Susan M. Tiberghien

Still celebrating the Geneva Writers' Conference, two weeks ago, Feb. 3-5, 210+ writers from around the world (ones flying in for the weekend from Australia, Iran, Qatar, Egypt, Kenya, Italy, Austria Germany, France the UK, and the USA, plus the expats living in and around Geneva, and coming from Japan, China, the Philippines, Vietnam, Afghanistan, Iraq, Turkey, Nigeria, Europe, Canada, USA, and Equador. The theme came from Matthew Sweeney's poem, "Breaches", speaking of the fall of the Berlin wall, and how "We took our tiny hammer and whacked chips from that graffiti-daubed...construction, helping in our way to make it disappear." With our words, we were chipping away at all the walls that separate us: nationalities, religions, economics...to make our world one.

Check our website www.genevawritersgroup.org for write-ups of the conference and photos. It was a warm, wonderful weekend. The sub-zero temperatures made us appreciate still more the generous, creative spirits of the instructors and panelists, the both published and soon to be published participants, the Geneva Writers' Group staff, and our host, Webster University.

I wrote last month that I would post regularly stories that have been published about what happens when you marry a Frenchman. After "Airport Chatter", here is a second one, "Living in Two Languages", first published in the Christian Science Monitor, and recently rewritten and updated on Salon.

The story is below, but first, please check my workshop schedule for the spring, including the ones in the States. Dates are given on this homepage, to the left. I'll be in the States April 19 to May 7. And then again in June, for the next IWWG Conference at Yale, June 22 to 29. Hoping to see many of you, either here in Geneva or in the States.

And now here is

LIVING IN TWO LANGUAGES

Living in Two Languages

When I married Pierre and moved to France, I slowly slipped into a French-speaking pattern—thinking, dreaming, and raising children in French. Only when the children grew up and left home, did I have the time and the space to venture back to an English-speaking pattern. We were living then in Switzerland—a neutral country, for the world and for us, and now our home, welcoming both our nationalities.
It took awhile to adjust to the English model, to make the edges fit and flatten the seams. Then one day I found myself American once again. Pierre appreciates the variable metamorphosis, like having both wife and mistress. And I have the choice: Will I live the coming day in French or in English?

If I decide for French, I'll greet my husband with “Bonjour, mon cheri, as-tu bien dormi?” A detailed exchange will follow about whether we slept soundly or less soundly, if we were too hot or too cold, how many times we woke, if we feel rested and so forth. I will dress in a dark skirt and lighter blouse, with a silk scarf perhaps and a string of pearls.
Our breakfast will be short and precise—coffee, bread and butter, and confiture. I'll question him about his coming day, he'll question me about mine. It will all be logical, one subject after another, well constructed, with an introduction, development, and conclusion, very much like a disser¬tation.
My day will continue as such. In my head I'll make lists of things to do, and I'll go about my morning methodically, paying attention to priorities and not losing time. When I do my errands, I'll avoid conversation with people I meet, especially with people I don't know and there¬fore never shall know. And I’ll be unfailingly polite, “Bonjour Madame,” “Au revoir Monsieur,” “Vous êtes très aimable, Madame,” “Je vous remercie, Monsieur.” I'll use the same salutation and the same tone of voice, be it with my neighbor or the mailman.
Back home, in the afternoon, when working at my desk, I may loosen up temporarily, but if the telephone rings, I'll sit up straight, pick up the receiver and reply, “Allô?”, without the slightest encouragement to whomever it may be. With only a few exceptions, the call will be short—frugal in words and affability.
In the evening, I will relate my day to Pierre and ask about his. During dinner—the table will be formally set, linen table cloth and napkins, candles, the serving dishes will be hot—we will talk seriously about something in the news, politics, a book or theater. Each of us will give our opinion and listen courteously to the other. Then we’ll talk about our grown children, our friends, the people we should invite.
If we are planning a dinner party, Pierre will suggest that I send invitations rather than phone everyone, “C’est moins familier,” he'll say. And I will try to explain that I prefer to call. “C’est plus personnel,” I’ll say. And I will try to not confuse the “tu” and the “vous”, the less formal and the more formal. Still today, we have a few friends whom we address with the formal “vous”. As well as Pierre's parents, who address Pierre with “tu” and me with “vous”.

