When I was learning French, which unfortunately was
concurrent with my teaching of Psychology courses in the French language at
Université Blaise Pascal, in Central France, one of my colleagues set a
language goal for me: “You should be able to speak French without letting on
that you are actually American.”
Well, there’s a goal.
Speaking like a native was of course unrealistic, but it
was difficult to even work toward because I didn’t have very much time for
language classes. Furthermore, what you
really need to do to lose an accent is to be able to hear yourself speak, suddenly realize that you sound like George W. Bush, and then -- in desperation -- try to correct that
sound. None of my French language classes
had been associated with a laboratory equipped with recording and feedback
devices. So, I never really heard myself
speak, and for some time I remained blissful in my belief that I sounded like my
friend Marie-France, originally from Bordeaux. Perhaps
I did, but only when she was actually present in the conversation so that I
could imitate her.
Part of the motivation to lose my American accent was powered
by my belief in the cliché that the French are intolerant of poor French
language use and even more intolerant of the sound of Americans in the act of butchering
it.
I cannot and will not generalize to the whole
population, but my experiences in at least three regions of the country
suggest that the cliché is in fact a cliché.
First of all, I detected extreme relief and sometimes even actual
approval from strangers (not just Marie-France) when I tried to speak French. And then, when I could finally speak the
language fluently, friends and strangers alike told me that they loved my American
accent; that it was nice, and that I should not try to lose it. “Ma petite Paula,” my friend Dominique
would croon, “don’t lose your accent.
It’s so mignon.” Now I know she didn’t mean petite as in “small”, but since I am
not short and was quite heavy as a child, I figured that any behavior that
resulted in my being called “little” was a terrific thing. It was at this point that I realized that my goal was to
retain just enough American accent to be called “petite Paula,” a term of endearment, and not to be called “John
Wayne.”
Strangely, while the reverse is also true, such that many
Americans like a French accent on top of American English, the French are often
suspicious of this fact (except, perhaps, for my 16 year-old who is now living
in the US and has discovered that his French accent is very effective in
attracting attention from girls). Many
people told me over the years how ashamed they were of their French accents
when they spoke English. Once the
pronunciation part is nailed down, I insisted repeatedly, the French accent should
definitely be preserved! Think of
Maurice Chevalier, who started it all by singing “Thank ‘Eaven for Little Girls”
in the movie “Gigi”! Then listen to
Kevin Klein in the movie “French Kiss”! Look how we all love the actor Jean Reno when he speaks English! (Plus, he is so cute, which is why I put a
photo of him up there at the top.)
My husband, Markus, who sounds unmistakably Bavarian when he speaks German, does not have a German Akzent in English. Instead, being a parrot like myself, he sounds
to most American ears like someone from Cincinnati with just a hint of “anywhere
in Europe.” The Cincinnati part comes
from years of imitating his PhD advisor who pronounces his “A”s so hard that it makes my
brain rattle. I think it would be nice
if Markus had a German accent, but when he tries to affect one he sounds
like someone from Bombay, which doesn’t have the desired impact on my affections.
So, barring international conflicts between the
countries involved, I say, “preserve your national accent.” It
sounds good, makes you seem thinner to people, and does wonders for your
popularity in high school.
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