DALF and other ruminations...

DALF is short for “diplôme approfondi de langue française”.

It’s a test. And I’ve decided to take it.

While most people make their New Year’s Resolutions on New Year’s Eve, I tend to wait until Fat Tuesday to get my ducks in a row.

In January, it’s so cold and, let’s face it, you’re looking at another two months of more cold. Who has the energy to do anything in January?

Me, I wait for Fat Tuesday.

As a child, I was raised Catholic. I never quite understood how Jesus fasting and praying for 40 days in the desert was the equivalent to my giving up candy for the same amount of time. But nevertheless, the nuns seemed to expect us to do something (or NOT do something) for 40 days and nights.

And I was never big on candy.

Usually, I cheated and vowed to read more books. But reading books was no torture for me. I was the weird kid who loved to read. And why should I give up anything? I mean, I didn’t really eat a lot of candy or watch a lot of TV. What was I supposed to give up? Green beans? Why?

Of course, the point was to try to improve your life to show appreciation to God for his great gift of life to you yada-yada-yada...

But why this emphasis on pain and deprivation? Why did you always have to “give-up” something to become a better person?

Even as a child, I was thinking outside the box. Sure, I could have promised to “give-up” reading and practiced the piano an extra hour a day. But then, I could equally have given up practicing the piano so much and read more books.

Seven years old and caught in a metaphysical dilemma.

In the end, I usually opted for the books. We were told to write our Lenten promises on a piece of paper and turn them into the teacher. I don’t remember anyone ever calling us out on them the day after Easter:

“So, Jimmy---I see here that you were supposed to give up chocolate for Lent. How’d that go for ya?”

There was no follow-up. And no one ever questioned why, with most children vowing to give up candy, these same children were suddenly greeted with a giant basket full of candy from an enabling bunny the first morning of their sweet reprieve.

Children don’t have very many bad habits. Children rarely need to quit smoking, quit drinking, quit using crack, or even quit eating French fries and get off the couch. In fact, I have a theory that quitting anything is much easier if you replace it with something much better. And, as someone who is STILL smoking (and certainly not proud of it!) I’ve discovered that it’s much easier for me to resist the temptation to smoke when I have something I would much rather do right in front of me.

French.

I studied French for four years in high school. After four years of high school French, I was supremely disappointed to discover that I could hardly understand a word.

I went to a Catholic, all-girls high school. And, may I say, as a gal who wore that uniform for four years---we young girls had NO idea that you men thought our uniforms were “hot”. To us, they were the same damn clothes we wore every freaking day. To us, they were boring!

We couldn’t wait for picture day or that first week of school when you got to wear your own clothes. We thought they were drab, plain, and simply functional. A way to democratize the students, keep them focused on their work and a way to help save our parents some money on clothes for growing girls. If anyone would have told us that full-grown adult men thought we looked “sexy” in our plaid skirts and white blouses---well, we probably would’ve laughed them out of homeroom.

And no, we most certainly did NOT wear sexy little underpants underneath our skirts. We wore plain cotton underpants and often even, a pair of shorts. Yes, shorts! Sorry to burst your bubble, guys. I’d wager that nine out of ten Catholic school girls to this day are wearing a pair of biking shorts under those nasty little wool skirts. Please. We have French Club and Play Practice after school. We’re busy, active gals. We need to feel comfortable and relaxed without our granny-panties showing. Yes, granny-panties! We’re fourteen---what do you expect, pervert?

But I digress…

I trust that I was given the best that French high school language education had to offer. But something, apparently, was missing.

After high school, I continued to “keep up” my French. Mainly by---yes, reading.

I once heard a story about the famous British biographer, Lytton Strachey. Strachey was a member of the Bloomsbury Group, which included such luminaries as Virginia Woolf, Clive and Vanessa Bell, E.M. Forster, and John Maynard Keynes. Strachey could often be heard “reading from the French” around a Bloomsbury fireplace to the rapt attention of his peers. But oddly, it was noticed that during a group trip to France, Strachey would not condescend to speak the language with the locals---insisting on using The King’s English to communicate in the French countryside.

I would hazard to guess that Strachey could not actually SPEAK the language. Nor possibly, understand all its idioms, patois and argot. How do I know?

Because I was that gal.

The ability to read a foreign language and the ability to understand, speak and write it are entirely different things. Americans (who are rarely bi-lingual) often wrongly assume that the foreign fellow who speaks English with poor grammar and sentence structure does not understand them. Trust me, he understands you. But being able to speak in proper English and understand proper English are two different things. To understand merely requires a certain amount of computation. To speak requires creativity and command.

While my French has improved considerably over the past few years, I’ve decided that my goal for Lent and the rest of the year is to finally be able to understand, speak, read and write French like a native. Writing is the hardest one. Writing shines a spotlight on every tiny flaw in your grammar, syntax and command of idiomatic slang.

I’m determined to be perfect! Well, at least in French. I will probably always have dirty dishes in my sink. I can’t help it. What can I say? I like a snack and a cup of tea. I can’t be washing dishes every half hour. What am I---a machine?

In my quest for perfection, I’ve discovered that high-speed Internet is a godsend! Thanks to the Internet, I can now watch celebrity gossip news from France, high school plays videotaped in Lyon, documentaries on the plight of the albinos in Tanzania, and MUCH better international news coverage than any American channel---and that’s including CNN! Sorry, Anderson Cooper.

Thanks to the Internet, I can now read blogs from home cooks all over France and French-Canada, can now look up any topic on “Wikipédia, projet d’encyclopédie librement réutilisable que chacun peut améliorer”, I can pick up the local argot “slang” on numerous discussion bulletin boards, and can even watch classic French films like The Umbrellas of Cherbourg on You Tube.

In short, I am well on my way to “parfait”!!!

My goal is to take (and PASS!) the "DALF, diplôme approfondi de langue française" by the end of the year. With this document, one can test out of the French language in any French university. This also certifies that you are completely proficient in the French language for any job that requires French proficiency.

No, I’m not planning on becoming a UN translator. But with this, I COULD.

At the very least, it would certainly qualify me for a position waiting tables at Café Un, Deux, Trois.

But then, I’d be waiting on the French. God, I love the French---I just wish they’d learn how to tip.

Or I could be like Nabokov and start writing my stuff in a foreign language.

Fille de Jacinthe. Hmmm…