Fighting in French

It is common knowledge that if you go on a trip with your significant other, no matter where or for how long, there is bound to be at least one enormous, cleansing, truth-be-told blowout of an argument.  And that’s if everything’s OK.  My parents (who are that rare breed of sworn soul mates) like to recall their closest brush with the thought of divorce; on a trip to New Mexico, where they didn’t speak for three days because of something having to do with dual indigestion and only one travel box of All Bran.  So with this strong parental base, I knew not to worry when my turn would come to fight on a trip.  Sure enough, there we were in Greece, on the way home from a glorious week of sun, solitude, and the occasional mood swing (all these shared by both parties, of course), and all it took was the hairpin issue of a sandwich to launch us into the requisite skirmish.  Cause unimportant really.  As it gained momentum, I got more and more angry, annoyed, and frustrated.  As did he.  Normal.  But then the strangest thing happened, something that made a sloppy, satisfied smile grow on my face in spite of my stern muscular resistance:  I realized, all at once, that I was fighting in French!          It might sound strange, but this filled me with a glorious feeling, almost equal to my irritation.  And it must be said that I was pretty irritated.  I was successfully interrupting my French boyfriend, countering his points with clear succinct phrases, my tirade reaching a peak of momentum and, well, anger!  It was great.  I clearly remember yelling at him for something he said, and transitioning into English for the first and only time: “Jesus fucking Christ!”  (That holy name doesn’t have quite the same ring in the more romantic tongue.)  Then it would be back to the French.  Clearly, my poor boyfriend was confused at the mixed messages I was sending out; was I enjoying this outburst?  The answer, I must admit, was both yes and no. Now I don’t know if others would have reacted in the same way.  I won’t deny that I am a language freak, someone who enjoys pretending to be fluent in a language as elusive and subtle as French.  In fact, it was part of the reason I moved here, which felt increasingly strange as I kept meeting foreigners and expatriates who had moved here for love, or heartbreak, or some other reason from a romantic novel.  And I have stayed, for the most part, because of my dogged commitment to learning the language.  Some days, this is something I am ready to take on and tackle, no problem.  Other days, however, getting even the simplest phrases out is near-impossible.  Maybe that’s because everyday language, in my opinion, is like art and song: a sloppy science.  The mathematic rules may be there, but really only to be broken, bent, and tricked.  The discrepancies that arise (slang and idiomatic expressions are examples) can be fascinating, or even amusing and educational, especially when placed alongside those of your native language.    And so if language is a kind of artistic expression, then of course emotion becomes a factor as well.  That’s why my abilities in French depend on the day, the mood, sometimes even the hour.  And the person I’m speaking with.  The games of wit that long ago symbolized your status, education, maybe even identity no longer exist, but a certain descendant remains.  The réplique is as socially important, naturally, as the ‘comeback’ or retort is in English.  It’s all banter.  And to keep that in mind when emotional, or angry for instance, is a challenge.  If the language barrier can be considered, well, a barrier in international (or ‘multilingual’) relationships, it is usually only employed as a scapegoat; a mask for the real reason the two of you are having communication problems.  Vocabulary and tenses and sentence structure are only small parts of the language between two people who live and sleep together.  Tone, expression, ‘attitude’:  now those are the real communicative tools that can cause fights, and you can’t blame any barrier for that. But of course, sometimes it does still come down to plain old vocabulary and wording.  “Leave me alone” is not nearly as hurtful sounding, to my ears at least, as “Laisse-moi seul” apparently can be.  When I translated that to my boyfriend, he suddenly seemed crushed, and for that matter, more so than I had intended.  These momentary glitches arise all the time in the dance of a relationship like ours, I’m sure.  The trick is knowing how to sidestep them, taking a minute to remember that in many ways, you’re a baby at the other person’s vernacular, and that it’s important to listen to how they understand the linguistic habits that you take for granted and express their own.  This is necessary at all times really, even when it inconveniently coincides with when you want to kill them. In any case, once you succeed in being pissed off in a foreign tongue, you’re good to go in any and all of the situations life can throw your way.  It’s a trail marker.  And for better or worse, this dawned upon me in the middle of my Grecian fit.