Post by chasseur on Sept 2, 2011 2:48:07 GMT -5
... si vous êtes sûr?
Je vois. Merci… au revoir.
Hello, I'd like to speak to...
There was a time that I used to have to force my mind to jump between French and English, between the more Americanized world of Ottawa and the all too foreign Quebecois formality… but now it's as easy as breathing for me to understand the man on the other end of the line. That's the advantage of immersion schooling, I guess, although I really could've done without being thrown right into the deep end instead of a more gradual approach. Maybe me not being as prepared as I could've been is the fault of my parents, maybe not. At this point, I don't really care. They've loved me and supported me, and treated me like their own rolling around in their bed at night is what created me instead of someone else's. That's about all the more that I can ask for.
I'm only half-listening as the disembodied voice on the other end of the call -- Jean Paul, I think he said his name was-- reassures me, swearing up and down and left and right that he's certain that this gentleman whom wishes to be my employer has the information that I've spent the majority of my life looking for. He has money, says ol' Jean, enough of it to grease the wheels of the unwieldy United States government to get me the paperwork that I've been denied access to. Apparently, it's just as much of a nightmare for a native that's stayed in the states for all of their life to get this stuff as it is for someone that's been calling the Great White North home.
I nod to myself, deciding that he's told me enough.
I'm only half-listening as the disembodied voice on the other end of the call -- Jean Paul, I think he said his name was-- reassures me, swearing up and down and left and right that he's certain that this gentleman whom wishes to be my employer has the information that I've spent the majority of my life looking for. He has money, says ol' Jean, enough of it to grease the wheels of the unwieldy United States government to get me the paperwork that I've been denied access to. Apparently, it's just as much of a nightmare for a native that's stayed in the states for all of their life to get this stuff as it is for someone that's been calling the Great White North home.
I nod to myself, deciding that he's told me enough.
Je vois. Merci… au revoir.
Hanging up the phone before Jean can try to weasel his way into my bed for the fifth time, I toss the cordless aside and flop back onto my bed, staring up at a ceiling that I think is white beneath all of the posters. It's a mish-mash of colors and conflicting interest, Leonardo Dicaprio and Robert Smith and Nick Carter (don't judge me) all BFFs amidst surreal landscapes, unicorns, and the token cute kitten. I wonder if my parents are ever going to finish turning this into the guest room they keep talking about, or if they're going to keep everything just as I left it as some sort of shrine to the life that they got to influence so much. No matter how many times I tell them that it's okay to rip down the relics of a conflicting and angsty youth, they keep hanging on to the idea of me being a child… and I can't say that I can blame them, not when I know just how long the road was to even bring an infant home. Still, though, even if they have no questions to answer… I have my own, and I can't ignore them any longer. How could I, when someone claims to know where I came from? That need to know has been gnawing at me for well over a decade, now, so it is no surprise that I find myself retrieving my phone and dialing the number from the message from memory. With as many times as I had listened to the message, I could recall every word, every last syllable without so much as a second's hesitation… although that doesn't stop me from hesitating when someone answers the phone on the other end. Clearing my throat to buy myself the time to gather my nerves, I respond, the slightest French accent clinging to my words.
Hello, I'd like to speak to...