Three years ago, a story shifted my perspective on personal limitations. Learning that a friend had mastered French to the point of writing and delivering an artist’s statement in a museum, I had to confront my own self-imposed “too late” narrative. This friend was undoubtedly driven, but her achievement boiled down to a fundamental element: willingness. This realization sparked a question: why couldn’t I, too, embrace the willingness to Learn French?
I embarked on my journey to learn french, seeking out a highly recommended teacher, despite her initial hesitation to take on beginners. I was determined to prove myself a worthwhile student. Our lessons progressed, a source of mutual satisfaction. However, my family offered a less enthusiastic response. They would gently tease, asking me to lower my voice and soften the intensity of my pronunciation. “Focus on intonation, not just the accent,” they advised. Even my son chimed in, playfully suggesting that French words simply didn’t quite fit in my mouth. My husband recounted the story of a fluent American in Paris who, despite a flat “r”, was perfectly understood. He suggested I adopt a similar approach. But by then, my flat “r” was a lost cause. I was already immersed in my developing, imperfect accent, with no turning back.
Two years into my efforts to learn french, I found myself at a film festival in Lisbon, surrounded by Europeans effortlessly switching between languages, often settling into French. Confessing my ongoing French learning endeavor to Portuguese filmmaker Marta Mateus, I was met with unexpected encouragement. Marta, and subsequently others, made a conscious effort to always address me in French. It was a generous act of optimism, a belief that I would eventually catch up. As a judge at the festival, my days were filled with films, and my nights extended into midnight dinners where I pushed myself to converse in French, returning to my room each night feeling drained and disheartened. Meaningful conversation remained elusive. Perhaps, I thought, I simply didn’t have a natural aptitude for languages.
Working through textbook exercises felt worlds apart from engaging in an intelligent conversation with someone like Fabrice Aragno, Jean-Luc Godard’s long-time collaborator. Marta, still my biggest supporter, proposed a radical solution: “Go to Paris,” she urged, “and find a teacher to converse with you for several hours daily.” This, she explained, was her own path to fluency. “That’s because you’re European,” I countered, perhaps a little defensively. But she remained unconvinced that I should limit myself with low expectations.
I had been planning a writing retreat in Paris for a month. I decided to pivot. Instead of writing, I enrolled in intensive daily French language instruction. By the end of that immersive experience, something shifted. I turned a corner in my journey to learn french. Now, I can hold conversations. I can speak French throughout an entire meal, although with close friends, I often switch to English after a while, seeking a level of communication that still surpasses my French proficiency. My pronunciation has become more natural, less strained. While there’s still a considerable distance to travel, the more I learn french, the clearer my purpose becomes. Practical necessity isn’t my primary driver. Instead, I’m drawn to the challenge itself. French represents a space where I am set adrift, stripped of my familiar linguistic ease. As a writer and artist, I rely on rhetoric, imagination, intuition, and irony to navigate and interpret the world. I absorb cues and formulate responses, constantly making mental notes. French, in contrast, is an authoritative structure. To engage with it, I can’t simply rely on instinct as I do in my native language. I must pay close attention, step outside my subjective reality, and embrace a broader, shared world—one that I don’t need to conquer, but rather, one to which I can humbly submit and learn from.
