Madame G.

Reading all these stories and blogs of ex-pats in Paris have me yearning to return for an extended holiday and nostalgic with my own beginning into Francophilia.

Grade six (junior high) was the first time I was given the freedom of choosing which foreign language I wanted to take; Spanish was mandatory all through elementary school, and the possibility of learning what I believed to be one of the most sophisticated and beautiful and romantic languages there was had me tingly with excitement. French! I’d soon be able to say more than “Voulez-vous couchez avec moi, ce soir?” and “Oh là là!” and perhaps get a taste of French culture. Even if it meant from a textbook. The summer before that September I eagerly bubbled in French as my first (and only choice).

Fast forward to the first day of school. No French class. I was disappointed—I hated block scheduling—but on the second day, after (successfully!) finding my way through a myriad of crooked hallways and into the Social Studies corridor in which the French classroom haphazardly subsided. I took my seat; the bell rang shortly after.

She was tiny, Madame G., the G pronounced “jay.” The very definition of a petite European woman (I don’t remember if she was actually French or simply married a Frenchman, but she entranced me nonetheless). Short, choppy pixie cut—highlighted and low-lighted in a very edgy yet chic, 90s way. Black plastic framed glasses sat atop a perfect nose, a beaded chain dripping from both arms of those lenses. Tanned (which I now realize is standard of French people), toned and tiny. She wore all black (and only wore black—little blazers and tailored jackets, I remember little else).

I wouldn’t say my eagerness was pervasive in that other students would have labeled me as a teacher’s pet of sort. Perhaps I imagined it, but she seemed to perceive my excitement and enthusiasm and singled me out on that first day (well, second day of school, technically). Day one of la classe de français was typical of every other foreign class: translating your name to that respective language.

“…You are Kimberly, oui?”

“Yes… oui… but just Kim’s fine.”

“‘Just Kim?’ But Kimberly is such a beautiful name! It’s a pity we don’t have a French equivalent…”

I never really found my name particularly interesting or pretty. It was just there. But for a minute of her going on about how much she loved it made me feel special. Did I just make you laugh? I’m aware of how very cheesy I can be.

She toyed around with a few options that began with the letter “K,” French names that might’ve sounded similar to my English nom. I loved the way French sounded. She didn’t like the names, they didn’t “fit me.”

“A middle name, perhaps?”

I hesitated. Throughout grade school I wanted something plain. Something so very traditionally American, like Alexandra, or Sarah, or Ashley (one of the most popular baby names of my generation). Pearl was weird, foreign to me and 20 other fourth/fifth graders at the time.

“Pearl.”

“Quoi?“

I was a little nervous at this point.

“… Pearl.”

Petites hands clapped together, well-lined lips pursed together into a smile. “Pearl! Even more beautiful! And so unique to… I would just call you Pearl if I could! Pearl!” I was a little embarrassed at her excitement over this middle name I once kept to myself, but secretly I was proud.

It was silly. But it was Madame G. who made me believe and appreciate my middle name. It wasn’t just that, though, it was letting go of some inherent, 6th-grade desire to assimilate into a crop of girls experimenting with black eyeliner, who carried Coach purses and wore Abercrombie and Fitch head to tote.

And it Madame G. who would unknowingly and unwittingly launch this lifetime of Francophilia…

.   .   .

une bise sur chaque joue x

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