Putain de merde!: Or Cultural Analysis of French Curse Words

Hey all! Sorry I haven’t posted recently—there was the run-up to the holidays and then my family came to visit me! I have a lot of neat pictures to upload as well, but I figured the best way to start off the New Year was with a foul mouth.

As almost anyone who has taken a foreign language knows, there’s one thing most students are eager to learn: how to swear. As stupid as that may sound, it’s also very interesting to look at what different cultures consider to be heinously offensive and how that reflects on national complexes. (For example, I have a fellow assistant here who has a Dutch boyfriend. Apparently, the vast majority of curses in Dutch have to do with diseases—one particularly bad one is some type of esophageal cancer. I’m not sure what that says about the Dutch.)

So, for your edification and your foul-mouthed glee, I have compiled a list of all the curse words I have heard in French. I am sure there are others, but these are only ones I have heard used by actual French people. They vary in strength and I will excuse myself in advance for any mistranslations.

Baiser (v): There is a noun that means “a kiss” that is spelled the same. In fact, this verb used to mean “kiss.” It now means “fuck” but in the literally sense, without the same…uh…utilitarianism the verb enjoys in American English. The only time I’ve heard this used is in the sense of being “screwed over” or cheated. It’s not too strong, because it can be used among friends without causing offense. For example, upon discovering that I had made more cookies than he thought, one of my friends told me: “Mais tu nous as bien baisé là”- you screwed us really well there.

Con, connard, connasse (all nouns): Not particularly strong, as it can be said oneself. It literally means “cock” but the better idiomatic translation is “ass.” Con can be used for either gender, though I have seen “conne” written to mean a woman. However, connard is always a man and connasse is always a woman. I’m sort of intrigued by the fact that, as far as I know, there is no French swear word that literally refers to female genitalia, only to male.

Enculer, enculé (verb, noun): The verb literally means to be sodomized. The noun means someone who has been sodomized. This is quite strong and probably translates best as “motherfucker” or possibly, more literally “faggot.”

Foutre (verb): Fuck. This is not often used, but when it is, it’s usually in the connotation of “va te faire foutre”—“go fuck yourself” or “Je m’en fous”—I don’t give a fuck.

Merde: Shit. This one roughly translates, even down to the ability to call someone “a piece of shit”- “espèce de merde.” It is apparently used in the North of France like “putain” is used in the South.

Niquer: fuck, once again in the literal sense. It’s stronger than baiser and the only time I have heard it used is in hip-hop videos that my friends were making fun of. It can be used in the phrase “Nique ta mère”—or fuck your mom.

Pute, putain (both nouns): This literally means whore. As far as “pute,” it’s used the same way we would use the English word ‘whore’ or ‘slut’—it’s just stronger. Putain also means whore and you could use it to refer to someone. However, especially in the South of France, putain also fills the same role as “fuck” in the English language. It is used as a catch-all curse when someone’s not happy. Drop a pot on your foot: “Putain!” Arrive at a store just after it closes: “Mais putain…” and so on and so forth. It can be intensified by combining it with other swear words: “putain de merde,” “putain de con,” etc.

Salaud (noun)- I have no idea what this word literally means, but I’m hypothesizing it comes from the verb ‘salir,’ or to make dirty. It roughly means bastard (although there is a French word bâtard which literally means someone born outside of marriage. That, however, I have never heard used as an insult.) As far as I can tell, salaud is always used to refer to a man.

Salope, salopard (nouns): Apparently, this comes from the verb ‘saloper,’ or to botch something. I don’t know how offensive the verb is, so I wouldn’t use it. Salope is exclusively feminine and has a sexual connotation, so the best English equivalent would probably be “bitch” or “cunt.” Salopard can be used for a man and thus (of course) doesn’t have the sexual connotation. Draw what conclusions about Western culture and the treatment of female sexuality you will.

Ta gueule: This is a shortened version of the phrase “Ferme ta gueule” and I include it only because this is a pet peeve of mine when confronted with French teachers of English. They teach their students that “Ferme ta gueule” means “shut up” when it is actually significantly stronger. A better equivalent might be “shut the hell up” or “shut the fuck up.” Thus, when I lose my temper and tell me students to shut up, they think I’m swearing at them. And of course, because they’re clearly five years old but somehow in middle school, they start off with “ooo, teacher said a dirty word.” Argh.

So, after that lovely glossary of French swear words and other vulgarities, I do have a couple conclusions. The French language seems to suffer from the same problems of misogyny and homophobia that English does, with swear words specifically targeting each group. Despite that, it’s interesting that cock is a swear word with no female equivalent and that they have so many different ways to say “fuck.”

