His father had been in the Navy during the Viet Nam conflict. Soon after he was born, the family transferred to San Diego for a bit, then to Rabat, Morocco.
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Wide eyed, the boy child stares up at his mother’s face, an ocean breeze gently moving his cotton blonde hair, the California morning sun just behind her shoulder.

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While in Morocco the boy spoke an amalgam of French (mostly), Arabic, and English. His father would later tell him how frustrating it was to carry on a simple conversation with a two year old, let alone one that spoke three different languages at once. They had a German Shepard named “Lady.” His mother would tell him a story of three men pulling Lady away from a would-be kidnapper.

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In 1971 the family returned to the states. The boy would only speak French.

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He was enrolled in day care. He would recall the large black women that watched over the children and music from soap operas playing in the background during nap time. He spoke English, but with a heavy French accent. Words like “cream” sounded like “crème” – “shaving crème,” or “‘elo-coptaire” for “helicopter.”

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In the morning the boy and his new friend watch a lady present cards with pictures saying, “House… maison. Maison.” The boy turns to his friend and laughs – this is ridiculously easy.

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His mother bought him a new pair of bellbottom jeans. Friend Kevin taught him rock, paper, scissors. He taught Kevin “Frère Jacques.” 

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After washing up for lunch he waits by the front door. Fidgeting. The bright summer sun crossing his chin, beaming through the 12 pane door. Particles of dust creating volume so thick you could cut the beam of light with a knife and take it home.

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An older lady, fluent in French, lived across the street from the day care. On occasion she would have the boy over for tea. When she and the boy spoke of Morocco, he would cry.

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“I had a dog – ‘Lady’. She protected me. She could not come with us.”

>J’avais un chienne. Le nom du chienne était “Lady.”<

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The boy puts his small hands to his face, then his forehead to the table.

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“My nanny would take me to the market.”

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>Je suis allé au marché avec ma nounou<

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In my adult mind I see the boy and not myself. But my spirit still rushes to him and feels his anguish.

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It’s quiet in her little apartment. A small chime from her Chelsea Sea Clock. Distant birds singing in the trees. Alouette, gentille Alouette…

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From what I’ve been told the nice woman next door informed my mother it would be best to no longer speak French in my presence.

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My aunt told me the story about tea next door.

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My father never did figure out how to communicate with me, and I don’t speak a word of French.