Learning the Ways of the People

Week 2! 

Wow it's a real blog now! With real people and real letters! Or, en Français, lettres.

I know what you're thinking after reading that last sentence.

"Evan you are fluent in French and should now be teaching seminars in the basement of a College in Etobicoke beside the boiler room."

You would be wrong.

Not that I take any issue teaching beside boiler rooms, they are essential parts of the HVAC systems of buildings and the rent on those rooms is usually much lower.

It's just that I don't know French as fluently as I would like. As much as I have learned, there are mountains to go. As with many other problems of the brain, I have sought professional help. 

I have begun French school. 7 hours a day 5 days a week, I embark on a linguistic journey through the intensely complex French language.

This all takes place quite close to my home, luckily enough. I discovered Centre Lartigue while stomping up Papineau about two weeks ago. I had missed the bus that goes from the subway up to our street. It left early. Early. Of all the ways I have ever described public transit, I don't think that I have ever used the word early. Frustrated after a less than exciting shift at work, contemplating how I was going to be able to make this all financially work, the last thing that I needed was for the bus to leave early. I made my disdain quite apparent and frankly a little loud for a public space. 

This was the first of many frustrations that I would encounter with the glorious Montréal transportation system, STM. But that's for another post. While Max attempted to calm me down over the phone, I announced my plans to march home for 45 minutes rather than wait for the next bus. How dare this city attack me yet again. Of course, I was not dressed for the weather, which made the march home even more the journey of a martyr. Why, why did I leave Toronto. There are no hills in the six! Montréal is built on a damn hill. Max called me after 15 minutes to make sure I hadn't bought a bus ticket back to Toronto, which, to his luck I cannot afford. When I stopped I was about halfway up a hill, coincidentally just north of Rue Ontario and just south of Sherbrooke. There on the east side of Papineau the big flags in front of La Centre Lartigue. An adult French language school.

I guess everything happens for a reason, though I would hate to credit missing the bus to landing on the perfect and inexpensive ($60/year) opportunity, these are the facts.

The school is old fashioned. Three stories, lockers, undrinkable water due to old pipes, and bathrooms with urinals that are all too close to one another.
I had not been in a classroom since 2014 however the same applies to every course. Past 15 minutes your absent, stay off your phone, and find the biggest guy in class and beat him up to assert dominance. Or is that prison? Either way, I knew I could cope.

Now it may not come as  a surprise that the class being such a reasonable price, mostly due to subsidies from the Provincial government, is mostly attended by immigrants. Whether you are immigrating from Venezuela or Manitoba you must learn French. The majority of the class is not from Manitoba. The dynamics can be broken down into this list of statistics of common languages spoken that are not French:
Spanish: 18
Mandarin: 3
English: 2
Korean: 1
I will say that the majority of those whose first language is not English still have a great grasp on it.

On the first day the Spanish speaker had to be separated for fear of only speaking Spanish together which would hinder their French education, however I think it also is for fear of rebellion.

Anytime there is an important language rule for French, the teacher, Madame Maria, will say it in English. Then, Leslie, a native Spanish and English speaker will translate, then yield the floor to Wan Chan, who then translates the rule into Mandarin. All and all a lengthy process and though my French is not at the level where I would prefer it, I am happy to say my Spanish has increased dramatically.

During lunchtime we are allocated 35 minutes to eat. With around 150 students there is ample space in the cafeteria where there are adequate tables for all. Quite similar to highschool, the tables are organised by whoever sits first. The Venezuelans sit with the Venezuelans, the Colombians with the Colombians and the Chinese with the Chinese. I sit amongst the 7 stragglers from British Columbia, California, Russia and Kenya. We are making a play for the Colombian table in order to seek protection. The only currency in the cafeteria is the line for the microwaves. Situated in the far corner of the cafeteria stands a modest kitchenette, a large fridge and 6 microwaves whose doors tend to stick from the level of plastic degradation having been run for one constant hour per day. The hum and fall out from the sextuplet is reminiscent of a single reactor nuclear power plant and I assume just as deadly. Our table is of course right beside the microwaves.

I have a great deal of respect for my fellow students. At 25 years old I am one of the youngest students, the median age being somewhere around 38. The majority of the students are mothers and fathers, trying to learn French so that they can provide for their children, adapt, and contribute to the wonderful cultural quilt of Quebec. I was at first embarrassed going back to school. How had I screwed up so quickly after college that I had to go back and learn something so basic. Then I saw Anna. At 60, Anna and her husband are taking level one French classes. They are there everyday, early and eager to learn French. They share a 75 cent coffee purchased from the vending machine downstairs in the cafeteria. I have yet to try it as the concept terrifies me. They walk the coffee back and forth from their respective tables between breaks, as they have been separated by the original plot to foil the Spanish Student revolution, but they don't complain. They show up every day and they try.

Hell, if they can try so can I.

Yours in Survival,

Evan Lacey