French it up, baby

I have had the pleasure of knowing a Frenchman in Indiana. My Frenchman was a marvelous guy, but I don't know if he was quite representative, since he was a student in American Studies back home, Maxime Herbaut. His eyes were a bit small and his glasses a bit large, lending him a look of reserved wisdom, like a diplomat. His goatee and constant punning were more reminiscent of a Beat Poet. I told Maxime his name translated into English was "Maximum Hairball." He said my name translated to "Slippery Toilet Seat" in French.

He was generally a star in whatever social circle I encountered him. He was a master of witty rejoinders and amusing anecdotes. He also differed from most Americans in that his charm involved subtle self-effacement. One of my favorite of his stories was about the French news parody program in which figures in the news are portrayed by hand puppets. America's symbolic puppet took the appearance of Sylvester Stallone, who communicated in a series of grunts. The Bush puppet would either be bullied into action by Sly Stallone or by Pope John Paul II. The latter is a real study in perspective, given that we invest the Pope with symbolism of Catholicism, an example (for Methodists) of backwards conservatism or of the path to the devil's doorstep (for Baptists). I can only imagine that to the secular French, George W.'s born-again non-denominational Christianity is compatible with the will of the supreme pontiff.

Which brings me to my digression: Frenchification. What is it that French-Cut Green Beans, French Fries, French-Cut Panties, the French-Tickler, French Doors, French Toast, and French Kissing have in common? Shared American connotations of sophistication and sex. Well, maybe all except for French Fries.

Note that when Americans talk about sex, they usually do so in either elevated or profane language. Consider "make love" and "knock boots." To say "sexual intercourse" out loud sounds ridiculous or overly scientific to most American ears. So here's my current theory: When we want to elevate it, we usually rely on the French; when we take pleasure in the profane, it is usually borrowed from Black English. It begs the question: why can't most white Americans talk about sex in our own ordinary words?

I should note that Maxime once showed me a play he'd been working on: a satirical farce about Hell's waiting room. Written in American English, it was anything but elevated; it featured numerous scatalogical jokes. One may only hope that farts in Hell are not French... or worse, American.