Emily Kupinsky

French Lessons

French Lessons By E.H.Kupinsky My Mother has a friend who married a French man. She has two kids that can speak French. My Mother insists I take French lessons the Summer I turn 7. No one in my family speaks French. My Mother will drop me off three days a week, early in the morning, on the lawn leading to a bungalow on the California State University Northridge Campus. When I was in Kindergarten I convinced my new Best friend that our school Sucked, that our Teacher was Stupid, and we belonged in College. I swiped two Three ringed binders so we would look like College kids and together we ditched class to make our way to the University Art department where I felt certain I belonged. My Mother was still angry two years later. We stared at each other before I exited the car, her smiling, me silently annoyed at our unspoken inside joke about Kindergarten. She says, hand casually gesturing to all that awaits outside the car, “Go on, you like it here,remember?” I say nothing as I exit the car and walk myself to the bungalow as she drives away. I knock even though I know I have arrived too early. I sit on the lawn all alone feeling very small and tickle the palms of my hands on the grass waiting. I come to understand as I watch all the other kids arrive for this class, I am the youngest and the smallest. I hope for the millionth time, that my size will not make me a target for any bullies and my mouth will not get me into trouble. I am surprised to find that I like French and find it musical in my mouth. It’s incredibly satisfying to boldly mimic the Teacher’s accent loud and dramatically. After class, I watch my new cool older friends get picked up by loving parents. A week ago, my Mother took me to a Sandwich shop 3 blocks away from the CSUN campus on Reseda Boulevard and let me pick a sandwich. She spoke while I ate, informing me of her intentions and made me repeat her instructions back to confirm my understanding. It is to this sandwich shop that I must return, as it is now my new designated pick up point. She has given me exactly the amount of money required to eat the same sandwich while I wait for her for an incredibly long time. I don’t mind. I enjoy people watching and making up stories in my head: That old man is a widow and never stutters except when he admits to loving Soup and then produces a very large ornate spoon from his breast pocket. That tired lady keeps chickens like my Uncle but only for the eggs. She has named them all with funny German names and last night she walked outside barefoot to sing with them in the moonlight. I can’t help being the weird little kid high up on a barstool, legs dangling, staring at everyone while they eat. I have decided to like French almost as much as I like Roast beef sandwiches. One day, weeks later, the nice man who makes my beloved Roast beef sandwiches leans over the counter, sighs and says, “ I know what your Mother is doing and it’s not ok. You tell her I said so.”My heart sinks. I know he isn’t my babysitter and he resents my Mother trying to turn him into one. I eat what remains of my sandwich silently crying knowing I will probably never have the privilege of eating here again and going over the least offensive speech I will deliver to my Mother who will no doubt be furious. She yelled at me the whole way home, as usual, saying I must have done something wrong for him to so rudely ban me from returning. She had a way of seeing hidden meaning in everything. All of it resulting in me disappointing her along with the world conspiring against her. When it was finally time to show me off to her friend, She lied and said I was fluent in French. This friend of my Mother, kneeling in front of me, proceeded to ask a series of questions in French. I answered what my name was, where I lived, and who with. She spoke a bit faster and I found myself confused and unable to respond so I cried, offending and embarrassing my Mother. Slowly now, she repeated her question while I struggled to answer. My mother threw her hands up saying “I give up! There goes more money down the drain!”She stormed out of the room when I finally responded in French quietly, still crying, “I don’t understand because I only speak French a little bit.”