Listen, Look, Open Your Book

By Kelly Bostrom Robic

“Listen, mom. It’s just not that hard,” Arthur said.

Oh, the sage words of a bilingual four-year-old, Grace thought. Sure, it wasn’t hard. For him.

On that day, his go-to advice had referred to the fact that the boulangerie, the bakery, would open an hour late. This had been a wrinkle in Grace’s immediate gastronomic future, because her pint-sized translator would be in school.

“Just listen a whole lot to every word he says, and when it’s your turn to talk, you say, ‘Deux baguettes, s’il vous plait. Two baguettes, please,” Arthur had said, as he’d dragged his roller cart along the rough cobblestones in their little French village.

“But I also want a few of the pastries,’ Grace had explained. “And they never seem to catch on to where I’m pointing. I know your uncle says ‘point, nod, grunt and smile’ is the way to go, but I want to do way better than that.”

Grace had known perfectly well that parents shouldn’t rely on their children to translate for them. According to all the child-rearing manuals, asking for such help gives them a sense of authority, instills the know-it-all syndrome, etc., etc., etc... But when pressed with a burning desire for an Opera cake on Thursdays, when they were just four for 4€, those weren’t the moments Grace could leave to chance. Short, medium or long at the hairdressers? Yeah, whatever. But Operas were layers of chocolate, coffee and crème goodness and accuracy was critical. A simple éclair would no longer do.

It had always been easy for Arthur. He flipped back and forth between French and English effortlessly. Once when Grace had wanted to know how to say a word in French, she’d asked him, “How does Daddy say ‘cookie?’” They’d guffawed when Arthur said exaggeratedly, “‘Can I ‘ave a cooooookie.’” At age two and a half, he’d already begun mastering accents.

Arthur had an ear for languages and always had. On the other hand, Grace had known she’d never had an ear for them, right from the start. She also thought she could just learn a lot of vocabulary and then the grammar would take care of itself. But even with the vocabulary, she’d been tripped up a few times early on in her French learning days. She was often caught by “faux amis.” False friends. Words that sounded alike, maybe even were the same, but didn’t mean the same thing in both languages.

“Your jelly is good because it doesn’t have any condoms in it,” she’d proudly told her future mother-in-law at breakfast during her first family visit. Thankfully, Henri was on-hand to smooth things over with a full-on French explanation, followed by one in English for Grace.

“While preservatives means food preservatives in English, in French, it means something quite, ahem, different,” he’d said.

So, 18 years later, partly because of her love of food and partly because she needed to conduct typical adult business without relying on children, Grace gradually learned. Now, she could confidently say anything she wanted to say in French. She could ask for this or that cake, for half a baguette or for the bread to be sliced thinly. But she could only understand what was said back to her as long as it wasn’t delivered in rapid-fire, machine-gun speed. She’d never been able to listen as well as she could speak. Not in any language she’d studied. Which is why she was a bit more concerned now that she was about to take on yet another language in a brand-new country.

“It’s just for six months, mom. And I’ll be able to help you when I’m not at work,” her now 22-year-old Arthur had reassured her. Grace could still see the little four-year-old boy clutching his school bag in one hand and a pain au chocolat in the other, strolling through their little town. But that tiny boy had grown into a man, studied Japanese and landed an internship in Tokyo. He’d be starting next summer, just as Grace and Henri would be retiring, so they’d all planned what the Japanese called a new bōken. An adventure.

“I know, I know,” Grace had said. “But I just wish my level were going to be a bit higher.” Or a lot higher, she’d thought to herself. It had taken her 15 years to muster the courage to take the test at the Paris Chamber of Commerce. It confirmed that she was, in fact, more than fluent in French. But Japanese? She had mostly conquered learning the basic special characters. But to understand any written word, she needed to decipher the characters and then know what the word actually meant. It was slow-going on the good days.

