I grew up in a Canadian elementary school, which means I learned a certain amount of French. I love learning (and learning about) languages. I got a trophy in grade 8 :-)
Not all of my classmates felt that way, and they did the whole "Pitou est sur le bureau, mais Pitou n'est pas un stylo" thing until they were able to drop it. I'm glad I stuck with it.
A while ago, my husband and I spent a few days in Montreal, a very French city, but one where most folks speak enough English that we can all get along. If you're unfamiliar with the cultural realities of an officially (but not always functionally) bilingual nation, start with greeting folks as follows: "Bonjour hi." Then do your best to speak what little of their language you can, while they will probably do the same. In the end you will walk away happy with your double double and a dozen Beavertails.
I was actually quite pleased at how I made out that week. The funny thing is that in my small Ontario town I'm more likely to run into someone whose first language is Spanish, than French. So it's been a while since I've dusted off that part of my brain.
I got into an actual conversation in French with a man who was selling some books about Canadian history. I asked him one or two questions and he answered.
I was holding one of his books and he said (in French), "That book is written at a reading level that is good for a 10 year old."
I said (in French), "So I can read it?"
He laughed and said (in English), "Well, that's where I was going but I didn't want to really say it."
Later, we were walking down Rue St-Laurent and passed by Cafe Mission. The sidewalk was completely filled with folks either having a smoke or waiting to get in to the storefront space that provides services for people who are homeless or struggling in other ways.
I found myself oddly intimidated by the group, and I stepped out onto the road to walk around them, then back onto the sidewalk. This wasn't the first time we'd encountered homeless folks, or people asking for money, on the trip. And in Montreal, my gut reaction was... avoidance.
Got thinking about it and here's what I've concluded.
If I'd been at home, and encountered a crowd lingering outside a street-focussed ministry or service hub, I'd have been looking for faces. Listening for voices that I recognised.
In a different city, among different people, I was a stranger. And I felt uncomfortable. Nervous. Maybe even afraid.
The experience has reminded me of the need for empathy. Not only for folks on the street, but for folks who grew up in a small town and now live in a city. Our community has been changed the way many others have been. By covid and its mental health fallout. By the devastation of some horrific drugs.
I work and live with one foot on "the street" and one foot in the sanctuary. I know enough to empathise with the folks outside Cafe Mission. I know enough to empathise with condo- and business- owners downtown. I know that Jesus loves them all. Equally. I know that in both milieux (French! 🙂) people are afraid.
So I do what I can. Which is to stand with a foot in each camp. Occasionally providing. But mostly listening. And hugging.
And talking. Speaking both languages with an accent.
Comments