Stop Learning, Start Talking

Finding French fluency outside the classroom

Nov 22, 2024

While working as a newspaper reporter I’d sometimes get stuck in the reporting stage of a story. If it weren’t for inescapable daily deadlines, I might have spent days lingering over information-gathering – calling just one more source, getting one more interview, checking on the very latest statistics – before beginning to write. It was a trait that was, at once, admirable and frustrating.

I dawdled when I wasn’t completely confident that I had every angle covered, every fact explored, every voice registered. It’s recently been suggested to me, in so many words, (all of them French), that I’m doing the same with French - getting stuck in the “reporting stage.”

It was Inès, one of the many wonderful French teachers who have taught and encouraged me during the last 27 years, who suggested that I stop thinking of myself as merely a “French learner,” and start considering myself a “French speaker.”

In essence: Start writing the damn story, already.

Inès pushed me out of my nest a few weeks ago, during a wrap-up for my 12 sessions of her special brand of French coaching. I’ve been thinking about it ever since, turning her advice over in my mind, while staring down my insecurities. This particular instance of being unable to let go of the “reporting” differs from my days in newspapers in one big way: I was completely, unfailingly and, perhaps, annoyingly, confident of my journalistic abilities. When it comes to speaking French – something I began pursuing vigorously in 1997, when the Philadelphia Daily News first sent me to France to cover the story of Philadelphia’s notorious fugitive, murderer Ira Einhorn – I lack some of my old fearlessness.

During that first news-gathering trip to Champagne-Mouton, a village east of Bordeaux where Einhorn had been pretending to be an Irish writer after fleeing his trial for murdering his girlfriend in 1977, I learned what it feels like to be overconfident in my French ability. Hey, I thought, I took four years of French in high school. It meant nothing. I saved my ass by convincing a French news photographer that he should also cover the story. I agreed to trade background information for his translation.

I reported on the story for the next five years, closely following Einhorn’s battle against his extradition and, eventually, his first-degree murder conviction for killing Holly Maddux. The lengthy international court battle that ended in his return to Philadelphia gave me plenty of time to get up to speed with the language for my second reporting trip to France. My language skills were decent enough to conduct interviews during that trip, but I needed a lot of work.

My goal, well before we ever had the idea of moving to France, was to become fluent. My idea of fluency, however, is pretty hard-line. To me it means never being flustered enough by a situation to struggle to express myself, never being unable to find a word, never stumbling over the language’s often painful pronunciation, never backing myself into the grammatical version of an Escape Room.

Even with all the successful and fluid conversations I’ve had since making that goal, I can’t seem to shake the memory of Don’s emergency eye surgery, when anxiety and fear caused my French to nearly completely shut down while talking to his surgeon.*

Inès helped me understand that it’s normal for someone to struggle during stressful situations, even in their native language. She suggested I stop filling my time with so many French classes and, instead, join a club or group activity in my city so I can live more deeply in the language.

I’ve taken her advice to heart because I’m nothing if not a strict follower of all the rules. I intend to find my people, my club, my yoga studio, my group activity. I’m not ready to give up on all the French classes, because I really enjoy them. Even after all this time, I learn something from every grammar lesson, every discussion group, every literature class.

I owe my ability to live and speak in this beautiful country to so many teachers that I was moved to make a list of all I can remember. When you look at it, you might think Inès had a point about my addiction to French lessons. When I looked at the list, it felt like a good opportunity to say a heartfelt merci to all the teachers – beginning with my very first instructor, Monsieur McCabe, at Mount Saint Joseph Academy. If you are a French learner, follow any of the links below to find a wonderful teacher:

John McCabe

Patricia Le Foll

Jean-Luc Ballard

Christiane de Boisseson

*Note from Don: To be fair, Theresa’s anxiety was likely compounded by my boneheaded misunderstanding of my French-speaking ophthalmologist’s English.

After an early consultation, I told Theresa that the doctor had explained to me that, after the laser surgery, my injured eye would be pressurized with gauze.

Gauze? That can’t be right, she replied.

I insisted that’s what he’d told me… until Theresa researched the procedure and discovered the eye would be pressurized with gas.