I speak, therefore I belong

I live in Canada. More specifically, I live in Quebec, which officially only recognizes French as their language, while the rest of the country counts both French and English as the official tongues. Quebec is perhaps the province that singlehandedly keeps French alive in the whole of Canada, and kudos to them for that. I live in a place where any services by government, including the essential ones like healthcare, must only be accessed in French. This is the province where international traffic signs and names of global brands are translated to French. There are lots of bilingual people here, sure, but the political and cultural stance is clear: French is preferred, and we think it should be the sole language.

Despite my on-and-off attempts to master the language for the past ten years, I never quite got over the threshold of being decently proficient. I’m constantly too shy to try to communicate in French. As a relatively articulate adult now, my anxiety around sounding like an incomprehensible toddler in French is only ever going to increase. My comprehension in conversations is somewhere between spotty and nonexistent (because I can zone out completely if I’m not putting in the effort), and for the most part I’ve made peace with that. I work exclusively in English in all of my jobs, and my need for French to function as a working adult is somewhat minimal. If anything, my lack of French proficiency is only really evident and a cause of friction in the little day-to-day experiences that accumulate to whether I feel like I am at home here. This includes whether I can access basic citizen/resident services like healthcare which, as I mentioned, are designed to exclude people like me.

This sentiment also permeates into the casual encounters I have with locals. One day, while taking the elevator in my apartment building, I encountered an old man who seemed interested in starting some small talk. He spoke something to me in French, and in that flustered moment of preoccupation with something else in my mind, I decided to not even attempt to understand what he was saying (I probably could have, if I had asked him to repeat it enough times, but that’s besides the point). I just responded, with the most apologetic smile I could put on of an Anglophone, that I didn’t know French. My neighbor looked rather amused with a tinge of vexation and challenge, asking something in French which, even with my limited comprehension, I understood as, “You decided to move here to live, without knowing French?” He continued to chuckle at me, as I tried to keep my smile and repeatedly apologize, in both languages, until we were out of the lift. I felt shame and guilt in that moment, and these feelings stayed with me for many days after the encounter. I remember thinking to myself, “That’s right, how entitled of me! Who do I think I am to show up here in this city and act like I can belong here without speaking their language?”

Later on, thinking back about this moment, I developed an impression that the man’s response was vaguely reminiscent of the caricature of entitled Americans demanding everyone to speak English and looking down on those who don’t (sorry Americans, I know most of you aren’t like this). Of course, one can say that French is less of a dominant language in the world compared to English, and French/Francophone people are less obnoxious and pushy when it comes to exerting their lingual influence. The rest of the world would ridicule the stereotypical entitled behaviour, and sometimes I do too. But when it comes to my own lived experience in a Francophone place where I barely fit in, I often find myself jumping through mental hoops to justify and validate the confrontations and attitudes targeted at me, a non-Francophone.

Many, including myself, would consider me a spoilt brat for going around and proclaiming with ease that I didn’t understand the local language, before I even tried. I also recognize and empathize with the reasoning for their “francisation” mission. Because Quebec has a deep legacy of historical tension and clashes with English forces, there is a cultural and almost spiritual yearning here to protect the primacy of French. As a newcomer, my lack of initiative and commitment to join in on these efforts could seem entitled and disrespectful. If I were in their position, I would perhaps disapprove of my own behavior. But I’m not particularly concerned with the objective perception of what is “right” or “wrong” in this conflict of language. What resonates with me more is the question of how language is a medium of belonging, and this is something I can address from my personal experience.

For all these years that I’ve been trying to build my life here, I am caught in a mix of constantly feeling so much self-judgment and shame about not being fluent in French, then rationalizing with and against myself about this never-ending pursuit of learning the language. On the surface, it’s easy to declare a behavior good or bad, depending on what beliefs you find yourself attached to. Deep down though, the experience of someone who tries to belong in a place and community isn’t just a clear-cut debate about what is justified and what isn’t. It’s a lot murkier, and oftentimes the cultural and political zeitgeist can intentionally or unintentionally overlook that. It is this internal tug-of-war that’s the most exhausting for me, especially when public norms and attitudes either aggravate or completely dismiss it.

I sometimes think about how I’m living and working here, and except for the language barrier, I am contributing to the economy, paying taxes, using my earnings to support the local economy by consuming goods and services, and showing up with a smile and the best attitude I can bring to my workplace and social gatherings. I can always be a more perfect citizen, speaking the dominant language and showing my effort trying to do so. But if I don’t manage that, because, let’s say, it’s already hard to do all my other duties well while still trying to retain some sanity and peace of mind, do I deserve to feel shitty about not meeting the language requirement? Do I need to hear from the government whom I’m paying taxes to, or from my neighbors whom I’m trying to be pleasant with, that I don’t deserve their services or empathy?

