There was a time
when my mother and I thought
it was a good idea to take French lessons.
Together.
It was impossible. Being that I am stubborn
and already have a bunch of word floaties from
other languages sifting and bouncing about up there and the
mathematic gymnastics of
dropping last sounds from words
that have consonants for all to see.
was like taking Algebra I, a third time.
My mother was better.
She had taken French in high school, and it was coming back to her.
Or so we thought
until the instructor had to pull us
aside
one evening during class
to inform us that my mother
needed to stop mispronouncing/using the
French word for cat-
and because of this.
The chat was black. The chat was hungry. The chat was on top of the table.
was not this.
And she needed to know the difference between chat and chatte unless she was being purposefully vulgar.
And when he turned, to enter back into the classroom,
my mother and I stood there.
And she said.
What a chatte.
and I agreed.
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