gender

Masculin ou féminin?

Posted on by MELewis

Masculine or feminine? Figuring out which gender is assigned to which thing is a subject of continual head scratching for the non-native speaker of French.

In this age of gender fluidity and non-binary assumptions, in order to speak French properly it is still essential to ask the increasingly loaded question: is it male or female?

I’ve posted before about gender benders and the impossibility of applying logic or rules to correctly guess whether something is a ‘le’ or a ‘la’.

The thing to remember is that in spoken French, it’s not all that important. Oui, your French native will raise an eyebrow when you say ‘le clé’ (key is feminine) or ‘la poil’ (hair is masculine), but in reality, it hardly matters. The important thing in learning to speak a language is plunging ahead, mistakes be damned. And the only way to learn the gender rules for French words is by rote, regular practice and occasionally getting it wrong.

In written French, however, it is always worth checking. And how much easier is that task in the age of the internet! A quick search reveals the correct spelling and genre of any given word, although the grammar rules are sometimes rather more complex, with certain words varying in gender according to the use. The challenge is that sometimes we forget to check or can’t be bothered or are convinced (like me) that we are right.

There is an expression in French that sums this up perfectly: les paroles s’envolent, les écrits restent. This means that while spoken words fly away, anything in writing, even as ephemeral as the online world, remains. In other words, you can get away with almost any oral mistake but once it is written in black and white, it is harder to ignore.

Thanks to FranceTaste for inspiring this post in a recent comment, and to Phildange for keeping us honest!

La pluie

Posted on by MELewis

 

La pluie

It has been a long, dry summer here in France. The earth is parched, the fields bleached by the sun. Normally the final days of August and early September bring a few big storms but so far they have missed us. This morning, the rain has rarely been so welcome.

La pluie is not something we often rejoice over here in France. It is not like the English rain, so light and prevalent. When it rains here, it pours. And generally brings with it a mood that is like the weather – maussade (pronounced: moh-sad) Meaning gloomy, dull, sad.

Perhaps that is why I used to confuse the verbs ‘pleuvoir’ and ‘pleurer’. To rain and to cry. I may have once told my husband that his mother was raining. Things could be stormy when she was around, so it may not have been entirely unintentional.

Long ago I gave up on trying to find the logic behind the attribution of gender in French. No matter how you try, you have a 50/50 chance of getting it right. I find you have greater success if you let your instincts rather than your memory guide you. Somehow la pluie feels right. Rain must surely be feminine, just as wind – le vent – is masculine.

I love the smell of rain. I love the way it sounds upon the roof. I love to sit outside on my balcony and watch the patterns it makes across the sky over the Léman, as I did in this photo from last summer.

Perhaps what I love most about the rain is that it forces me to sit inside and ponder it. Curl up and read a book, enjoy the comfort of being warm and dry inside. And some of my fondest memories of childhood are running around outside as the skies opened up after a hot dry spell.

J’aime la pluie.

Et toi?

Cherchez la femme

Posted on by MELewis

dog_shoeAccording to my passport, I am French. Along with some vital statistics (sex: female; height: 157 cm; eyes: brown), it reveals a few home truths about me. Like the fact that I wasn’t born in this country.

My accent’s pretty fair. On a good day, I could probably pass as a native French speaker. Yet if I had any yen to be a spy, my career would be brief. A lacune (gap) in my vocabulary, a gender bender in grammar or hesitation over numbers would quickly reveal my secret: I’m not from here.

(Did you know that the French count on their fingers with the thumb first while we Anglos start with the index?)

But my cover would be blown before I even got that far. You see, I don’t look like a French woman.

In the words of my mother-in-law: “Tu n’as pas une tête pour être française.” Indeed. Neither my head nor any other part of my anatomy fits the mold of la femme française. Too pale, too heavy. Not fine of bone or tanned of skin.

