“Can you tell Mémé that I want some strawberries?” Pierre leaned over and whispered in my ear at the kitchen table. “I can’t talk to Mémé anymore.”
He needed me to translate. I had become his personal interpreter.
My French son needed me to speak on his behalf . . . translating between English and French. He could no longer speak to Mémé, his French grandmother.
Pierre could understand everything in French. However, he had lost most of his expression and his ability to speak his first language.
Born in France, Pierre had spent his first 5 years in his father’s native land. He had attended 2 1/2 years of French preschool. His entire life and world were in the French language. He was completely fluent in French and English—as fluent as a 5-year-old can be.
Pierre was a bilingual child.
Until We Left . . .
Until we left . . . until we left France . . . until we left his life and world.
Arriving in our “Land Between” in Pennsylvania 1 1/2 years ago, Pierre could also understand and speak English fluently. However, he was behind his fellow kindergarten classmates in his mastery of the ABCs and their phonetic sounds.
Pierre could recognize and cite the alphabet in French, but his American mother had failed to teach him how to do the same in her native language—English.
On his first day of school in the U.S., Pierre couldn’t understand why none of his classmates spoke French. Most of these American 5-year-olds had never even heard of France. Most had most likely never been on an airplane or even traveled outside of Pennsylvania.
He’s a ‘TCK’
Pierre was a third culture kid—a “TCK”—having flown in airplanes around the world since he was in the womb. He had already traveled to more than 10 countries in the first 1/2 decade of his life.
He could speak French and English fluently, but he couldn’t recognize an “R” and a “Z” in English on white paper flash cards.
My good intentions of keeping my youngest son fluent in both French and English flew out the window of the airplane on my way from Europe to America.
I had hauled heavy French kindergarten workbooks in our overweight luggage from our home in France to our home in America. My big plan was to homeschool Pierre and David in French everyday after school.
“Just 30 minutes of fun activities after school,” I told them both—much to David’s dismay.
The last thing the kids wanted to do after a full day of American school was to come home to a 1/2-hour session of French lessons over a cup of hot chocolate and cookies.
Rather, they wanted to rest their brains from English, kick a ball in the yard outside, run around the house with Bernie, do cartwheels in the living room, or play video games.
No French Lessons!
They didn’t want to do French lessons.
We were all in transition, adjusting to a new life and a new world—living in the “Land Between.”
I didn’t push French homework and gave up quickly.
Pierre needed private tutoring and was taken out of his regular class for one-on-one help three days a week. He needed intensive work on his English alphabet and phonetics. He would eventually catch up with his native-English classmates, but it would be a long journey.
David’s 8th grade teacher told me that it was a huge adjustment for him as well. David’s entire schooling had been either in Arabic in Morocco or in French in France. He had one year of schooling in America when he was 5-years-old—kindergarten—but it was in a French immersion school in Milwaukee, Wisconsin.
David’s teacher told me that during his first days in school, she could see his head spinning. It was as if his brain were translating everything he heard and read from English to French. It took his mind more time to process, and that left him exhausted at the end of his school day.
No French lessons for my boys!
Great Intentions
Vincent also had great intentions to continue speaking French to the children in the home while we were in the U.S. However, little by little, the boys began to respond to their French father in English.
Their world and their lives had become completely immersed in English, as we found them spending more time at school than at home. All of their friends spoke English. They played soccer in English. Church was in English. They watched television in English.
Their whole world was in now in English.
David would not lose his French language, as he had a strong and solid foundation of 12 years. He also remained in regular contact with his friends back in his home land of France, so he was regularly using his language skills.
Pierre, on the other hand, would sadly lose almost all of his expression in French. It happened quickly.
The Broken Bridge
Perhaps losing one’s language doesn’t seem like a big deal. However, when you are a bilingual, bicultural family, language is the bridge to one side of the family tree. If you lose the language, the bridge is broken. You can no longer connect, communicate, build a relationship with one side of the family.
This broken bridge is quite common with bilingual, bicultural families.
I recently read a children’s book called “Drawn Together” by Minh Lê and Dan Santat. It’s a compelling story about a grandfather and a grandson who have to find creative ways to break down their language barriers. They discover art and storytelling that speak louder than any words.
We began to notice this “broken bridge” as Mémé and Pépé would call from France. When speaking with Pierre, we would hear him say, “oui, oui” or “non, non.” That was it. He could understand, but he couldn’t respond beyond a simple “yes” or “no.”
“When we go to France, Pierre won’t be able to talk to his grandparents,” I said to Vincent one night over dinner.
It made me sad to see my child begin to lose this part of his identity. Our four boys are Franco-American, with a French father and an American mother. However, looking at and listening to our youngest child today, you would never know his French roots. You would never know that he was born in France and that he spent the first five years of his life there.
The bridge to his French family was damaged right now and in need of repair.
Trapped By a Language Barrier
“Will you tell Louna to stop hitting me?” Pierre asked me as he came inside from playing with a neighbor girl on the trampoline.
Pierre, a very outgoing and expressive child, had become silent and quiet—trapped by a language barrier.
I would have to translate.
“Tell her ‘Arrêtes de me taper,'” I told Pierre.
Until he reached the trampoline, Pierre repeated over and over the sentence out loud that said, “Stop hitting me!” He relayed the translated message to the neighbor girl. Thankfully, she understood.
The Restored Bridge
The road to fix the bridge would be long.
“Pierre never talks. He is so quiet,” Mémé said to me.
“Oh, he is far from quiet. He just can’t speak in French,” I explained to Mémé. “He is a real chatter box—very talkative and tells stories non-stop. I wish that you could talk to him in English.”
There was now a barrier between them—a language barrier.
During our visit, Pierre would often sit on Mémé’s lap, look at her, and smile.
Until his French expression comes back, Pierre will communicate to Mémé with his love. Love is greater than any language barrier. I can already see the bridge slowly being restored.
(Just after I finished writing this story, our family stopped to picnic beside a river. We had just crossed the border—a very long, dark tunnel linking France and Spain. When we walked down to play in the refreshing river water, this is what I saw . . . a broken bridge over the water, held together by a metal cable.
The bridge is being restored.
—The Cultural Story-Weaver
Let’s Weave Cultures!
Do you have experience raising bilingual and bicultural children? If so, what have you done to help them keep both languages and cultures—to build this bridge between their families?
We invite you to tell us your own cultural stories and global adventures . . . as you engage with the world, breaking down barriers, building bridges, and “weaving cultures!” Write about them in the comment box below.