Since Arthur had gotten the news just few months ago, Grace had spent countless hours on the popular language app Duolingo, so much so that she was seeing the friendly owl logo popping up in her dreams. The green owl would mumble something speedily, and Grace would try to listen calmly, but the words would fade away like whispers in the wind.

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Grace opened the door to her classroom, and set down the new calendar on her desk. It would be the last one she’d add to the collection she’d been growing for 12 years. She took the 2020-21 one off the wall, and slid it on top of the bookshelf with the others. In a little less than an hour, she meticulously marked down the holidays, the teacher in-service days, marking periods, field trips and other special dates. Lastly, she added in all of the children’s birthdays.

As she perused the list, one of the names caught her by surprise: Riko. Could she be Japanese? Grace hadn’t seen her name on the list when they’d left off for the summer. She must be new. She scanned the girl’s intake sheet. Born in Tokyo, age 3. Under languages spoken, the space was left blank.

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“Good morrrrning, everyone! I’m Graaaace,” she said slowly, as she knew that only about half of the children spoke some English. They hailed from Hungary, Spain, Sweden, Austria and of course, France. And the first day meant lots of hésitation and peur –fear– for the incoming three-year-olds.

“Say hello to Kaaaate,” Grace showed them a small IKEA puppet, a girl with a large mushroom on her head.

“Hello, Kate,” just one student repeated. Perhaps it was going to be a long year, Grace thought.

Just as she began to introduce “Tom,” she heard the classroom door creak open behind her. Mara, her assistant, was escorting another student into the room. In strutted a confident little girl, sporting long black ponytails. She was dragging a Hello Kitty bag with “Riko” neatly stitched on the side. Just below, Grace saw what she assumed was her name written in Katakana characters. She took a moment, studied the writing, and realized that yes, リコ was Riko!

“Konnichiwa,” Grace greeted the little girl. Riko’s face lit up. Grace quickly settled the girl in with the group and returned to her puppet skit. Riko was mesmerized. Surely, she knows some English? Grace repeated the skit, and Riko and two boys began repeating it with her. Listen, look, open your book. They began to mimic her actions as well.

If only language learning had come so easily to me, Grace thought.

++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

“Shoes, everyone! Take off your slippers and put on your shoes,” Grace repeated the instructions over and over in English as her colleague, Clarice, repeated the same in French. “Chaussures, tout le monde ! Enlevez vos chaussons et mettez vos chaussures.”

Grace finished helping Carlos lay his coat on the floor for an over-the-head flip. He successfully put his arms through the sleeves and was ready for help with his zipper. She glanced over to Riko, who was already zipping her coat. Her slippers had been neatly placed in her cubby.

“Soto ni deru no ga daisuki desu!” Riko said excitedly. “Soto ni deru no ga daisuki desu!”

Riko repeated the phrase over and over with the fervor of a three-year-old. But wait, Grace thought, was that the word “Soto,” she’d heard? Outside? Surely not. It was far too early for Grace to be understanding any Japanese. But she’d try to see if she’d been right.

“We’re going outside!” Grace told Riko. “Outside!” Grace smiled and waved her hands toward the large windows that looked out onto

the play yard.

“Outside!” Riko repeated.

Wow, she is quick, thought Grace. Or maybe she already speaks English?

“What’s your name?” Grace asked her. Riko skipped off with Carlos and Georges, ignoring Grace’s question, seemingly without a care in the world.

++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

“What color is it?” Grace asked, as she helped Victor put on a painting smock. Edgar and Chris blurted out, “Red!” in harmony, as the rest of the children sat mystified.

“Riko?”

“Aka,” she said.

And for the rest of the day, Riko answered every question like that. Exclusively in Japanese. Grace tried and tried to get her to respond in English, to no avail. During painting, game time, and snack time. The same. She responded 100% in Japanese.

“Can you say it in English? Eigo?” Grace pleaded, as she pointed to Riko’s apple slices.

“Riiiinnnngooooo!” Riko said with exuberation.