I also find it interesting that there are, to my knowledge, no curse words related to Christianity, whereas English has “hell” and “damn.” True, there is the very old-fashioned “sacré bleu” related to the blue veil of the Virgin Mary, but it is extremely old-fashioned and I have never heard anyone actually say that. I wonder why this is--- possibly because of the very early dechristianisation in France, a country which prides itself on its policy of secularism?

Thanksgiving in Toulouse

That's pumpkin pie!

So I know this blog post is late, but I wanted to wish everyone a happy Thanksgiving. Despite how incredibly frustrating French bureaucracy¹ can be at times and how much I may want to strangle my students², I am incredibly thankful to be here. I have friends and family here; I have a job that is interesting and challenging and will help me do what I want to do in life. I am in France, land of food and wine.

So, in that spirit, I wanted to celebrate Thanksgiving even though I wasn’t in the United States. When the weather started to get cold and the leaves started to turn colors, I couldn’t help but think about turkey and pumpkin pie. Why not do it here? The idea of cooking the entirety of Thanksgiving dinner sounded pretty terrifying. Having helped my mom prepare Thanksgiving last year, I had a sense of how much work it was. However, there were other American assistants here. I was willing to bet they wanted to celebrate Thanksgiving too.

So I told my guests that pumpkin pie and turkey were on me, and asked them each to bring something. They were game and I quickly received offers of sweet potatoes, stuffing, cranberry sauce, salad and…Thanksgiving bourbon. Okay then.

The turkey was my major concern. I had no idea if I could get a full-sized bird in France or how much it would cost. Even if I did get an entire bird, how was I going to carve it? Would it even fit in Therese’s oven? What recipe was I going to use?

I went to grocery stores and stared at the poultry section until my fingers went numb from cold. I perused recipes, talked to my host mother, had her call the butcher, considered making chicken instead. Then I got an envelope in the mail. My mother, on a whim, had decided to send me the November issue of Bon Appetit. On the cover was a gorgeous bird, red-brown from the oven and a long cider marinade.

That. I was going to make that. One thing was decided then. It had to be turkey. I found massive turkey breasts at Auchan and bought four of them. I gritted my teeth and prayed that fermented French cider was going to be a decent enough equivalent to sweet nonalcoholic American cider. I bit my lip at the more “Asian” aspects of the recipe and hoped I wasn’t ruining anything by leaving out the scallions. I went searching for other recipes to find a cooking time and temperature, since I wasn’t cooking a whole bird. Nothing was particularly certain.

I did a test.

Perfect. Tender and flavorful, with every spice noticeable but not overpowering. I guess that something to be thankful for too. Sometimes, when you need everything to turn out exactly the way it should be, it does. The dinner itself followed the same pattern. The stuffing was perfect; the sweet potatoes were cooked but not too mushy. One of the assistants even managed to make cranberry sauce using some sort of weird Scandinavian berry. It was delicious-- and I don't even like cranberry sauce. It was a wonderful evening with wonderful company.

Happy Thanksgiving everyone.

1-“Declare your primary practitioner now” from my school, “no, do it when you go to see him for the first time” from the Rectorat, “We need your declaration of primary practitioner by the 17^th” in a letter from Social Security that I received on the 15^th

2-(“What did you understand? Can someone repeat what I said? How about in French, huh? Can anyone explain what I said in French? Qu’est-ce que vous avez compris?” *Blank stares*)

More Cultural Differences: Or, Why all My Students Will Die in a Fire

I had class at Chaumeton again today. Although discipline was slightly better, thanks to my teacher having spoken personally to some of the worse students, they were still sort of loud. Getting them to shut up long enough for me to give instructions is, um, interesting.

However, the real point of this blog post is that there was a fire alarm. I, accustomed to American fire alarms, took my roll sheet and a pen and started waving the students to the door—only to watch them stall, pack their stuff up, chat amongst themselves and amble in the direction of the exit. When we got to the staircase, I then saw evacuating students leave the line to go back into the building. When I yelled at them to go outside, they seemed very confused.

“I’m going to the bathroom,” one told me. “I’ll be out in a minute.”

Well, I certainly hope the building isn’t actually on fire then.

My host professor seemed equally nonchalant. When I asked her if she could take roll, she shrugged, leaning against the wall of the school. “We should but…” She waved a hand. “They’re out there somewhere.”

