Artwork courtesy of Megan Broussard Maughan, designed by Blake Lagneaux.
When I signed up for a French immersion program at age thirty-seven, my goal was simple: learn every single French word in existence, sound Frenchier than an actual French person, and finally be absolved of my sin of becoming a “yank” by moving to NYC.
Why not? I had the time. I had lost my job—two actually, the first as a producer at a major television network, the second as a TV writer. What are the odds of someone losing two careers in one year? High, in 2023, actually. The writers' strike halted production on the show I wrote for, which never came back, and a number of media companies, including mine, completely slashed networks employing thousands of people.
So it felt as good a time as any to follow in my favorite great aunt’s footsteps. Great Aunt Inez went through the five-week immersion program at Université Sainte-Anne in Nova Scotia when she was in her seventies. She wanted to learn how to write the language she was only allowed to speak inside her Erath home.By the end of the session, not only did she realize her dream and learn to write in French, she was also awarded le Pris d’Houneur, the Prize of Honor, for her outstanding dedication to the program. Until her dying day, it was the thing she was most proud of outside of her family. She’d say that studying in Nova Scotia, where our family came from, made her more whole, a more fulfilled person. It changed her for the better. Maybe it could change me, too.
As a child, I always wished I knew what Inez and her sisters were gossiping about over cafe au laits. I’d pretend to be able to speak the language too, babbling below them on the floor with my play tea set.
Maybe after the program, I’d finally know what some of those conversations were about. Maybe I could actually have a conversation with my French friends back in New York and have the last laugh the next time they tried to tease me with: “ahhh, but you can’t even pronounce your own last name correctly!” Or, perhaps a whole new life path would emerge from it. I know people who’ve come out of this program starting their own immersion schools. The possibilities were endless!
That is not exactly how it went; what did happen was even more spectacular.
Shortly after I arrived in Nova Scotia, ready to drop English for five entire weeks, I ran into an old friend who I hadn’t seen in ages. But you know how it is when it's a good friend. You pick up exactly where you left off, like no time has passed at all.
You might be wondering, how were you able to really catch up with this person using only the elementary French you arrived with, without any English at all? Tell us, how does one fill a friend in on the past twenty-plus years using the words bonjour, Ça va, and puh?
Can you keep a secret? It’s because we spoke English. Shhh I know, I know. Avertissement!—which means “warning,” a word that will send chills down the spines of Sainte-Anne alums, because it means Tristan, the principal, caught you speaking English. And three times, you’re out. Like, sent home.
But, you see, my old friend and I weren’t technically breaking any rules
. . . because she was, well, me. Little Megan, around seven or eight, with an early ‘90s side pony; a Destin, FL airbrushed T-shirt, and grass-stained Keds.
Now you must be really confused. But I promise you’ll get it after I explain.
When I’d plop down on my bed in my tiny dorm room after hours of class, speaking in what felt like tongues and certainly embarrassing myself among my peers who were much more advanced than I was, my mind would wander. Then I’d hear it: a high pitched “Hey girl, remember me? It’s been too long!”
I couldn’t remember the last time I’d heard this voice, but then again I hadn’t found myself in such extreme solitude since I’d become an adult. Silences in my life were inevitably filled by podcasts, playlists, and Bravo TV. But that wasn’t an option here at Sainte Anne’s. At any point, les animateurs could pull an earbud and ensure no English was spoiling your precious French ears, or check over your shoulder to be sure you weren’t texting in anything but en Français. If so, avertissement! So, when I needed to rest and felt like even my favorite French Netflix shows were too draining for the thirty minutes I had between class and activities, I found myself laying in silence.
That’s when she would come. She was the only one I could really talk to, really lean on, when at 6 am I’d wake up cold with a stiff back to learn to conjugate irregular verbs and ask: what the hell am I doing here? Sorry, Qu'est-ce que je fous ici?
I couldn’t admit that I was struggling to my new fiancé, or my mom. Well, first because they didn’t speak French, so we couldn’t talk unless it was Google translated via text (though in Rick’s defense, he did download Duolingo and Facetimed me with limited vocabulary and incredible miming).
Secondly, this was all my big, brilliant idea in the first place. While Rick was super supportive, I’m sure he didn’t fully understand, though he’d never tell me that to my face. My mom, on the other hand, was fully supportive, but let me know several times how much she didn’t understand why I needed to “go and do all that” when I could be spending time with my new fiancé, and, you know, getting a new job. Both fair points.
So in these moments, Little Megan would appear, remind me that my inner compass had never steered me wrong (or at least not completely off a cliff), and that should count for something. Plus, she reminded me that my mom’s inclination towards the pragmatic, safe, and steady is her way of loving me, trying to keep me safe.
[Read this next: A Transplant Story—The misadventures of growing bayou in Brooklyn."
When I wanted to scamper away from the cafeteria line because it would be easier than whipping out my micro-French dictionary for the words “sorry, I meant to ask for fries, please,” Little Megan helped me dig the dictionary from my backpack so we wouldn’t be hungry later.
When I had to give a three minute presentation in my fledgling French on my favorite family holiday traditions, Little Megan calmed me down. “Remember when you gave that big ol’ speech in front of a room full of executives, and you didn’t know your bra strap was flapping around out of your sleeve the whole time? This can’t go worse than that.”
She helped me remember the things I used to love, for no reason other than they were just fun, like writing poetry and playing board games … things I hadn’t taken time for in ages.
And she helped me with even tougher things, too—like shaking off the silly anxiety I still carried from being bullied in high school, giving me the courage to walk up cold to a cafeteria table full of strangers and ask: Est-ce que je peux m’asseoir ici? Can I sit here?
She even soothed me when a Cajun song came on at one of the soirées that reminded me of my dad and how it hurts to think about how we don’t talk, but if I’m honest, it would hurt more if we did.
Re-encountering her was the best thing I took away from that experience. I’ve carried her with me through the adventures of an international wedding, a new job, writing projects, a move, a green card application and approval for my new husband. And she’s given me grace for failing to keep my French skills as sharp as they were that spring in 2024.
But these days, she’s on me to get back to practicing, which is why I’m writing about the tips, tricks, and ways I remember French words on my Substack.
I smile when I think back to my time at Sainte Anne, or “Cajun Camp” as Little Megan and I call it, about how all I wanted to do was learn French. But, I left with so much more—a reconnection that was even stronger, even more valuable, than the reconnection with my heritage language and familial roots. I found my inner-voice, the person I am at my core, a piece of whom I’d lost for far too long.
Read more entries of Megan Broussard Maughan's column, “In Search of the Lost Tongue,” at countryroadsmag.com.
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