L'incorrect Romantique Langue

First off, for all you French-speakers, I hope I translated the title right. It was supposed to read, The Wrong Romance Language. But I take Spanish, so it's more likely than not that I botched the title's translation. I apologize... Bear with me.


Among my list of regrets, I sometimes wish I had opted for French rather than Spanish back in seventh grade when, for the first time, I was given the chance to take a language in school. It is common for people to have regrets, but not quite as common to regret which language you took in those youthful school days... Right? And yet, I find myself from time to time speculating on how life would be different if I had taken French instead of Spanish. 

For example, if I had taken French, I could speak to all those cool French-speaking people I know. In French. A lot of these "cool people" happen to be teachers. THAT says a lot about me... How nauseating. But still, I stand by my statement. As a follow-up, here's an illustrative scenario: my dad, being the lovely man he is, went to parent-teacher conferences, and one of the teachers he met with was my language arts teacher, Dr. Schroeter, a fluctuating and ebullient French woman. There was no fluctuation once she discovered that my dad speaks French. In fact, my dad sent me the following texts:

"Spoke in French the whole meeting with Schroeter. I love her."

"She was telling me how much she'd prefer to tango in Argentina than to live among cold Anglos."

Well, isn't that just dandy. Maybe I would've known all these interesting things about Schroeter if I could speak French. But no, I had to learn it secondhand! (I should add that I appreciated learning that piece about her regardless, and it did not actually make me that upset, rather, I am simply trying to make a point here.) I feel left out when people mumble things in French because I can't decipher a thing from their discourse. Strangely, I usually only feel isolated when it's French, not German, Arabic, Chinese, etc. I think I just have problems with French. (And Spanish, but that's a different story.)

And then there's the fact that if I had taken French, I could practice with the people with whom I live: my parents. How much simpler it would have been than calling a relative on the telephone every week for a little practice! I could quickly and easily get help on assignments and with practice. I could also speak French to my parents when I didn't want my siblings to understand what was going on: 

"Ce soir après que les filles vont au lit, nous devrions recevoir la montre un film." "Cela semble bon."

And there you have it! (Or something like that... Because I don't speak French, I just translated phrases on the Internet; if the translation is wrong, I cannot and will not take any blame. Muhaha.) French would have been a good addition to my life, and no one can deny that it is an engaging language, too. But then, the reason I chose Spanish in the first place was because of its appealing pertinence...and I have liked Spanish...as a whole. I could always start French in addition to my Spanish; it's not a lost opportunity, it's a waiting one. And... I guess, that in the end if I had taken French, it could have quite easily ended up like this:

“In Paris they just simply opened their eyes and stared when we spoke to them in French! We never did succeed in making those idiots understand their own language.” -Mark Twain

And, well, that would be an uncomfortable situation no matter what language you spoke. Goodbye for now - or, as my mother would say, "bah-bye". 

Have a nice day,
Scout