I still remember the day I learned about homophones. I was in third grade and it was spelling test day. I was in the yellow spelling group, somewhere in the middle of the color-coded system that ran from red (whose members were learning to spell dog) to gold (whose members were learning to spell anesthesiologist). There were twenty homophones on my test, including: stationary and stationery; capitol and capital; their, there, and they’re. If I’m being honest, the only ones I know how to use properly today are their, there, and they’re. And I still can’t spell anesthesiologist.
Luckily, my inability to distinguish between a stationary bike and stationery for letters – the first time I wrote this sentence it was about a bike made out of paper and letters that stayed where they were – never caused any problems in my life. Until I moved to France.
I am convinced that the potential for embarrassment with these tricksters of the grammar world is far greater in French than in English. For example: If an American student wrote in a paper that they had enjoyed their visit to the Capital building, there is a fifty/fifty chance that no one would notice.
On the other hand, if a French student (me) were to mix up rennes (reindeer) and reines (queens), the humiliation factor is much higher. Now the French, who delight in the playful mockery of foreigners, have the opportunity to make fun of me; not only for not knowing how to spell, but also for implying that the kings of yore had their palaces stocked with reindeer (with whom they dined and perhaps enjoyed occasional trips to the theatre).
Then there are the words that are not actually homophones, but that I have trouble pronouncing. So far, my biggest revelation has been the pronunciation of the French word for “stop.” Turns out, for the past five years at least every time I have said arrêt it has sounded to French-speakers like I was saying arête. In other words, every time I thought I was saying stop, I was actually saying fishbone.
There are countless more landmines of humiliation waiting to be set off by my loose interpretation of this ancient language. A very slight difference separates the words “to poison” (empoisoner) and “to fill with fish” (empoissonner). At least twice a week, while attempting to buy my daily baguette, the person working the counter says “une baguette ou une banette?” (a baguette or a banette?). I have always prided myself on the clear distinction between my consonant sounds, and find it a little demoralizing that I am constantly being asked whether I want to buy the famous Parisian bread or something which, as far as I can tell from a quick Google search, doesn’t even exist.
It is with these small setbacks in mind that I find myself secretly taking pleasure in the failures of French people speaking English. I recently struggled to contain myself when a young man, trying to impress me with his English skills, told me he was ninety-two years old. And so the swinging door of language acquisition hits another innocent victim in the face.
