STOP THE VIDEO, PLEASE!
I turned the corner, at Young and Dundas, only to come face-to-face with ‘Growler’—Madame Henri, my French teacher from Primary School days. Growler was her nickname. What was she doing in Toronto?
I stood as if frozen in time and space. Someone must be playing a dirty trick on me—showing an old video of when I was eleven-years-old and about to begin a new life in a new country; for there I was, arriving in my new class a few seconds behind Madame Henri.
From her desk, she eyed me over the top of her horn-rimmed glasses. I smiled and in English said, “Good morning, Miss, good morning, everybody. I’m Leslie.” I waved. No one responded. They stared as if I had just beamed down from the Starship Enterprise and had said, “Nanu, Nanu.” Or maybe they stared because I was the only dark-skinned person in the classroom. This didn’t offend me though; I had come from a country where integration was the norm, and where my own parentage was interracial. But when Madame Henri squawked, “Parlez-vous français?” I had to pinch myself to ascertain that I was awake and to reassure myself that I was, in fact, in Canada and not France. By this time, I had located the only available seat at the back of the classroom.
“Parlez-vous français?” growled Madame Henri, again, pushing her glasses higher up the bridge of her nose. A shiny gold chain, strapped to the frames, hung loosely down the sides of her face, and snaked across her shoulders, disappearing around the back of her neck.
“Sorry, Miss, I only speak English.” Then realizing that I might have entered the wrong classroom, I grabbed my bag, and began a mad scramble towards the exit. “Sorry, wrong class—”
“Arret!” bellowed Madame Henri.
On impulse, I stopped, one foot frozen mid-stride. Silence blanketed the classroom.
“Assiez-vous, s’íl vous plait,” said Madame Henri, pointing to the chair I had just vacated.
My foot crashed to the ground. I made a slow retreat to my desk. Madame waited until I had reestablished connection with my seat.
“Parley-vous français?” said Madame, her voice penetrating the stillness like a pistol shot.
Remembering the words of a song I had heard on the radio, I looked Madame Henri straight in the eye and said: “Voulez-vous couché avec moi?”
The class sniggered, but only for a short while. Madame Henri banged her textbook on the desk, and lifting her hand, flicked her index finger backwards and forwards, indicating that I should come to the front of the class. Thereupon, she grabbed my left ear and hauled me into the corridor, closing the door behind her.
“Lesssaaaaleee,” she rumbled, in her heavy French accent, her horn-rimmed glasses dangerously close to my nose. “I will make an exception this once and speak to you in English. Now, listen carefully. What you just said back there was rude and intolerable, but I will ignore it. This, however, I will not ignore. You are never to speak in English in my classroom . . . never…ever…again. In fact, you are to refrain from speaking in English once you step through those double gates.”
“But Madame Henri, I only speak English. It’s my Mother Tongue.”
Madame Henri said nothing; she just glared at me before storming back into the classroom. Meekly I followed, struggling to control threatening tears that stung the back of my eyes. Madame Henri was a horrible witch!
For the remainder of the session she kept asking me questions in French knowing full-well I could not provide answers. But I had a trump card up my sleeve. I was versed in sign language—something my friend had taught me back home. The next time Madame Henri asked me a question in French, I signed my reply. “May the good Lord Bless and keep you, if the devil doesn’t find you first, that is.”
Of course, she did not understand what I had said, or so I thought.
Madame charged down to my desk, grabbed me by the elbow, and marched me into the Principal’s office. As I sat waiting for my reprimand, I again tried to comprehend my situation: I was in Canada—a multicultural country—yet I was not allowed to speak English in class. Why? I was beginning to hate Montreal. Why did Dad chose to live in Canada and not England?
Later, I realized that English was taboo everywhere in Montreal—shops, restaurants, among locals, even as street names. I soon developed the ability to pretend I was dumb. People didn’t seem to mind that and they were ever so willing to help when I pointed. Unfortunately, I could not pretend to have this affliction at school.
Anyway, I had great difficulty learning French. There were times when I was desperate and could only think of words in English. Like the time our class went to the museum and I wanted to go to the toilet—fast! Have you any idea what it’s like to walk around in soggy wet underwear, stockings and boots—in minus 20 degree weather—all because you couldn’t say ‘where is the toilet’ in French? I was glad when, just after three months, Dad was transferred to Toronto where French was not compulsory.
Now, here I was, twenty years later, standing as if my feet were encased in cement, gazing at Madame Henri. I couldn’t mistake that rigid, unsmiling face, wearing the same horn-rimmed glasses with the worn-out, shiny gold chain dangling from the frames, and creeping behind her neck. Madame must have recognized me too, because she drew to a sudden halt, and glared at me like a mad bull, readying to charge.
I felt eleven-years old again. My knees shook, my palms sweated, and the engines in my heart revved. Droplets of sweat formed across my brow and top lip. In fact my whole body began to sweat. It felt as if I was caught in a drenching rainstorm. Beads of warm water trickled into my shoes, except it wasn’t raining!
“Buongiorno…er…Buenos dias …er…Madame…?” I stammered.
“So, it is you. Llleeesss-a-leee Faaa-rrraaannnk-aa-lin. Still can’t speak French, eh?”
Madame removed her glasses and, easing her walker forward, decreased the short distance between us. Centimeters in front of me, she stopped and brought her face close to mine. “Walked through a puddle; have you Llleeesss-a-leee?”
Stop the video, please!
