Working with Brain Minions in Language Learning Land

A fair warning: today's post features some rather colorful language. Read at your own risk.


Back when I was a middle school and high school student, I often heard my fellow classmates complain about how utterly pointless it was to even bother learning a foreign language and that the subject's sole purpose for existence was to give employment options to the optimistically deluded individuals known as "teachers." I was quick to point out to my classmates that their reasoning was unjust and simply not true. Taking a foreign language class surely had other virtues.

"Oh, you're right, Barbara. It isn't just about giving jobs to teachers; it's also about fulfilling the foreign language requirement to get a high school diploma. All this work for a damn piece of paper..."

"No, no, no! Guys, learning another language is great!" I expounded to these misguided teenagers. "You get to experience and learn about another culture from its grammar and ways of being. Plus, what if you travel abroad? Being able to speak another language other than English might prove to be helpful."

At which point, said classmates would demonstrate their unanimous agreement with my argument by rolling their eyes and yawning in my face. Years later, though, I am indeed very, very happy to have to have stuck by my principle of paying attention in French class because I found myself in the odd position of packing my bags to become an optimistically deluded individual in France.

While learning a language other than the native one you speak can be a fulfilling goal, at times, I think that language acquisition and cultural immersion should come with either a disclaimer, or a cautionary sticker or a warning label directed at those who embark on such an adventure, preferably found as a sign when you cross into another country's border.

The confusions that arise on a day-to-day basis would be enough to drive any expat insane, and this is ever the case regarding conversational exchanges. The expat or foreign speaker will think about what their want or need is in their native tongue, take a moment to translate it in the language-translation area of their brain, let the synapses process the meaning, let said words travel towards the mouth, and then finalize the journey by expressing what was on their mind to the native language interlocutor.

That action alone is a hazard for what is thought in the mind can occasionally be warped: crucial words go missing, grammar tenses and syntax become skewed, syllabic mispronunciations result in incomprehensible misunderstandings.

A recent example happened when some visiting friends of mine and I placed some orders for three coffees in a café only to then change one of the beverages for a bottle of water because my gal pal needed to quench her thirst.

Waitress: "So, do you still want the three coffees?"

Me: "Actually, it'll just be two coffees now and one bottle of water because my friend is in heat."

I had meant to say that my friend was "hot" (elle a chaud) and yet, in the Language Learning Center of my brain, my nearly 10 years of speaking French went out the window when I mistakenly said that she was "en chaleur." I noticed my error instantly and sputtered the correct words, but it was too late. The damage had been done and the waitress was chuckling at my basic A1 level French.

While I was still beating myself up about this incident, I began to wonder: why do these mistakes happen? Or, rather, what causes them to occur?

My theory is this: tiny, hardworking minions who reside in the brain are solely in charge of making sure that messages make it out of my mouth, and these minions, like all living creatures, sometimes make the mistakes which lead to misunderstandings.

I would image that the process of cooperating with minions goes like so. My body is presented with a stimulus and has to have a verbal reaction to it.

(This is an actual song, one which I had caught my students "singing.")

French mistake to NEVER make: "baisser" means "to lower," whereas "baiser" means "to fuck." 

However, if used as a noun, "un baiser" means "a kiss." Yet the proper verb that means "to kiss" is "embrasser." Be careful if you kiss someone and then proudly proclaim "je l'ai baisé" to your friends...

I'm not angry with my brain minion team, but they have instigated some unfortunate incidents during my time in Language Learning Land.

To any expats who may read this: Don't worry or beat yourself up. Whatever throngs you've faced in Language Learning Land, just remember to enjoy the stay.*

*Results and experiences may vary.


Barb the French Bean

Lessons in French: How to Say "Mullet"

In my four years of living in Croissant-and-Baguetteland, I am happy to report that going throughout life isn't always a high fashion runway that requires you to look your absolute best. While French women certainly make a point to look slightly more chic and elegant to their male counterparts, one isn't obligated to look ready to go to a party. What is expected in French dressing sense is that you look presentable: never leave the house in pajamas, keep your bits covered with reasonably lengthy attire, don't look like you just rolled out of bed then went straight to the shower.

Being someone who is perpetually late*, I've been able to cut some corners and get away with wearing just a minimal amount of make-up (lipstick and moisturizer) and my otherwise unkempt hair is kept in a tight bun. I admit that cartoon me, who is always sporting flouncy, untamed locks, is not the best representation of my day-to-day existence.

Sorry if I mislead you guys. 

*Unless I have to catch a train. I'm almost never late for trains. And if I AM late, its nice to know that I can always count on the SNCF to have my back with their own tardiness.

Still, living far away from the familiar American shores and all of the subtle cultural nuances from back home, I never, NEVER thought that I would see the day when I saw a French person sporting the dreaded Mullet. For those who are not in the know, the Mullet is a particular hairstyle that is reputed for being a "business in the front, party in the back" cut, meaning that it provides an odd combination of commencing with what would seem a normal short hairstyle that is abruptly tapered by a long mane.