Curiously, there was one phrase that Riko repeated incessantly and Grace wondered more and more what the happy-go-lucky little child was trying to communicate. “Anata ni nihongo o oshiete imasu,” Riko said. Over and over. Grace tried to get her to say it slowly. At recess, she finally took out her Google translator and asked Riko to repeat what she had said slowly again in Japanese. But Riko only had one speed. Fast.

Grace tried one more time. “Slowwwwww,” she said to Riko.

“Anata ni nihongo o oshiete imasu,” Riko said, giggling. Then she said, clearly and distinctly, “Lisssssten,” in the same sing songy voice that Grace had used in class. Bubbling with energy, Riko sped off toward the slide.

Grace gave up. The parents would be arriving in a few short hours.

++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

Looking out into the courtyard into a sea of happy faces, Grace listened to the excited chatter of the first day coming to an end. Backpacks were rolling and hats were flying. The noise was becoming deafening, but since they were outside, she wouldn’t ask the kids to tone it down. It was time for them to release their energy.

She was so intently focused on monitoring the lively children that she jumped when someone tapped her on the shoulder.

“Konnichiwa!”

Grace spun around to see an adult-sized version of Riko, smiling from ear to ear. Riko was certainly her Mini Me.

“Keiko! It’s great to see you!” Grace said, immediately recognizing the woman. They’d met over the summer at an event hosted by the local international English speakers’ club at the community pool.

Their lengthy conversation leapt back into Grace’s head as if it had been just moments before. A little girl with black flowing hair had bounced all around the pool with her dad, barely paying any attention to her mom. Keiko had explained that her daughter was registered at a local school and didn’t know any English or French. But Keiko had said that knowing her daughter, this would be a problem she’d solve quite quickly.

“I didn’t know Riko was coming here,” Grace said. She listened to Keiko but was simultaneously scanning the courtyard, watching for any errant behavior.

“Yes, but—” Keiko patted her belly and said, “Futago.”

“Ohhhh, a new baby! You told me—"

“No, Futago. Futago!” Keiko laughed.

Keiko paused, waiting for Grace to take in the word. Grace struggled to remember. Keiko simply waited patiently, smiling. Just as Grace went to pull out her phone and Google the term, Riko popped out from behind her mom and yelled out enthusiastically, Fuuuuttttaaaaggo!”

Immediately sensing that Grace didn’t understand, Riko pointed to her mom’s belly again and said in a tone that once again mocked Grace’s, “Lisssssten! Fuuuuttttaaaaggo!”

Grace put her phone away as the rest of their conversation rapidly returned to her. She remembered introducing Keiko to her husband Henri, musing about life as foreigners in France, and Keiko teaching her an important word.

“Ah, yes, futago!” Grace said. Keiko had been awaiting testing to see if she was carrying twins.

“Well… We are having twins,” Keiko said beaming. “So, we thought it might be better for Riko to be in a program where she could go all day long. The one we’d planned to put her in was only for half days. She wasn’t happy about the change at first, since we’d already toured that school and met the teacher. But then we explained to her that her new teacher needed to learn Japanese, and she needed her help.”

“Ah, well, we’re glad to have her here,” Grace said, smiling down at Riko. “She’s quite quick and receptive. But I have one question for you.”

Slowly, painstakingly, Grace repeated to Keiko what Riko had said throughout the day: “Anata ni nihongo o oshiete imasu!”

Keiko and Riko both laughed.

“Exactly!” Keiko said.

“Exactly?” Grace replied.

“She’s saying, ‘I’m teaching you Japanese,’” Keiko said.

Riko was amused by the exchange, but then boredom quickly set in. She dashed off giggling toward the sandbox; then Grace could hear her yelling something back toward the adults as she ran.

“Kiite kudasai! Sore hodo muzukashī koto de wa arimasen! Riko’s words dropped away as she reached the sandbox at the far end of the playground.

“Okay, now what does that mean?” Grace turned again to Keiko.

Keiko seemed a bit embarrassed. “She’s saying, ‘Listen, please. It’s not that hard.’”