Well, everyone—I’m no good at the French.
I did OK at l’alphabet—although as far as I’m concerned the French are entirely too finicky about their vowel sounds—but the numbers! Oh lord the numbers. Un, deux, trois? Fine. Quatre? No. I will have to avoid any conversation where I am required to note that there are four of anything, because this word? I think it may be impossible for me to say.
I fear for the people of West Africa, who may at some point have to communicate with me.
Dear People of West Africa,
How do y’all feel about English? Wouldn’t you like to be able to ask Angelina what her deal is next time she’s in town? Perhaps we can work something out.
But alas, I will soldier on. The teacher is, of course, a charming and delightful young woman with an accent that flows from her tongue like the hot fudge rivers in those old Dairy Queen commercials. It must feel as though I’m stabbing her in the ear with a fork every time I speak. Sorry about that Susana. Je suis désolé. I will have to write that down on an index card and hold it up, so that I don’t make matters worse with each inept apology.
My classmates are all adults, which certainly wasn’t true the last time I waded in the pools of academia. So that in it self is pretty magical. I think every one else has at least a little bit of French to their credit though—or, you know, speaks fluent Spanish. (I’m talking to YOU, tall girl with blond hair.) So I am definitely at the bottom of the barrel thus far.
My motivation is strong though, and I have found in life that as long as you smile gamely when doing something with a complete lack of grace, people are pretty forgiving. I will never looked happier than I did last night.
Until tomorrow night.