It's clear to me now that at some point in this life or a previous one I did something horrible to offend the French language Gods. I can't exactly point to the transgression (I'm hardly the "freedom fries" type), but it doesn't look like I'll be forgiven anytime soon.
My difficult relationship with French began in high school when the class brought down my GPA semester after semester. I didn't love math or science either, but if I applied myself, even calculus was doable. French always felt impossible, like something I was just not wired to speak. To this day, when I have school-related anxiety dreams (forgetting a big test, coming to school in pajamas, etc.), the backdrop is always French class.
After high school, I swore I was done with French and for 12 years I succeeded in avoiding the language, except for the occasional trip to Paris during which I alternated between butchering the language and leading with "parlez-vous anglais?" However, when we moved to Brussels, it seemed like I would have to get back in the saddle or spend three years feeling totally isolated from my neighbors.
I signed up for an intensive French class, but on the first day it was clear that I had made a mistake in rekindling this unhealthy relationship. Though I had taken a placement test, it was obvious that I was in the wrong class. I hadn't spoken a full sentence of French in over a decade and was now being asked to give a detailed description of my country's health care system. I sat frozen and terrified and after class asked the teacher if perhaps I could switch to a lower level. "Non," she replied, and I knew I was in for a tough month. To make up for my lack of skills, I studied hard to keep up with the other students and dragged myself to class each day with knots in my stomach. The other students were kind, praising me for even the smallest successes and answering my questions if I looked lost. I became sort of the class mascot, la petite Américaine, who was sweet, even if she was a little slow.
I took one more month of intensive French and decided to give my nerves a rest. In December, Alex and I decided to sign up for the next semester of classes at the embassy. We submitted our forms together, but only Alex was called for an placement interview. "Do you think they lost my form?" I asked. "No," he replied, "but we can ask if you want." Given my French karma, I thought that was a good idea, and sure enough, my form had been misplaced. Since it was a few days before Christmas and there were no additional interview slots remaining, the program suggested that I join Alex for his interview. I should have viewed it as a sign to, once and for all, walk away from French, but I pushed on, a glutton for punishment.
We had our first day of class today, and as you imagine, it didn't go well. Despite both testing at the advanced beginner/low intermediate level, we were placed in an advanced class. As soon as I heard the other students open their mouths, I knew we were in trouble. We've contacted the school to try to sort things out, but I know how this goes...I'm gearing up for another bumpy ride.
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