Lost in Translation

In case you haven’t guessed, I am a bit of a Francophile. I have had a love affair with all things French since I visited the country when I was in high school and thankfully have returned since. French was one of my college majors because I adored the language, its nuance, melody and graciousness. As with most languages, pronunciation matters in French and subtle variations in accents and sounds can alter what one is trying to say, as Jeanne, my mother-in-law, learned one day while trying to leave her home in a little town outside of Paris, only to find that her allée was blocked by a parked van.

As the story goes, Jeanne got into the Peugeot familiale one late afternoon in spring to pick up the boys from some activity or another.  She went to leave her driveway but could not.  A van was parked and blocking the allée, on which her home was located, and thus her driveway.  Jeanne honked.  No response. Jeanne gestured, “Kindly move the van, sir.” No response.  Jeanne had to leave to get the kids. Why could the driver not move the van? The minutes dragged on; the two dueling drivers were locked in a death match. Who would move first? Jeanne honked again, and the van driver looked at her and gave her the universal one fingered salute.

Jeanne was pissed. In a last ditch effort to clear the allée, Jeanne rolled down her window, looked at the van driver, Gitaine hanging from his lip and arm resting on the window ledge, and in her loudest New Yorker voice with her “best” French accent proceeded to call the truck driver a “pig” in French.  Or, so she thought.

Now, the word for “pig” in French is “cochon,” and when used as a pejorative, it’s the functional equivalent of an f-bomb and has particularly lewd connotations. It’s not language for polite company. The “o” in the first syllable sounds like “Oh,” as in “Oh, you shouldn’t have.” But that’s not what Jeanne said in her loudest New Yorker voice with her "best" French accent.  Without realizing it, Jeanne changed the sound of the “o” in the first syllable of "cochon" from “Oh” to “Ew,” as in “Ew, what is that smell?” 

As a result of that slight change in pronunciation, Jeanne yelled, “Couchons!” This does not mean “pig." It means, “Let’s go to bed,” as memorialized by LaBelle in the 1975 disco hit, “Voulez vous coucher avec moi ce soir?” To which the Gitaine smoking French van driver replied, without missing a beat, “Si vous voulez, Madame.” "If you wish, Madame."  He winked and pulled away from the allée. Jeanne was able to leave.

Satisfied that the piggish driver finally unblocked the allée and allowed her to get on her way, Jeanne initially thought that it must have been due to her adept rejoinder to his one-fingered salute. As Jeanne drove on, however, she remained somewhat perplexed by his response. Why did the van driver say, “Si vous voulez, Madame”? Why did he wink at her? Jeanne thought about it and thought about it on the way to pick up the boys.  Finally, a little light went off in her head. Quelle surprise! Jeanne realized, “I did not call that van driver a pig.  I asked him to sleep with me.” 

Jeanne started to laugh, and still does laugh today, at how easy it was to get lost in translation.

Window Licking

In French, the expression for “window shopping” is “lêche-vitrine.” When translated exactly, it means “window licking,” which is oddly accurate, yet kind of gross. Really, when we go window-shopping, aren’t we secretly drooling after whatever it is we stopped to look at? However, the thought of actually slobbering all over a store window is quite unpleasant.  Jeanne, my mother-in-law, shared this little gem about when she stopped to “lick” a Parisian jeweler’s window filled with striking sapphires when the family lived there thirty or so years ago.

One early winter morning, Jeanne found herself crossing the Place Vendôme, with her tan trench belted tightly around her, brown leather boots on, and scarf wrapped around her neck. The Place Vendôme is a square, located in the first arrondissement. It lies just to the north of the Tuileries, not too far from the Louvre, and some of the world’s most exclusive and expensive real estate and retailers line the streets near the Place Vendôme.  

