The Frenchman

The Frenchman is not from France. He's from Belgium. But his first language is French, and nobody really knows the difference.

He TAs for Madame French Teacher. She refers to him as Monsieur Dictionnaire, because whenever anyone has a vocabulary question they can just consult him, instead of looking it up in the dictionary. Sometimes he doesn't really understand the questions, though, which the girls in French class find sort of adorable.

Some of the exchange students who come to our school have been studying English for so long that they're practically fluent. Like their brains can completely slip over and start thinking in English instead of their first language. The Frenchman still thinks in French, according to Madame. I mean, he's not bad at English, but there is a bit of a language barrier. Which is probably why he doesn't talk much.

He just sits quietly in French class, correcting papers or doing homework. He scrolls through his iPod, one earbud in and the other hanging down by his knees. His brown sneakers are crossed, one over the other, in front of his desk; the laces are wadded up in thick knots instead of just tied. His lips are always pooched forward a little, turned down. His cheekbones are thin, with a bit of a dark beard edging down from his sideburns. He wears two watches, one on each wrist--one tells what time it is here; the other probably tells what time it is in Belgium.

I wonder how much he misses home.

Exchange students always talk about how much they like it here. But you never know if they're just being polite.
When the Frenchman was interviewed for the school paper, he told them he loved it here and he's having a great time. But he always seems a little sad, and more than a little lonely. I guess you would, if you're alone in a foreign country five thousand miles from your home.

"It was actually pretty hard for me to make friends," he says in the school paper, "because I'm from a place so different than here, and I don't have much in common with anyone. A lot of people wanted to talk to me just because I'm an exchange student."

Well... probably not just because he's an exchange student. He's a remarkably attractive exchange student.

“DAYUM. Where did he come from?” a friend of mine asked, after the Frenchman passed us in the hall.

“Belgium,” I said.

“That. Is so. Hot.”

Yeah, there is the foreign aspect of him that people like, it's true. The Frenchman brings a sort of air of mystery with him. He’s from somewhere really different, and you can tell just from listening to his voice--or even just looking at him. It’s special. It attracts.

He's not incredibly social, but just because he's from somewhere different, everyone finds him sort of exciting. When he leans over a girl's desk in French class and points out a mistake on her paper, she looks up at him and turns bright red. Girls swoon over his accent, melt when he puts on his reading glasses, burst into giggles when he's reading the class a quiz and says the word "caterpillar."

“What’s so funny?!” exclaims Madame.

“He said ‘caterpillar,’” says one of the girls, still laughing.

“Well, that’s not funny! Don’t laugh at him; at least he’s trying!”

“No!” protests another girl. “It was cute!”

The Frenchman looks confused, then smiles a little bit and looks down, embarrassed. He doesn't really like the attention. He just wants to blend in, to be normal, but he can't--not in a place like this, where if you're the slightest bit different, everyone either torments you for it or treats you like the coolest thing in the world.

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Until Monday--Thank you so much for reading, and I hope everyone has a wonderful weekend! -Your Faithful Observer