Je Parle un Peu de Français

Sabrina Fowler

Carol Severino

143:030:021

29 September 2018

Je Parle un Peu de Français

“My boss, Pascal, is coming in this weekend, Sabrina. He’s from France, perhaps you can practice your French with him? I’ve invited him to come to a basketball game with us,” my mother had mentioned one morning as I dressed to get ready for school. At fifteen I was socially awkward and not terribly interested in speaking to anyone in English, much less French. But I did have a love for the language, my ancestors were French, and it was somewhat of an unspoken tradition for the women in my family to learn it.

“Um, yeah I guess. That would be cool.” I’d said as I shrugged into the straps of my backpack.

“You can ask him any questions about the language or culture, it would be a great opportunity for you.” She said. She was right, it would be a great opportunity. Not only to improve my accent and language but also to get to know a bit about France itself. It had always been a dream of mine to travel to France one day.

“Oui,” I smiled, deciding in the moment to test my mother's own knowledge, “A tout a l'heure, maman,” I said, waving as I walked towards the front door.

“Au Revoir Sabrina, have a good day at school.” She replied, her accent a little off, her response a little hesitant, but she still had it. That day I’d touched up a bit on my grammar in French class, and looked up some words that I could use when referring to the basketball game. I’ll admit, I was a bit nervous about meeting my mother's boss. My mom loves to brag about my brother and I, and she no doubt bragged about me learning French. What if I had no idea what this guy was saying? I didn’t want to let my mother down or embarrass her in front of her boss. The pressure was on.

That Friday evening we were all preparing to meet Pascal. It was apparently his first basketball game, just as it was mine. I didn’t know what to expect of him, I just hoped he wasn’t a chatty person. He was going to meet us at our house, that way we would only have to pay once for parking, and when he did finally arrive, introductions were made and my first trial was at hand.

“Bonjour Monsieur Pascal, enchanté,” I greeted. He smiled and seemed a bit happy that I knew French.

“Ah! Salut, comment tu t’appelle?” He asked. For a moment my mind went blank, he’d spoken so quickly and fluently that I wasn’t sure what he’d said. Wait, appellee! Name!

“Je m’appelle Sabrina,” I replied almost too quickly.

“Sabrina, enchanteé.” He said before turning his conversation back to my mother in English. I sighed in relief and we all clambered into my mother’s old Galant to make the fifteen-minute drive to Cleveland, where we’d watch the Cavs play against the I Have No Ideas. When we arrived we handed over our tickets and searched out our seats. We were seated in the far back but centered so the entire court was pretty visible.

“I don’t know anything about basketball,” Pascal admitted to me as we waited for the game to start.

“Moi aussi.” I assured, shrugging, “But I can give you a bit of an idea. Vous voulez obtenir la balle dans le panier.”

“Oh, I see.” He nodded, “That makes sense.”

When the game started I pointed out our team, explained some of the things happening in French, and at some point, we even talked about food. I asked about France and he told me about his daughter, who wanted to come to America as an exchange student. The idea was even proposed that she and I could switch places, and that way I could go to school in France for a bit. By the end of the game, the Cavs had won and Pascal and I had become something like student and teacher. Though I believe we had both learned something from one another. As we walked out into the biting cold of October in Cleveland, back towards the Galant, I shivered and muttered,

“Il fait froid.”

“Il fait très froid.” Pascal agreed, rubbing his hands together and nodding to me in approval. My mother smiled.

I was just happy I could make her proud.