Mal Elevée: They finally said it.

After nearly five years of acting mal élevée here in Paris, finally someone had the guts to tell me to my face that I am mal élevée. When I first read about this French insult and how it is the meanest thing that someone can say to you in French (proper French, that is), I thought wow, that’s pretty funny. It doesn’t really translate culturally. The closest thing would be telling someone they were raised in a barn, but you’d only say that half-jokingly and probably not even to the person’s face. Here, telling someone that they are mal élevée is a serious insult.

But I guess secretly, somewhere way deep down inside I knew the day would come when someone would tell me I was mal élevée, but I was unable to fathom the particulars—where? When? How? More importantly, why? Why would someone think that about me. I am actually not mal élevée. I can’t be—I was raised in the deep South! When I was a young girl I had to attend ballroom dancing lessons. Etiquette lessons. Ballet lessons. I’ve been to a debutante ball. I own a pair of white gloves and I know when I can and can’t wear them. I know how to eat soup and lobster in public. I have been schooled in the arts. I play several instruments. I can tell a Manet from a Monet in an instant. Simply put, I was raised properly.

I suppose that had I thought about it, I would have guessed that it would have come in one of two possible scenarios: one where I was indeed acting mal élevée. Something very serious. It would be a bone fide observation. It would be an insight into my behavior. It would enlighten me. It would come from someone close and be spoken in a low voice, quietly, seriously, as the starting point to a conversation on how I might be able to pull my life together and fix things.

Like when Shrek was trying to get rid of Donkey by saying that it was no wonder he didn’t have any friends. And Donkey takes it as straight advice intended to be helpful and replies, “Wow, only a true friend would be that truly honest.”

The second possible scenario would involve a complete stranger witnessing a bone fide act of mal élevée-ness and then muttering the insult at me out of the corner of his or her mouth while continuing to walk on. It would be rude, but it would be an accurate observation and we’d all trudge on with our lives.

But it wasn’t like that at all.

So when it was hurled right at me, I was caught off guard. So off guard that my brain cushioned the fall and didn’t translate it right away. I got the “Vous êtes” part and thought, what is that “M” word she’s calling me? Hmm. Mouillée? Wet? That’s an odd thing to call someone and besides, the letter “L” was more pronounced. It sounded pretty harsh and she was so mad she looked like she could have had herself a little stroke. M. What gros mot starts with the letter M?

It hit me. Et voila. Mal élevée.

Replay that back. Yes, that is what she said before she triumphantly walked away with her groceries in her wrinkly, dirty, light green, reusable Carrefour bag.

Allow me to back up and share the story:

I had gone to Carrefour for groceries. I normally go when they first open so there is no line. See, I have an issue with lines in France. Many of you will understand. I am to the point where the next person who cuts in front of me in line is going to get severely maimed, which I really dread because I’ve read horror stories about the French prison system and the treatment of prisoners. But this was in the afternoon and they were busy. So there I was, standing in line forever and ever. Then, a nice cashier who knows me from my morning grocery trips came over and whispered in my ear, I’m about to open another caisse, follow me. So I did. Wow, I thought, what luck. Of course, the man behind me heard her, too. Key phrase: behind me. He followed, as well.

But he followed in a French manner and skipped around me at the last minute, beating me to the caisse and putting an umbrella stroller down on the conveyer belt before I could put my first grocery down. The cashier and I both protested. She explained that I was in line first. The man grumbled. I thought well, if he thinks he’s in such a hurry, then he can have it (a necessary attitude when dealing with French line-jumpers). And besides, he was way over the hill and I am gracious enough to let him go, even though I thought that was really not very gentlemanly for him to cut in front of a woman. I start to put my groceries down behind the stroller. I am amused and pissed off at the same time. Welcome to France.

Then a woman—also very over the hill—pushes me from behind with her elbow and bag of groceries. This is a shock. What is going on here? It’s a line jumper free-for-all. As she walked around me, I said excuse me, but I was in line first. Then she started mumbling about how dare I put my groceries down on the conveyer belt behind the stroller.

Now I get it. The man and woman were a couple. And a grumpy one, at that. He had run around me so they wouldn’t have to wait behind me and they had a lot of groceries, not just the one stupid stroller. So there goes the stroller, followed by my groceries, followed by the woman trying desperately to put the rest of their groceries in the little to no space between the stroller and my things on a conveyer belt that keeps moving towards the cashier.

They move up to the register. They, of course, pay by check, which takes forever. But before they are done, they both—in unison—look up at me. Both of them give me the meanest looks in the world and slowly shake their heads at me in disgust. What was this for? Because I didn’t want them to break in front of me? If they were in such a hurry, they could have asked me nicely to let them go first. Is it because I didn’t move my groceries out of their line-jumping way or help the woman put her groceries in front of mine? You don’t help people who jump in front of you. Except maybe off a cliff.

I was so shocked that they were mad at me because they cut in line that I burst into laughter (see, laughing at Carrefour can help you deal with a lot of frustrations). Then because I laughed at them, they became even more enraged. The woman moved her hand towards me and pointed her index finger at me, shook it and said, in a determined and even voice, Vous êtes mal-élevée!

It was what Oprah calls a full-circle moment. To borrow a line from a Simpsons episode, if my life were a play, this would be the end of Act II.

To come full circle in someone else’s country, in someone else’s culture and be handed, through solid eye contact and a stern demeanor, one of that culture’s highest insults feels downright rewarding. This insult has absolutely no cultural significance or meaning to me. The head shaking and finger pointing just enhanced it. I’ve made it. Je suis arrivée. That woman, in her disdain for my behavior (though I really don’t understand what exactly it is that they were mad about), accidentally made me a part of her culture even more than I was five seconds before. She sealed the deal. Done and done. She inducted me. Unwittingly.

Now that I’ve come full circle, what do I do? Where else is there left to go? I find myself at a cultural crossroads. A fork in the road of my French existence. Pain au chocolat? Check. Crêpe? Check. Eiffel Tower? Check. Mal élevée? Check. Do I stride up to the Air France counter at Roissy—ah! See that? I just said Roissy instead of Charles de Gaulle. My newfound cultural status as Frenchwoman is infecting the other parts of my brain—and ask for the next flight out? Out to anywhere because, ladies and gentlemen, stick a fork in me, I’m done.

In just a few short weeks, I will become eligible for French citizenship. In all of my pondering about what next steps to take. The pros, the cons, the consequences, the emotional baggage that goes into citizenship, I now have this to add. I can picture myself listing my qualifications for my integration into French society at the prefecture in Créteil (not all of which are even true): J’ai trois enfants qui vont à l’ecole publique française depuis quatre ans. J’ai une fille qui est née ici en France. J’ai un permis de conduire français. J’ai un Renault. J’adore Johnny Hallyday. Et en plus, shwee mal élevée!