As the story goes, Jeanne stopped in front of a jeweler’s window filled with a sparkling sapphire and diamond necklace, a bracelet (or two) and beautiful drop earrings that would “leave you breathless.” The sapphires were the size of “small eggs.” The sun was striking the gems in a blaze of brilliance; it was spectacular, truly, described Jeanne.  The store was not yet open, and a gentleman was in kneeling next to the window inside the store arranging the luscious gems for maximum appeal to the window-licking and (hopefully) sapphire jewelry-buying public. Jeanne stood and watched. Perhaps sensing that he had an audience, the gentleman looked up, with raised eyebrows, with an expression as if to say, “Well, what do you think?”

Jeanne shook her head and pointed her finger at the necklace, gesturing that the gentleman should move the necklace display to the right (à droit) and angle it ever so slightly. He did that, and then he pointed to the bracelet, as if asking where it should go. Jeanne pointed to spot to the left (à gauche) of the necklace. The gentleman responded and put the bracelet exactly where Jeanne suggested. Finally, the earrings then were carefully placed, completing the trio. The gentleman stood up and looked at the completed display. He glanced at Jeanne, smiled, and slightly bowed. Jeanne nodded, turned, and walked on. So much said with a gesture of the hand and nod of the head. 

Little Red Hearts Don't Save Lives, But Mammograms Do

Happy Sunday! This morning, my pastor preached from the pulpit. He does not normally do that, but he had a lot to say about the many references in sacred scripture to lambs. While he was taking the congregation through this long, but edifying, theological discourse, I must confess my mind started to canoodle off a bit, as it is wont to do. I found myself thinking about all of the little red hearts that have been popping up in my social media feed over the last week to remind me that it was “breast cancer prevention week.”

Forgive me, I thought that breast cancer owned the rights to the whole month of October with its festoons of pink ribbons and such, so I am not sure why or how breast cancer hijacked another part of the calendar. Yet, here we are. Can we all agree, at this point, that we are aware of breast cancer and should do what we can to avoid it? Without thinking too hard, I can count ten women I know who have dealt with or are dealing with breast cancer, and I am sure I am missing a few.

Statistically speaking, about 1 in 8 U.S. women (12%) will develop breast cancer in her lifetime. In 2017, it is estimated that approximately 255,000 new cases of invasive breast cancer will be diagnosed, along with another 65,000 new cases of non-invasive (in situ, to use the medical term) cancer. Further, 85% of breast cancer occurs in women with no family history of the disease. (U.S. Breast Cancer Statistics, http://www.breastcancer.org/symptoms/understand_bc/statistics,visited 1/15/2017).

As I have almost circled back around the sun to the fateful day when my “junky cyst” was discovered during my annual, routine mammogram and ultrasound, I feel compelled to respond to all of the “Hello, can you put a heart on your wall?” requests. No, I won’t. I do not do the cut and paste thing on social media to support any cause or to receive an abundance of puppies and kittens raining showers of gumdrops into my life. I don’t type “Amen” in response to someone else’s prayer.  I don’t “Like” posts to prove that the Internet works or that I love my sister.

More importantly, however, I will not post a little red heart because not one single red heart on social media is going to save a life. Do you know what will? Regular high-quality screening mammograms and clinical breast exams.  That means breast exams done by a medical professional.  I didn’t say that, but the National Cancer Institute did. (Mammograms, https://www.cancer.gov/types/breast/mammograms-fact-sheet, visited 1/15/2017).  

But what about breast self-exams?  Actually, according to the National Cancer Institute, regular breast self-exams are not specifically recommended for breast cancer screening. Sad to say, but in clinical trials, such screening alone was not found to reduce breast cancer deaths.  Of course, this does not mean that women should not do regular self-exams, but women should do them so that if something is not quite right, they can go straight to their doctors. Do not pass “Go.” Do not collect $200.

