I Hate French

I hate French.

I lived with my grandmother until I was seven, so she was my first evidence, my first vision of what a remarkable woman is supposed to be. I learned how to develop a quiet strength from her, to walk the world like I have the right to be here, because my grandmother lifted me up like I was crafted from my ancestors’ breath and fairy dust. The bond between us was divinely made and I’m convinced we were best friends in another life.

When I started living with my parents and was going to school, I developed a love for French. It was not just a love for the language, but an underlying wish to distance myself from what I thought was primitive about my own culture, which was my native tongue. The better I could express myself in French, the more sophisticated I believed I was because I wasn’t like my peers in the village for whom Bamileke was rolling off their tongue like morning dew off corn leaves.

It wasn’t long before I forgot how to speak my own native language, despite my parents efforts to keep me fluent. The words slowly left me and unbeknownst to me, they were taking my and my grandmother’s bond with them.

I went to see her 3 years ago after nearly 10 years in the US. And when I saw her I rushed to hug her tight, crying half from joy, half from the overwhelming sadness of not being able to tell her everything that had happened while I was abroad. I wanted to curl up with her in her bed like we did when I was little, and I wanted to tell her all about my life. About the men who broke my heart, about the men whose hearts I broke, about the fears of growing up, about the doubts that dragged me to their darkness. I also wanted to tell her about the joys of finding myself, of falling in love, of being loved, of reaching for my dreams. I wanted to tell her how much who I’ve become is because of her. I wanted to pour out all me to her. I wanted to worship her and sing her praises.

but I couldn’t.

Because I speak French. And English. Some Swahili. A little bit of Spanish.

But so very little of the language with which she raised me. So very little of the tongue in which she sang lullabies to me when I was sick, and prayed to God and my ancestors to heal me.

I only know enough words to say

“ I missed you”.

“I love you so much”.

“Thank you”.

So I said them over and over to her, as many times as I could, hoping she’d read in between the scarce lines, and guess everything I really wanted to say.

I miss my grandmother so much. And I’m hesitant to go home again because I’m not ready to live that heartbreak all over again, because I can’t speak to her.

Because I speak French.

I hate French.