les en­fants des fran­co­phones

Room Magazine - - CONTENTS - MIA POIRIER

To never have had a lan­guage the way that mat­ing birds do. Sounds made bring no worms. In an old apart­ment speak­ing a new French, a tango of English against genre and par con­tre and met­tons que. The French of an older gen­er­a­tion, of our grand­fa­thers on the beach at Dieppe, now a French dis­tilled to or­der­ing fries and thank­ing the bus driver. Tongues sore from con­tort­ing into stranger sounds, É and Euh and U, like ew, like dis­gust at the way we project. But we aren’t gone yet. We are in the schools and the movie the­atres and the high­ways to Kingston. We hear a song on the ra­dio and say I can un­der­stand French but I can­not speak it, I for­got it some­where be­tween my par­ents and my coun­try. If dy­ing is an art we are all mas­ters of our craft, death is slip­ping out from our teeth as we order fries, as we thank the bus driver.

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