Repeat After Me

I didn’t know I talked funny until I hit Ohio. There I discovered that my speech defined me and made me different from my newly acquired aunts, uncles and cousins. They kept trying to correct the way I spoke, saying my Southern accent was hard to understand, implying that it made me less acceptable to them. I so wanted them to like me; thus, when my second-grade teacher suggestion Frida Frazier’s School of Elocution would solve my problem, I jumped at her recommendation. The English I learned from Mrs. Frazier seemed to me almost like another language. It took me several months to learn to mimic her. I became attentive to what the new pronunciation of words felt like in my mouth, how to clip the ending of my consonants, not to drag out the sentences, not to say “darlin” and to banish “y’all” forever from my vocabulary. Whatever Frida Frazier did, worked. After a few months of twice weekly afternoon classes, my Southern drawl slipped away as easily as a potato peel down the drain. My vowels became as flat as the state of Ohio. I sounded as different from my mother as if we were from two different gene pools; my accent soon vanished altogether. I started speaking up in class and began to make friends. This different way of talking helped me to feel accepted, but it also made me feel a bit like a phony. I had put a veneer of sounds over my Southern self and even at seven, I knew I was giving up something to fit in. But I had learned the magic of language: it could change you from an outsider to an insider. * * * “Where is my husband?” I asked, hoping my German was correct enough for her to understand. I had counted on Paul to be with me during labor timing my contractions and squeezing my hand as we had practiced. Dr. Reich had assured us, but that didn’t seem to be on the nurse’s agenda. “He’ll be back in the morning,” she replied, unconcerned. I rustled through my overnight case and pulled out my German–English dictionary. During my first month in Heidelberg, I had signed up for an intensive evening class, squeezing my nine-month stomach into a chair meant for a skinny young student. Paul had also taught me some simple phrases, the most important one to me, keine spritze (no shot), the phrase I would have handy in case the doctor wanted to dissuade me from my commitment to natural childbirth. I tucked the dictionary under the flat pillow on the cot and hoped Paul would get there before I needed it. Soon the hebamme, the midwife, came in to check on me, her German sounding like a garbled movie soundtrack. I understood not a word. Just in case, I told the midwife my two practiced words: “Keine spritze.” She gave me a puzzled look and marched out. The reality of my being alone in this inhospitable room set in. What was I doing here by myself, giving birth in a foreign country in a language I barely understand? Why hadn’t I had the good sense to be in a brightly lit American hospital with a doctor in a white coat and stethoscope? And where was Paul? He promised he would be with me timing my contractions. I tried to practice the panting I had learned and somehow I got through the night. As dawn appeared so did Paul. He looked rested in white shirt and tie, a camera dangling around his neck. He was apologetic, his perfect German had been no match for the nun who believed fathers should appear only at the last minute. The hebamme followed fast on Paul’s heels. No time for recriminations. My son was about to be born. * * * Sheila had called our friend, Ginette Billard, who had recommended a pomp funebre (undertaker), a word I never had reason to pronounce before that day. The office was in the 16th arrondissement, the chicest Paris neighborhood. Elegant Ginette would not have chosen anything less. The man who answered our ring, dressed like a butler, blocked the entrance as he looked us over. Sheila, with her long hair, ankle-length cotton skirt, and jangly bracelets. Me, in the same blue jeans and tee shirt I had slept in on the overnight flight. He asked if we had an appointment. “Yes,” said Sheila, “Mme Billard made one for us this morning.” The doorman cracked the door wider but looked as if it was against his better judgment. Sheila and I padded behind him down a plush carpeted hall. I felt as if we were peasants coming to beg some favor from a royal. We were ushered into a room with a black-suited man sitting very erect behind a desk large enough to plan a military campaign. He shuffled a few papers in front of him, probably wondering how these two American women (maybe poor relatives of Mme Billard?) had found their way into his elegant establishment. But his professionalism took precedent. He eyed both of us over his bifocals and asked “Qui est la veuve? (Who is the widow?) I didn’t answer until Sheila touched my hand on the arm of the chair. It was the first time anyone had used that word for me, and I realized That’s who I am now. I’m the widow. After my reply, two slim manicured fingers pushed a heavy red leather folder toward me and Mr. Undertaker said in French, “These are the coffin choices. Do want one avec ou sans fenêtre (with or without a window)?” That did it. Sheila and I looked at each other and simultaneously burst out laughing. Much to his credit, Mr. Black Suit didn’t crack a smile. Maybe in his profession he had seen it all, the bizarre reactions of loved ones to death. When I composed myself, I said, as gravely as I could, “I think, without.” Sheila nodded her agreement. We flipped through the book, and I tried to think what Paul would have wanted. Nothing too showy, but classy. He was an elegant man, he should go out in style. It’s astonishing how the brain works when tripped into action, and I finished negotiating our choice and signed the papers offered me. As we walked back down the hall on our way out, Sheila said, “Your French is really good, I’ve never heard you speak so well.” I thought about how important it had been to Paul that I become fluent in French and how ironic that I spoke my best when he could not be there to hear me. The day Sandra Montgomery invited me for a play date I knew it had been all worth the effort, and I was convinced the invitation was partly due to my mastering a new language: Yankee English.