Recent comments about my father’s lack of a French accent notwithstanding, there’s something about having to shout in another language. It’s like taking those scarcely foreign vowels and holding them up to a magnifying glass so you can suddenly see all the weird hairy bits.
Going through a drive-through window with my father today, I took note of this. Not enough “h” in his “hamburger.” Something a little too nasal in the word “fries,” like someone impersonating an American accent.
I found myself teasing him, which is just asking for trouble, being that my French accent is light years from his American one. He then kindly brought up the time when I was locked in the gym bathroom in Paris and forced to shout, “Aidez-moi! Je suis bloqué!” Help! I’m stuck. (This is something I prefer to forget, not because I was fearful of being stuck, but because I was fearful of my own horrid accent, all the hairy bits magnified).
In situations such as this, (and especially whenever he corrects my French), I retaliate in the only way I can, which is to remind him that ONLY HE CAN BE BLAMED FOR ROBBING ME OF THE OPPORTUNITY TO SPEAK FRENCH AS A CHILD.
Of course, that would have been too easy. You don't think I ever would have really said that, do you?