When you look at a Mullet, you get the uneasy sensation that something is aesthetically off. Heck, when pronounced with an American dialect, the word itself is phonetically unpleasant.

I'd like to imagine that it was probably created by someone who was inept at cutting their own hair and, rather than admitting to their friends it was an accident, decided to convince them all that it would be the latest trend to rock trailer park communities.

Yes, the humble Mullet, with its short, spiky fringe and cascading rear, insinuates a stigma that the wearer is an uneducated, low-income loser who is probably addicted to beer and trucker hats, and terrible movies like Joe Dirt certainly didn't help to improve that stereotype.

Those who are brave enough to sport the Mullet effectively have placed themselves to be a laughingstock in American eyes and are portrayed as being as American as apple pie, bald eagles and Old Glory.

So imagine my horror shock when on one fine Saturday morning I encountered a Frenchman sporting this American hairdo.

Then imagine my further urge to regurgitate my lunch shock when I saw that the Frenchman's wife also sported a Mullet.

Then, dear reader, place yourself in my shoes when I resisted the desire to urgently call child services to report parental abuse saw that their two kids also had Mullets of their own! An entire French family with Mullets!

The Mulet Family Portrait

I was struck dumb. Had American cultural invasion to surreptitiously integrate itself into other countries finally taken its toll? Was I going to start seeing more and more beer pong parties with red Solo cups being advertised on T.V.?

(Of course not; France doesn't need to advertise alcohol, duh.)

After the initial wave of confusion ebbed and flowed from my mind, I courted the idea that perhaps this little odd family was just a one-time fluke. But then I attended the town's carnival and to my surprise, I spotting some more children donning the hairstyle! What is going on, I thought. This isn't right... I tried to reason that this style couldn't possibly be on the rise in France. No Mullet-based craze had yet to hit the runways in Paris and even in my most dreary days in Dijon, I had yet to have spotted a local wearing said 'do. Maybe, just maybe, the Mullet was concentrated to the area I reside in the Sarthe département.

I decided to consult my theories with my hairstylist, but since she is French and I didn't know the French term for "Mullet" (nor if there even WAS a term for it), I resorted to describing the physical aspects of the style.

"Have you ever seen a very particular hairstyle in which the hair is cut short in the front and kept long in the back? Do you know what I'm talking about?"

Her serene features scrunched when she cringed and she nodded.

"What is that hairstyle called in French?"

"Le Macgyver."

I unintentionally paused for emphasis.

"Le Macgyver?"

That bomb should nuke Macgyver's Mullet out of existence. 

"Yes."

"As in...?"

"Macgyver."

"As in the T.V. character?"

No amount of string and paper clips will let you worm your way from my wrath, Macgyver.

"Yes, that one."

I went to explain to her that I was extremely surprised to see the French sporting this hairstyle and had never seen one until I had moved to Sablé-sur-Sarthe. I mentioned to her the social stigma that the Mullet evokes back home and how people who wear it are considered to be very "particulier." She drew a sharp intake of air and said that a similar stigma also exists in France.

"Years ago, when the show aired, from its popularity, it started a craze and people wanted the same style. You see it less and less these days in France, but there are people who still have a hard time letting things from the past go."

Goddammit, Macgyver. Who knew you'd have this effect on deluded French people?

I then asked my hairstylist another question.

"Have you ever had somebody ask you for le Macgyver?"

Her brown eyes widened with the recollection of one woman who, despite my hairstylist's suggestions and pleas to consider other options, insisted on having her hair cut into a Mullet.

"I didn't even know how to go about this hairstyle! You see, haircuts are supposed to fit into a 'frame,' and le Macgyver, with its irregular combination of two different frames, made it very difficult to reproduce."

She then leaned next to my ear and, with utter scandal dancing in her tone, whispered,"Things about it just don't go at all because you can't distinguish when one part ends and another begins. It looks so bad."

AH-HA! Eureka!, I thought. No wonder the Mullet looks aesthetically unbalanced; it's because the techniques to style it aren't even right in the first place!

To console myself, asked my hairstylist to give me a non-Mullet cut for the special occasion of celebrating my last full day in my mid-Twenties*.

Take that, Macgyver.

Barb the French Bean


*I turn Twenty-Seven on April 6th. As people back home in Miami would point out, "Estás vieja."

Pétage de Câble (A.K.A. Operation: Coffee Crash)

The Pétage de Câble starts off with a minor incident which is then followed by a series of relatively innocuous annoyances. The catalyst incident could be, say, having your trusty MP3 break down in the middle of your workout which, as innocuous annoyances dictate, forces you to listen to the crap the gym blasts on their speakers for the whole time.

Mildly dejected with the realization that you now need to invest in a new technological device, you instantly feel remorse over the whole set of Harry Potter DVDs which you now deem to be a frivolous purchase. You resign yourself to go home and check out what the store has to offer the following day.

Of course, once you do get home, the fatigue of having exhausted your muscles in the gym crashes on you. You are so tired that you contemplate skipping dinner altogether to go straight to bed. You choose to eat a salad anyway.

