Amanda Everitt: What it’s like being asked of my son: “Il parle?” (Does he talk?)

While driving through the French countryside, we stopped by the side of the road to buy some watercress. The rickety stall was being manned by an old lady in an old brown frock.

While handing over a fresh bunch, she pointed to my two year old boy with one long clawed finger and smiled through her buck teeth. “Entendant?”

What? I knew what was coming. I stopped counting my money and froze.

“Hearing? Oui.”

“Il parle?” (Does he talk?)

I saw red.

“Non! Il parle pas” I replied in a short and furious gesture.  

She froze, hesitantly she handed over my change, frowning.

With a curt nod, I joined my boy and his father on a bench behind the stall to munch on some biscuits.

Not to be deterred, the old lady lumbered around the stall and approached us. She pointed to my son again, “Parle pas?”

I was halfway through my cookie, and I just shrugged. My son was signing to his father “Courgette big, steam cook,” while puffing out his cheeks to show boiling water.  

I have lost count of the number of times complete strangers have approached us over the last two years asking if he was hearing, and if he could talk.

He can in fact talk. He attends a Parisian nursery and walks around asking where the cat is in French and has he has started expressing words in English.

However, he does sign more than he talks at the moment and that is reason for their concern. No matter that he is one of the most communicative children at the nursery.  

The word ‘communication’ derives from the Latin word ‘communicare’ or ‘to share.’ These people do not want to at least ask my son his name first, or to share theirs. To them, communication means one thing, to be able to vocalise.

It seems as if my son is a portal for them to voice their worries, and they must tell me because they know better.

Perhaps it is something to do with all the youth, the promise they see in his tender eyes. Running around on his short legs, he represents hope, where they failed with me. For them, it is not too late to put him back on course.

The frequency of these incidents seem to have increased over the summer. When asked by a concerned baker, I walked out, hitting someone with the tip of my baguette on the way out. Another time I was approached in the queue of a public toilet by another dame who asked the same thing.

I replied:

“He can sign. Can you?”

Amanda is a New Zealander slash Briton currently living with our continental cousins, Les Français. Amanda is rising to the challenge of raising un bébé who likes to get into the nappy bin and trying to make moody french waiters smile.
Blog : www.playbyeye.com
Twitter : @ammynz