Now, however, if I decide to live my day in English, I will greet my French husband with something like, “Good morning, dear, time to get up,” shaking him a bit to make sure he's heard me. I'll dress in a bright shirt and comfortable slacks. Together we’ll prepare breakfast—orange juice, bagels and cream cheese, and some mornings we’ll do eggs and bacon.
I'll take my time, relating my dreams, asking about his, and talking about whatever comes into my mind. He'll try to get up from the table once or twice, but I'll ask him to sit still, not to rush off, reminding him how much I loved our long breakfasts in the States.
When he's gone, I'll stay right there and read today’s English newspaper, making myself a second or third cup of coffee. Before starting to do any cleaning or errands, I'll maybe call and invite a friend for lunch.
When I go shopping, if I meet somebody I haven't seen for weeks, I'll stop and chat. We’ll make plans to see one another. Finally I'll skip the shopping and go home to fix whatever I have in the refrigerator. My friend won't mind, she's used to my impromptu menus.
In the afternoon I'll work at my desk. When the phone rings, I'll lean back in my chair—or better, I'll take the phone and go lie down on my bed—and answer, “Hi, this is Susan.” And I won't look at my watch. If the weather's good, I'll go for a walk, down the road opposite our house, near the empty fields that remind me of where I grew up in New York. I'll find a stone and kick it along for company. I'll say hello to the people I meet, they'll look startled and most likely won't answer. Only their dogs will wag their tails.
In the evening, I'll serve our supper in the kitchen, we'll carry our plates to the dining table. He'll start to tell me about his day, what he did in the morning, what he did at lunchtime, what he did in the afternoon. I'll interrupt him to tell him about my walk and the woman with her dog. He'll laugh, we'll laugh together.

Bilingualism or split personality? Once the two patterns fit, the choice is mine. I wake up and write down my dreams in whatever language I dreamed them. I read the newspapers in both. I talk with everyone I meet, but keep time to be still. I laugh at myself even when I am trying to be serious. And I make “I love you” sound just as beautiful as “Je t'aime.”




To close this homepage, I return to my most recent book, One Year to a Writing Life, that offers twelve workshops moving from journaling to essays to short stories and flash fiction, on to dream writing, folk talkes, dialogue, prose poems, and ending with memoir and writing the way home. The book is in its 7th printing and remains a best seller on Amazon for books about writing.

"Ask writers to define the writing life and you will get many answers. Annie Dillard says that it is "life at its most free." For Stephen King, it's a "brighter, more pleasant place." From Brenda Ueland to John Gardner, writers have been offering counsel to encourage people to write. And all the words come back to one fundamental truth: a writing life is a creative life....

For me it has become a life that awakens to birdsong in early morning, that lingers with sunlight in late afternoon. It is a life that slows down to touch each moment, a life that deepens from an inner source. I was fifty years old when I started along the way. I had been writing letters, various papers, journal entries, but not thinking of myself as a writer. My life was full yet I longed for something more. Once I acknowledged that I wanted to be a writer, the well within me filled with fresh creativity...

One Year to a Writing Life presents twelve workshops drawn from over fifteen years of teaching. The lessons dovetail inspiration and instruction. The first component, inspiration, comes from my trust in writing as a way of life. A trust nourished by practice.... The second component, instruction, comes from my appreciation of writing as a process. We sharpen our writing skills, clarify our thinking, and deepen our awareness of ourselves and of the world around us...

There is a light within each of us, the light that we bring into the world. ONE YEAR TO A WRITING LIFE will lead you to this light. With your words, you become a light bearer in the world."