I HATE LANGUAGE !!!

This is a rant. My first one.

Language sucks. It sucks because it is filled with rules one must stick to in order to be properly understood, yet language seldom succeeds at being what it is supposed to be: a mode to communicate. Of course, we get words across. They are spoken. Then they are heard. And then there’s understanding, or so we say. I won’t go into that. Anybody who has ever had to deal with words knows that they, more often than not, fail in the end. Words fail me. Yet I must stick to outdated and sometimes unjustifiable rules of syntax and grammar to get my point across. I must follow rules so that my words don’t fail others. Am I the only one to see this as problematic? Isn’t this, simply put, the definition of imperfection? A perfectly flawed system? This would not be such a problem if there weren’t so many rules, and so many in so many different languages. Of course, anybody who only knows one language cannot comprehend what I am saying. (I take that back, some uni-lingual writers might know.) There is this image of the poet as the one who moulds words. Who labours to shape a text into a perfect piece of words that call up perfect images. I see this poet sitting at a wood table in a dark room by the light of a candle. His chemise is open and we can see pearls of perspiration on his chest. He holds his hand to his forehead in deep meditation. Suddenly he looks up in hope. But then the hope dies away and boredom, or deception, take hold of him. He looks back down, but in a minute the epiphany strikes him again and he starts dipping his quill in his inkpot, dabs it on the side and writes away! The fluffy filaments of the feather dance a fluttering dance as his words are laid down. Perfection. A job well done, he heartily grasps his jug to swallow a heavy gulp of wine. Can a gulp be heavy? Surely not. There must be a rule about “gulp.” I learned in Grammar for Teachers that each word has their inherent grammar. So language has blatant rules (many of which make little sense) and intrinsic, metaphysical-type rules. And among all that I stand frustrated, over and over again.

People tell me that I’m lucky to speak two languages so well. I admit, my English is better than most, and my French is far better than many. My dilemma comes down to the fact that I’m self-conscious. Like you wouldn’t believe. It allows me to write well, which makes me all the madder when I make a stupid mistake. And those stupid mistakes, folks of all languages have made a point of bringing them to my attention. These stupid mistakes are Gallicisms, or “des anglicismes,” or what they call in French “des fautes d’inattention,” which translates as typos. My point is always understood. My communication is perfect. But my language use, no matter how good it is, is always flawed. Teachers have repeated this to me endlessly. Peers also, especially the uni-lingual ones. I’ve even started wondering if the “uni-lings” out there have united against me. Is criticizing my words an evil way to serve their own mono-language complex? Does putting me down make them feel good?

The French have always thought that my mother tongue is English. The anglos, French. The true story is a bit more complex than that. Due to hearing problems, when I was young I spoke a language that was a mystery to all save for my mother and brother. I learned how to talk when I was 3. With limited language skills (had some catching up to do!) I was put in French immersion. From then on I went to French school, so I learned to read and write French before my mother tongue. I should also mention that my mother tongue is not my mother’s, who’s Dutch. Am I English? Am I French? In what language do I dream? (I’ve been asked that more than once.) In what language do I count? Well, I count in French because I did math in French. I think of God (when I do) in English because I went to an English church when I was a kid. I talk semantics in French, and psychoanalysis in both. I also swear in both. I actually do everything in both. For a long time both were one to me. People say I am lucky to speak two languages so well. I know I am. But sometimes I just can’t help feeling sad and discouraged and frustrated that I don’t know one language perfectly. I’d like to shut them all up! All those "Bein c't'une block" and "Well, she's French." What do they know about language? Nothing other than its naturalness, which I sometimes feel I'll never have in either of my languages. Some days, the more languages you know, the more words you have to fail you.