For a long time and even now, I keep telling myself it’s a non-issue. I’m enjoying so many other benefits of being in a country that overall rewards me with ample opportunities to grow and to contribute. Once in a while though, the non-issue breaks me in more subtle ways. It’s the constant feeling of inadequacy and alienation after so many years of trying to fit in and belong somewhere. When I was a teenager, this felt normal, because that was the whole point of youth: putting in the effort to find your place in the world and cultivate a sense of belonging. Now, it sometimes pains me that after all these years of trying to master an international language, of learning and assimilating to a new way of life vastly different from my upbringing, of building my skills and knowledge to be a helpful person to my communities, I remain a second-class citizen in the place I have chosen to be my home.

This is the kind of personal predicament to which any solution would feel inadequate. I have started French lessons again recently, after trying and failing to fit the government-sponsored French courses into my two-job schedules. It’s an obvious solution, but learning a language does take a lot of brainpower and time, which in my circumstances and at my age, can both feel a bit like luxuries. I constantly feel trapped in a life that demands me to be more fluent, faster, if I want to enjoy ordinary and basic things like social contact and public services. Everywhere I turn, there are subtle reminders of how my lack of fluency is not welcome, is burdensome, and is something I should own up to. And even the pace at which I’m learning, constrained by my necessary pursuits of other activities like my actual employment, doesn’t seem enough for the faceless government and public here.

When I feel particularly stressed and isolated, I have thought about seeking therapy. No one close to me—my partner, my local friends—could relate to how I am feeling. Then, when I’m simply entertaining the therapy option, the most ridiculous thought would come to me: “What if my Quebecois therapist also has an opinion about my lack of French? Am I giving myself up as a target for more judgment?” Whatever it is that I’ve come to interpret of Quebec and its people, I recognize so little empathy out of it that I just assume hostility and judgment even in the safest, most impartial place.

Most of these thoughts aren’t factual nor healthy. Sometimes I wonder if all these years of trying and failing to master French have scarred me enough that it just became an emotional response rather than a rational one. In truth, I don’t think I’m incapable of learning the language. I did my fair share of learning when I was young, to the point that my English, which is my second language, barely sounds/feels like one. Heck, I’m more comfortable in English than in my mother-tongue most of the time. With French though, maybe I’m past the age where I would feel an inherent drive to learn it, or maybe the drive has been stunted by some complex feelings that I’ve kept for so long they mutate to something resembling trauma.

As a kid, I used to worship multilingualism like a badge of intelligence, until I was old enough to know it might very well be a sign of personal privilege, in the cases of people being born into a multilingual family or place. There are of course those polyglots who work really hard to learn several languages as adults, without being raised multilingual. I envy their will, their passion for languages, and their commitment and determination. I do have similar passions, just unfortunately not for language learning for its own sake. Does that make me less worthy than them? I don’t think so.

I admit that in my own personal interactions with my local friends (most of whom are Francophone for some odd reason), sometimes I have had thoughts that pretty much validate the prejudice of “entitlement” thrown at us Anglophones. Perhaps as a way to cope, I sometimes wonder, if it’s all for the sake of understanding each other, isn’t it better to use English which everyone understands, even if it’s only to accommodate the minority? Why make it complicated just out of some cultural and political belief? Other times, I think, from an equality standpoint, shouldn’t we all use everyone’s second language in conversations? English is my second tongue and also my Francophone friends’. Isn’t it more equal if we all try a little harder and get equally challenged, than for one person to attempt their third language while others use their first? These are the kind of thoughts that, if ever spoken aloud, would not earn me any understanding or sympathy here.

In the end, if I’m honest, I have no one else to blame but myself. I have chosen to move and stay here, where the locals have every right to want to preserve their language. I have chosen to surround myself with Francophone friends, without trying to foster guilt-free connections with other Anglophones. I have not worked harder on my French, especially when I was younger and my brain plasticity could have been an advantage. I have let my fear of sounding dumb in a new language take over any possibility of practicing to improve, because I care too much about my verbal ability meeting a certain standard. All in all, I can vent and feel frustrated about my circumstances, but the logical culprit of all that I’m experiencing is myself alone.

This longwinded blog is just my personal vent over a decade-long battle I’ve had with learning the French language. This is not to victimize myself even though some of the anecdotes and experiences have left me with more than enough sour feelings. This is also not to blame anyone for my own struggles with belonging. I’m not asking for applause or for the world to revolve around me. That’s why I’m still learning, practicing, and slowly improving my French today. That’s why despite breaking down in tears at times and living with constant anxiety about simple everyday interactions, I often conclude these episodes by dismissing my own feelings and returning to my lessons the day after.

I write all this from a place of shame and insecurity, but also of empathy for others like me who still think they need to work harder to belong somewhere. I write about my experience because I want to also reassure myself that I don’t inherently worth less than my neighbor just because I don’t immediately know a new language while making ends meet and building a new life. I think it’s a decent and humane thing to not make individuals feel less-than, especially when they are trying their best to be a functional and helpful part of society. Honoring a shared language and the culture and history around it is important, but let’s not inflict more guilt and stress on those who are already trying to fit in and contribute to the common good in this pursuit.