Let me clarify. This was not a fire drill. Someone had pulled the fire alarm, so we really had no way of knowing if the building was on fire or someone was being a jackass. Despite this, the students only reluctantly left the building (with the beforementioned re-entries) and the teachers were clumped together chatting. I think I was the only person to verify that all my students were out.

A fire alarm in the States is much more serious. The students leave quickly and relatively quietly; the professor ensures that her students are all accounted for and well away from the building (which, I will remind you, is potentially on fire) and the fire company usually shows up to verify that it’s safe before anyone is allowed to go back into the building. Yes, this is usually on a giant waste of time and often means standing outside in the cold jumping up and down to stay warm, but on the off-chance that the fire alarm isn’t just someone being a jackass, at least no one is going to die.

Sites in Reims

Reims is a small city, but in physical appearance, it looks a lot like Paris—broad avenues, Haussman-style buildings in white stone, et cetera. It’s an elegant, if someone austere city. You could kill some time walking the Avenue de Vesle (a pedestrian street between the Hotel de Ville and the river) and looking at the shops, but if you’ve been to Paris (or even to Bordeaux), it will look very familiar and very French.

I stayed in Reims for three days, which I have to say was probably a mistake. There is, quite simply, not that much to do here besides drink champagne--- and doing multiple champagne tours gets expensive and repetitive. (Plus the “It’s 11 a.m. and I’ve had three glasses of champagne on an empty stomach” is only fun once.) However, that is not to say that there aren’t some neat things to see!

Musée de la Reddition (Museum of the Surrender): Before anyone starts snickering about France having a surrender museum, let me point out that this is a museum about the German surrender to the Allied Powers during the Second World War. (Yes, I know. There’s still a French joke to be made there.)

Located in an annex of the Roosevelt High School near the train station, the Musée de la Reddition is actually really interesting. In 1945, this high school was the headquarters for the Allied Forces in France as they continued to push the Germans back out of France. It was also where, at 2:41 a.m. on May 7^th, General Alfred Jodl, chief of staff of the German High Command, signed the document of unconditional surrender of all German forces. This was later eclipsed by the much grander signing done in Berlin at Stalin’s request a day later, but it was actually here that the Western front came to an end.

The museum is small, with the “Room of the Surrender” as its main attraction. It’s been preserved entirely as it was, including the maps covering the walls that the Allied generals used to plan their strategy. For me, that was the most fascinating part. Often, history tells you a narrative without really allowing you to see it. It lacks immediacy.

Being able to look at the map and see the assignment of each air force division, the supplies that were being sent to each and potential targets is fascinating. There’s a map showing the supply depots scattered throughout France and another one showing troop movements. As for the actual moment of surrender, well, there’s a table in the room. That’s’ the table they sat at. Each chair is labeled with the name of the person who was sitting there. It’s only interesting because Eisenhower, despite being present in the building, was not present in the surrender negotiations, because there was no one of equivalent rank to represent the German side.

The rest of the museum has vintage uniforms, some weapons and scrap metal from airplanes, as well as a small collection of newspapers from May 8^th, announcing the surrender. The newspapers once again gave that sense of immediacy—this is how people actually lived World War II.

Overall, for three euros (which is actually a Reims Museum Pass, so it gets into the Fine Art Museum as well as a few other places), the Musée de la Reddition is definitely worth going to.

Cathedrale de Reims

It’s almost hidden behind the Hotel de Ville, but when you come around onto the Parvis, the square just in front, it’s as impressive as every cathedral. Plus, the Reims cathedral has played a very special role in French history for quite a while. The coronation of the Kings of France took place here. (Also, the presence of the champagne bottle sign in the bottom left of this picture amuses me to no end.)

Inside, the Cathedral is surprisingly quiet for a tourist attraction (which is a good thing. See my post “Candles” for my reaction to people being obnoxious in old churches) and very airy. Scattered around the walkway are signs describing the procedure of the coronation (which has twelve steps) and outlining various architectural features, including the “Champagne window.” The bubbly industry boomed even in the Renaissance, apparently, and the manufacturers of champagne showed their gratitude to the grape by installing a stained glass window showing how champagne was made.

Besides that, the two other main attractions of the Reims Cathedral are the “Smiling Angel,” a statue in the leftmost entryway that was taken to epitomize the will of Reims to recover after the destruction of World War II. At this point, however, weather and pollution have taken a serious toll on the smile and it’s starting to fade away.

