watching
"Dallas" episodes dubbed in French.
It brings to life the autumn leaves in the
courtyard of Geneva University, the smell
of chestnuts roasting on street corners
in November, the greenness of the apples
in the tree outside my bedroom window, and
the soothing voice of my high school French
teacher, Monsieur Hamayed, telling us of
the tragic lives of the poets Paul Verlaine
and Arthur Rimbaud.
It takes me close to my parents, and as
such, makes me want to speak it all the
more. My speaking French means I'm comfortable
with where they took me: I'm as much a part
of that place as they would have wanted
me to be. I like being an amalgam of different
elements. I consider myself fortunate to
have been able to mix and match bits and
pieces of cultures and countries, to be
able to express myself in different ways,
to look at things from several perspectives.
I would like my son to share some of that
vision with me. I want him to think that
French is just another part of him, I'd
like him to be able to speak it without
a second thought.
We're living in a global world, and yet
we still place people in molds. We don't
have the right to cut anyone else out of
a single piece of cloth because no one is
unidimensional. Let's accept our differences,
and in others, look forward to expecting
the unexpected.
Savita Iyer is an East Coast-based
writer and mother. Of Indian origin,
she has a
Malaysian passport, but was raised in Geneva,
Switzerland. She was educated there,
and
in the UK and the US, and has traveled
widely. As such, Savita does not belong
to one place
or one culture—she's made up of bits
and pieces of everywhere, and likes it that
way. She'd like to impart this global identity
to her son, Sasha. |