I don’t dress like a Frenchwoman either. Mostly because French clothes don’t tend to fit me well (they are made for a narrower, longer frame); also, I can’t stand feeling cramped and constrained in my clothing. For me, it’s comfort first, elegance second. That means no tight waists, torturous heels or lacey underpinnings. I’m a white cotton kinda girl. By French standards, I am frumpy.

A Frenchwoman will wear a thong as a badge of femininity, regardless of how uncomfortable it is or whether her derrière is truly worthy of display. And, after all, pourquoi pas? It’s just not for me.

Once you get past the how-do-you do’s, I don’t really sound like a French woman. It’s not just mistakes in the language – it’s more a manner of speaking. I am simply too direct. In the time-honored tradition learned at my father’s knee, I tend to call a spade a spade. And I ask a lot of questions. Frenchwomen are generally much more discreet. Not to mention soft spoken. And perhaps not quite as fond as I am of foul language.

I also enjoy alcohol more than the average Frenchwoman. Not just wine but a fair bit of beer. Preferring hops to champagne bubbles is a pretty good clue I’m not pure souche.

And here is the ultimate giveaway: I can’t (read won’t) use an iron. Except for emergency touch-ups involving wrinkles deeper than the ones on my face.

My mother-in-law (who, by the way, has not discovered Google translate or this blog) once informed me that she would be incapable of sleeping on sheets that hadn’t been ironed. Hmph. Wonder how she manages a full night’s sleep on ours?

Frenchwomen are raised to wield an iron. The majority of households don’t possess clothes dryers, so ironing is how they finish drying their clothes. It also ensures the pristine, crisp appearance for which they are renowned.

It seems that every week brings a new tome promising the beauty and lifestyle secrets of the illusive Frenchwoman. Here’s the latest for those who want to know how to look chic. But frankly, I’m a little tired of reading about how Frenchwomen don’t get fat. (Apparently I’m not alone – according to this editorial from Vanity Fair.)

The fact is, it’s a lot of work being a Frenchwoman. Most of the ones I know do work, rather hard, whether at home or at an outside job, in most cases both. With very little help from les messieurs.

And that’s another reason I’m not a real Frenchwoman*. Ours is an equal-opportunity household.

* With apologies to certain French female friends who are every bit as much of an exception to the rules as yours truly!

Gender benders

Posted on by MELewis

shutterstock_98661947I have spent many hours since coming to this wondrous land pondering existential questions around points of grammar.  For example, why is a toilet feminine? And more importantly, why do the French only refer to toilets in the plural (‘les toilettes’), when they are so often to be found only in the singular?

In a language where he and she are not just people and animals but objects and places, the concept of gender goes way beyond our traditional idea of male and female.

Learning to speak proper French, with its complex rules of grammar, is challenging for anyone. It’s especially so for we English speakers for whom the concept of gender assignment to nouns is utterly foreign.

Why should a shoe (une chaussure) be feminine? Men wear them too (although most own fewer pairs). While we’re at it, why should the most defining parts of the female anatomy be masculine? (le sein, le vagin…)

Rule number one is that there is no rule. Don’t waste time and energy looking for logical associations that help explain why it’s la chaise and le fauteil. There aren’t any. Or they’re too deeply buried in the etymology and history of the language to be helpful.

There’s only way to master gender in language. Forget it.

The day I decided to stop worrying about gender and concentrate on other aspects of the language – vocabulary, syntax, not to mention non-verbal communications –  I took my first step towards fluency.

Sure you make mistakes. They are unavoidable. As soon as you say ‘le chose’ you are instantly and forever branded as a non-native speaker. It’s a dead giveaway. It’s also no big deal. Unless you’re a CIA agent trying to pass as French-born.

Fortunately there are only two genders in French – unlike German, which also has the neutral form. So you have a 50/50 chance of getting it right. But even if you get the article right, you may get stuck on the respective masculine, feminine or plural version of the adjective.

There are just so many traps laying in wait. So just sail on, and damn the mistakes.

By the way, if you’re looking for les toilettes, which are always feminine and plural, you can also ask for les WC (pronounced: vay-say). Bonne chance!