Bonjour ! Hi! my name is Sam, et je suis bilingue

 

     Those who have seen the 2006 comedy Bon Cop, Bad Cop can perhaps relate to my experience as an Anglophone who, through a tortuous, years-long process, learned to speak “French” fluently and came to terms (somewhat) with Québécois culture.  Though I was born and raised in the Cantons-de-l’Est of la Belle Province (the geopolitical entity, you understand, not the restaurant), my roots are not to be found in Canadian – not to mention Québécois – soil.  My mother – the daughter of an English war bride – was the sole member of her family not to join the Anglophone exodus from Québec following René Levesque’s rise to power.  As for my father, suffice it to say that he grew up hearing many languages spoken – Arabic, Spanish and Italian among them, but not French.  Growing up surrounded by mostly Québécois neighbours, my brother and I were known as “les maudits Anglais”.  During most of my childhood, my family attended church in Swanton, Vermont.  Every Sunday morning, in that pre-9/11 world, we would cross the border, which was a mere 10-minute drive away.  Having become accustomed to our Lord’s Day tradition, the customs officers would raise a hand in greeting as we passed, waiving the usual running-board interrogation.  As far as the kids at church were concerned, my brother and I were “French frogs” from Canada.  Heads I win, tails you lose.  Back home, our relationship with the local Francophone girls alternated from rock fights one day, to engaging in mock wedding ceremonies the next.  “You come my house” was usually all that was required for the day’s adventures to begin.

     During the high-school years, I assumed that I would simply remain in Anglophone circles and thus outflank the problem posed by la langue de Mollière.  However, fate had other plans.  In the evening of 9/11 (2001), I found myself beginning a 3-year course of study at a Francophone college on the South Shore of Montréal.  This was to be my baptism of fire into the French language and community.  Little did I know that this was simply the beginning of a beautiful friendship which is still going strong.  At this school, my ears resounded with a cacophony of accents and dialects from the four corners of la Francophonie – Québécois, to be sure, but also French, African, Haitian, and Polynesian.  From the Haitian Koman ou ye? to the French Vous allez bien?, there was much to decipher.  Not all the Québécois I encountered appreciated my newly acquired language skills.  I recall one lady whispering to her husband (en français), “He speaks French better than we do”.

     A significant portion of my linguistic education occurred in the context of speaking engagements in church settings.  Fortunately, the audiences were mostly sympathetic; friendly paroissiens would often approach me at the end of the service to kindly point out that the word I had repeatedly used wasn’t actually in the dictionary.  Etymological faux-pas abounded – once I was speaking about Gandhi, and I referred to him as “ce dirigeant politique d’Inde” instead of “de l’Inde”.  As people tittered in their seats, I quickly recovered and declared that there is indeed a country called “Turkey” (i.e. la Turquie).  Uproarious laughter ensued.

     Once I enrolled in the Armed Forces and reported to boot camp, I found myself in a humorous situation.  Most of my fellow-candidates were from English Canada, so the instructors – mostly Québécois – had to do their best to teach in la langue de Shakespeare.  One advantage for us was the fact that it’s hard to berate recruits while trying to figure out how to shout orders in your second language.  Our platoon would often be divided according to who belonged to each of the two solitudes.  I amused myself by freely moving between the groups, to the consternation of the Master Corporals and Sergeants – which group does Farrugia belong in anyway?  It was here that I began my career as a translator and cultural liaison.  It can sometimes be a challenge to live in the “no-man’s land” of bilingualism, simultaneously understanding and being shot at by both sides.  However, as my (Québécois) platoon commander used to say, “It’s not science rocket”.