When Addressing a Group of Raccoons

French is a somewhat precious language. With its gendered vocabulary, extravagant idioms, and romantic rhythm it feels kind of expensive. If you took French on a date, you'd shell out. French orders steak. And lobster.

One of the tricks I use to get my students talking on those excruciating Monday mornings is to ask them about French culture. Playing the ignorant American, I inquire how "things are done around these parts?" And slowly but surely my smelly band of 16-year-olds starts to perk up. 

Take Christmas for example. After explaining the all too familiar American holiday traditions I turned the focus on my students. I learned, for instance, that in France when you're bad you don't get coal, but instead rotten food. Which seems so much more malicious. And also so much more French. Coal to an American represents everything that isn't shiny and expensive. It's the promise of diamonds and instead you get dirt. In a country where regional cuisine merits it's own word (terroir) rotten food is a real slap in the face to a Frenchie. 

What's more, they've managed to class-up the punchline that is American Santa. Here, Papa Noel is a bachelor (sorry Mrs. Clause). Which makes sense considering most French men in positions of power don't seem fit for monogamy (the current president of France, Francois Holland, just got caught cheating on his wife with a French actress see here ). And instead of living in a hokey, deserted North Pole cabin, Papa Noel resides in Finland. I was shocked at the sincerity with which this was explained to me. "He lives in Laponie. It's next to Scandinavia." Could this student tell me anything about Laponie? "There are lots of white rabbits there." This was said to me in a tone one might use to explain that there are "palm trees in Florida." Duh !

I was ready to throw in the towel on France just being a real class act. A place where even hormonal teenagers can somehow step back and appreciate the magnificence of their country and language. Then I remembered that these are the same kids who eat pasta with ketchup on it-

It's a thing.

Then a student raised her hand. "That iz only if 'ee iz bad. If you 'rrr really bad then Pere Fouettard come." Several students nodded in silent agreement--as if reminiscing on something unpleasant. 

Pere Fouettard literally translates to "Whipping Father." As it was explained to me, he looks like Papa Noel, only dressed entirely in black. Some students suggested that he's Santa's brother which seems like a classic soap opera trope. But other students insisted that Pere Fouettard is actually Santa himself. Now that's a show I would TiVo. Compared to Santa--who enters the house through the chimney or door--Fouettard enters through the window or worse, sometimes he materializes under your bed. As the name suggests, he beats you. Which is neither terribly creative or romantic. 

I began questioning what other cultural landmarks are perhaps imperfect behind all the cigarette smoke and sex. Take for example, L'Academie francaise. This institutional body has been charged with preserving the French language since the 1600s. Where we have UrbanDictionary and Merriam Webster (who willy-nilly adds just about anything to the English lexicon--"twerk," really?) France has L'Academie. It's composed of 40 elected official who call themselves "Immortals." I know. They meet every Thursday afternoon wearing the traditional silver and green robes and each sporting a "jeweled sword." They basically always look like they're leaving Elton John's Halloween party. Here's a list of some people who weren't accepted to L'Academie: Descartes, Balzac, Proust, Moliere and Emile Zola.

Is French a beautiful language? Undoubtedly. Does it warrant a group of prolific writers dressed like cult members deciding it's linguistic future? Jury's out. Is it free of imperfection? Nerp!

Did you know that the word for "avocado" and "lawyer" are the same in French? What kind of upside down socialist world is this, amiright? And I won't even get started on the gendered nouns cause I have too many feelings but let's simply examine the existence of the second-person plural pronoun in French:

Where as in English there exists only one "you," in French there are two. One singular pronoun and one plural. So in English I can say "you look lovely tonight" to my dog, but also to a group of raccoons. In French I would specify between tu and vous according to the number of mammals I'm addressing. Vous is also considered to be more formal when addressing a respected elder or the scary man that works at the post office. The French seem to silently lord this formal tense, as a landmark of cultural sophistication, over Americans.

But upon further reflection I realized that English does in fact have a second personal plural for addressing more than one "you." It's called "y'all." 

Vous=Y'all, y'all. Who's classy know France?*


Again, as an apology for rambling, I leave you with this picture--

This is the first Burger King in France that just opened a couple of months ago in Paris. That is a velvet rope behind which people are waiting. For Burgar King. Good night and God bless y'all.

*please don't take away my visa.