After dinner, you are gladdened that you have the rare occasion of going to bed early. Judging from the time (eleven o'clock), you even have the delightful idea of waking up early the following morning. Your body clearly indicates that it needs a proper night's rest. You slide underneath the warm, comfortable duvet and wait for slumber to hit you immediately, still clutching to the hope that you will be relaxed and fully energetic the next day.

Except your brain has other ideas.

Rather than going to bed early (at eleven), your mind wills you to stay awake for several hours, and your body is helpless to its demands. Finally, at 3:30 a.m., the brain caves in and allows you to get some rest.

However, this rest comes in erratic intervals. Throughout the night, rather than granting you the full time to sleep until the alarm is supposed to ring, your eyes snap open and they immediately rove around the room. They see the time. The alarm is supposed to go off in two minutes. The alarm goes off.

You rebel and hit "snooze." One hour later, regret sinks in and you feel like a failure for not having woken up in time. Your limbs slide off the bed. Your feet touch the floor. You stand up.

Your arms hang limply to your torso while its heavy weight is likened to that of a bag of rocks. With the slight headache throbbing at your temples, you know instantly that in your current state, you are going to have a bad day.

Still, you attempt to make the most of your day and opt to look nice for work. For your attire, you choose something of your liking. You decide on a delicate, cream-colored top and go to work.

Throughout the day, the headache and fatigue persist. Not wanting to seem like a whiny, namby-pamby to your colleagues, you keep your predicament to yourself. For some reason, your body has also been set to "heightened klutz mode" which causes you to drop everything you touch. You try to cheer yourself up with the notion that at the end of the day, you will go to the store to replace that broken MP3 with a new one.

The morning doesn't seem to end.

Suddenly, it's lunchtime. You are hungry and are ready to scarf down the first thing handed to you. The food item happens to be served in a greasy red tomato sauce. Worried about ruining your delicate, cream-colored top, you are mindful about not letting a single speck of sauce make look like you are sporting the Japanese flag. Scarfing food is no longer an option. Mood slightly improved after lunch until the stress of work takes over. During one lesson, an impertinent student interrupts the lesson to ask if you are attracted to members of the same gender. You suppress the puerile urge to throw the student out the window.

By the end of the day, despite your best attempt to keep a smile on your face, the harbored combination of exhaustion, headache, stress and general foul mood has gradually grown and is at risk at exploding any second. You leave your workplace and head for the store.

You check out the MP3s and choose the one that calls out the most. It just so happens to be behind a glass display case that can only be accessed by an employee who wields a key. You approach the nearest vendor and ask to have the display case be opened. Said vendor promptly informs you that their colleague is the one who can open the case and asks you to wait patiently for them to return.

You agree to wait.

You wait two minutes. Then five minutes.

You see a gentleman approach you and your spirits soar. He walks past. You sigh and resign to wait some more. The man comes back, makes eye contact with you, yet says nothing. You continue to wait by the glass display case.

After fifteen minutes, you approach the man.

"Excuse me," you begin, "are you the one who can open the display case so I can buy an MP3?"

"Yes. Right this way, please."

A tirade of profanity-laced diatribes scroll through your head as the man, in fewer than a minute, retrieves the MP3 you want and leads you to the checkout counter.

Before going home, you feel that you are in desperate need of a pick-me-up. You enter the neighboring bar and question the bartender if they have hot chocolates.

They don't.

You ask if they have Irish Coffees.

The so-called bartender has never made an Irish Coffee before. What else would you care for? A large café au lait, you reply. You slump your tired body into a plushy booth and wait for the beverage to come. It eventually does. You thank the bartender.

Your cold hands grasp unto the mug.

The really hot mug.

The really hot and heavy mug.

It slips out of your hands.

The contents spill on your jeans.

And on the delicate, cream-colored top you had so carefully protected from red sauce at lunchtime.

If you weren't in public, surrounded by strangers, your reaction would have probably been like this:

Instead, you sop the lukewarm liquid, drink whatever is left in the mug, pay, then walk home.

As if the weather also wanted to get in on the action of spiting you, it begins to rain.

When you finally do get home, you have the rather unpleasant surprise that someone, somehow, managed to slip your dirty welcome mat underneath the front door.

This normally wouldn't have been much cause for concern, and yet, after having an MP3 device stop working, after not having had a proper night's rest, after having to work the whole day sustaining a splitting headache, after being ignored by a salesclerk, and after having a nice top be RUINED when you had tried to protect it earlier on, seeing the amount of dirt and dust that had trailed onto the spotless floor that you had cleaned merely a day before was the fucking last straw.

But this is certainly not "the drop which overflowed the vase."

That is when you experience the dreaded "pétage de câble." The pent-up rage harbored in your being explodes upon ignition. Hot lava streaks down your cheeks as you holler and howl like an unruly two-year-old.

Then, as quickly as the anger had come, it subsides. It's over.

You decide to eat dinner. Perhaps you'll have another salad like last night. You open the fridge.

The lettuce has spoiled overnight.

Sodium-drenched ramen noodle soup is a better option on a cold night, anyway.

Barb the French Bean