(for those of you who watch Doctor Who, are you having trouble looking away? Because I am. Remember, anything that carries the image of an angel becomes an angel. (: )

There is also a set of stained glass windows by Marc Chagal. They are very blue and very abstract, and thus didn’t show up particularly well when I tried to take a picture. I’m sure it would have been easier if I had used flash, but being that I was inside the Cathedral, I wasn’t going to disturb everyone (including the people praying just one chapel over) by doing so.

There are other things to see in Reims: the Foujita Chapel, the Basilica Saint-Remy and the Museum of Fine Arts. The Basilica was a hell of a walk, so I didn’t end up going. I did go to the Museum of Fine Arts and…

Let me tell you about the Museum of Fine Arts. Every French city has one. You will start by looking at tattered medieval tapestries and crude wooden crosses, then work your way through the Renaissance and the Baroque period, then the Neoclassical. Gustave Courbet will be inevitably be there—the man must have made a painting a day. There will be still lifes. Then you will move on to Impressionism. There will be fuzzy lilies and the obligatory pointillist painting. Then you will go back downstairs through the modern art exhibit and you will understand nothing. Then you will leave, with a headache.

I have a limited tolerance for art museums. There need to be pieces I recognize or a guide to show things to me, because art is not something I have studied a lot. I don't "get" it in the same way I do literature. I don't know why painting deserves to be a museum and another doesn't besides "Well, that's one's pretty," and my artistic vocabulary stops somewhere between chiaroscuro and foreground. Apologies to my art major friends and roommates-- you tried!

Books in a Train Station

These are the things that I can read in French: romance novels and the free newspapers they hand out in the metro. I think this is what being someone who doesn’t like to read is like—it took me twelve hours of straight reading to get through a romance novel.

Still, I’m a little bit proud of myself. I think this is the first time I’ve gotten through a novel in French simply for pleasure. I’ve read Mme Bovary in French, but that was for a class and I wanted to gouge my eyes out. Any other time I’ve read in French for fun it’s been short stories, poetry or occasionally a graphic novel, which, while worthy mediums, are not quite as long.

Which brings me to another point. This generalization may be highly off-base, but where are all the French fantasy authors? There are plenty of policiers (cop novels) in the little bookstores in the Gare Montparnasse in Paris, where I am writing this post, but only one of them had any fantasy or sci-fi. Of that section, I recognized nearly all the names as being Anglophone authors. Robert Jordan. George R. R. Martin. Tolkien. Heinlein. Gaiman. Terry Pratchett. Douglas Adams. I’m going to try Castela or Ombres Blanches, the two large bookstores in Toulouse and see if they have a better selection. (Also, to my fantasy friends: am I going to regret trying to read George R. R. Martin in French?)

This leads me to one final note on books, based once again, solely on my very bored and very unscientific perusal of Montparnasse’s bookstore offerings. The French seem to read much more “literature” than we do. Every bookstore had a fairly large section (about the same size as the section dedicated to children’s lit) dedicated to “Livres de Poche,” a brand known for publishing classic literature at low prices. (For instance, I bought a copy of Mme Bovary, Adolphe by Benjamin Constant and a third classic that I can’t remember for one of my classes two years ago. Altogether, I paid twelve euros for three books). If these small bookstores (about the size of my bedroom) have decided that the classic literature deserves the space, it must mean that they sell. Otherwise, they’d put in another cooler of Coke.

See? Aren’t you proud of me? I went an entire blog post without talking about food. But that will change. Next post is about one of the best meals I have ever had.

A “Dear John” Letter to French Sandwicheries:

(Hello lovely internet people! I have not forgotten you. I have just been busy and I have many things to tell you, but we shall start with the funniest first. Thus, I present to you this letter.)

Dear Sandwicheries,

I must admit my deep and abiding fondness for you. You come from a land with brilliant bread, fantastic fromage and marvelous meat. I love you so much, in fact, that I alliterate. Because you, you lovely little stores, combine these three things in delectable combinations, like chicken-tomato-Roquefort or chorizo-gruyere.

But I have to admit, dear Sandwicherie, our relationship is threatened by a matter of faith. You see, I believe in mayonnaise and/or mustard. I believe deeply and fundamentally in these things. I have so much faith that I believe every sandwich should be blessed by their presence, that even your brilliant bread, my lovely, is made better by having something to moisten it.

You do not. At first, I thought I could cope. You humored me sometimes, giving me sandwiches like ham-mayo-goat cheese. But then….too often were your sandwiches dry and left me desperately needing water in order to swallow.

Sandwicherie, I cannot live unevenly yoked. You either must convert to my ways of mayo and mustard, or we may have to end our relationship.

With deepest love,

Alyssa