Wallflower

Sometimes, I am pointedly aware of how being in France has changed me, and one of the biggest ways is how I am when I'm socializing with a group of French people... even with my new French family. And it has to do a big change in my own social behavior.

In the United States or with a group of anglophone ex-pats here in France, I am often one of the more animated conversationalists... which is a nice way of saying I'm often one of the ones doing the talking. (Don't worry, I also know how to LISTEN, too.) I love talking with people, about nearly any subject, and I get a lot of energy from the interaction with others, whether it's in person or even on the phone. That's probably why I enjoy doing coaching work or public speaking from time to time; as much as I love writing, it's a solitary pursuit and can be rather isolating. But in my "natural habitat", if I'm around a group of people who know me well and I'm in a (rare) quiet mood, they're usually asking: "Are you feeling all right, Lisa? You're so quiet today!"

But here when surrounded by French people, including a family dinner with all three kids present and where there is usually a lot of rapid-fire chatter going on (and French teenagers are the same as anywhere else -- they talk very fast and mumble their words a lot of the time), I find I'm usually the quietest one in the bunch, hampered as I am by the language barrier. Although I am slowly improving in my ability to understand and participate, I'm anything but 100% up to speed, so I tend to hang back, to fade into the background.

I am the lone American wallflower among a field of colorful red French poppies.

Sometimes, I simply notice this and observe myself as if from a distance, kind of like a scientist might follow an experiment and report on his findings. In those observant moments, I just chalk it up to "this is the way it is right now, and eventually it will get better as I get more fluent" and then I go back to listening and seeing how much I can actually understand of what is going on around me.

At other times, I must admit, I find it frustrating to the point where I have to leave the room to avoid bursting into tears publicly, because I feel so "left out" and so, well, foreign. It's during those moments that I sometimes despair that it will ever be different, that it will ever get better... and will I ever be able to be wholly myself here?

My frustration, I think, comes from not being able to fully express myself yet in my new language... the way I can when I'm thinking, speaking or writing en anglais. As someone who has always been a talker and who makes her living from writing, the inability to do what comes naturally forces me to be different than I normally would be in certain situations.

They say that travel broadens you, and in most cases I'd agree with that and have certainly found it to be true for me in every other respect. But when it comes to language barriers, maybe that's one way that travel narrows you instead, because when you can't say what you want to say, you're kind of stuck, aren't you? Or at least, it feels that way to me right now. I'm not blaming anyone for this, don't misunderstand me. I'm just saying it's something I've become increasingly aware of, the longer I'm here.

Of course, there's nothing wrong with being quiet sometimes, even when you're with others. Like right now, for instance. I'm sitting on the bed while I'm blogging this... and the Little Guy came in a few minutes ago to see what I was up to. When I said I was working, he just sort of snuggled up next to me anyway... and he has since fallen asleep, curled up on Georges' pillow, dou-dou tucked under his chin. What a bonus at the end of the holidays, to have a quiet moment with this wonderful child. (Pity we'll have to wake him up for dinner.)

And someday, hopefully sooner rather than later, I can join in with the other poppies in the field -- when I want to. In the meantime I'll take the unexpected "quiet time" bonuses as my consolation prize.