During my 350 day sojourn thus far, I have spent more than my fair share of time with medical professionals -- my gynecologist, my breast surgeons, my oncologist, physician assistants, nurses -- talking about, yes, breast cancer. Do you know what these highly educated, experienced folks (who are not prone to hyperbole, by the way) say when they talk about breast cancer? Things like, “Chris, you would not believe how many times a day I get another call . . .” and “It’s epidemic.” Or, “I can’t believe I had six of you in treatment at the exact time, for the same type of breast cancer. It’s not supposed to be that common.” (I guess it is, though.)

Do you know what these same folks say when they talk about what makes the difference in success rates from treatment? (That’s medical speak for continuing to live.) Early detection saves lives. They mean it. I am the poster child for routine screening. I would not have found my “malignant neoplasm of the right breast” with a breast self-exam. It was not palpable, meaning no one could feel it, and plenty of people tried, believe me.

Ladies, enough with the little red hearts.  Have your annual mammograms. Make friends with your breasts, your boobs, your tits, your tatas, your lemons, your cans, your girls, whatever it is that you call your lovelies. If something looks or feels weird or different, no matter how small, call your doctor. Don’t ignore it. It’s not going to go away or get better if you pretend it is not there.  I have never heard a single doctor say, “Gee, it was kind of stupid for you to come in and have me look at this.”

Is all of that sad, scary, or even terrifying? Yes. Yes, it is. Do you know what’s even more sad, scary, and terrifying?  Doing nothing and ending up as a memory, as a little red heart on someone’s wall. 

I am glad I got that off my chest.

What Does It Mean Anyway?

I think certain significant experiences define most families. My husband's family, I believe, was largely defined by its three-year sojourn in France in the late 1970's. The title of this blog, Just Allez, is a beautiful example of "franglais," the special form of not quite French, not really English either, that Bob, my late and great father-in-law spoke. Enough people have asked me about the blog's title so I thought it time to tell the story behind it. Because there is always a story.

Bob never managed in French, as Jeanne, my mother-in-law likes to say. That's sort of an understatement, even though Bob loved all things French. He loved the food and the culture; the art and the architecture.  He loved Paris, his adored second city. He also loved the language, except for the fact that he could not exactly "parler en francais," even though he fancied himself somewhat fluent.

 To illustrate the point, let me take you to a family of seven traveling together in 1979 or 1980 (who really knows at this point) from Venice (could have been Rome, too), where they had been on holiday, to France in a Peugeot 504 familiale wagon. That is a generous name for a small car (with no air conditioning or radio) filled with Bob and Jeanne and their five sons, including my husband who would have been about 13 and his brothers who would have ranged in age from 6 to 14, and their luggage.  I imagine it was a bit like those clown cars at a circus.

As the story goes, Bob, who was driving the clown car, arrived at a tunnel through the Alps to France with a toll, of course. Bob stopped the car at the toll, and the toll taker -- long before automated tollbooths or EZ Pass -- asked, "Monsieur, voulez-vous seulement 'allez' ou 'allez et retour'?" "Sir, would you like a one-way toll or a round-trip toll?" The more literal translation is "Are you "going" or "going and returning?"

Now, if you are truly bilingual, you can automatically switch gears from one language to another and speak and think in that language without -- and this is the key -- simultaneously translating. The rest of us need to translate, however. If you have ever tried to parler in another language, via translation, you also may have experienced that truly horrifying instant when your mental dictionary slams shut, and you cannot remember the words to use.

I believe that this is what happened to Bob at that moment when the toll taker asked "Allez ou allez et retour?" Yet, without missing a beat, legend has it, Bob replied, "Just allez!" He paid the one-way toll and rolled on through the Alps to France, while Jeanne and his sons spasmed with laughter.  "Just allez" became a commonly used franglais expression in the Corrigan home evermore. "Where are you going?"  "Oh, we are just allez-ing to the bakery." "We are just allez-ing to the movies." The boys rode Bob about this for years.

That's the story, as told to me, and I am sticking with it. Because sometimes all you can do is keep going!