Le départ

When I was required, in sixth grade, to learn a language, Spanish was the natural choice.

Even in my northern California town, a good XX miles from the Mexican border, Spanish was everywhere. Spanish instructions inevitably followed English ones on any appliance; my friend Jose would shout in Spanish at the Oakland Raiders whenever they lost a game; my dental hygienist, it seemed, spoke almost entirely Spanish except for the words “wider” and “spit,” and played flamenco on the radio while I studied the pictures of different mammals’ teeth that were pasted on the ceiling.

Even my small public elementary school recognized the necessary nature of the language, and gave us Spanish classes once a week. While helpful in theory, the lessons were predominantly useless, even disregarding the fact that an hour a week does not a language teach. Course material was limited to the numbers and colors, knowledge of which was rewarded with appropriately-colored Jolly Ranchers (verde and rojo were the best). One time, the class was spent learning the words for “left,” “right” and “straight,” after which we were paired up and told to guide our blindfolded partner around the school grounds, using only verbal directions . When Scott, my partner, led me to step on a dead squirrel carcass, the lesson was over.

But somehow despite this (or maybe because of it), I chose French. As if to justify our irrational decision, our professeur played a video on our first day of class, showing students raving about how “beautiful” the language was. I took this as a point of pride. Sure, you could take Spanish and be merely “utilitarian.” I took French, purely for the aesthetics of it. I was the Romantic artiste: one who distained practicality in favor of the higher ground, the beautiful, the godly. Besides, I was French somewhere down the line. Studying the language was like the Caucasian equivalent of Roots: a reconnection with my heritage.

I became tellement française. I wore clothes with the Eiffel Tower on them. I threw in French phrases into conversation, just to show how cultured I was, how unpractical. I lined up Zola and Balzac on my bookshelf and watched The Triplets of Belleville, despite its being a terrible film. I used words like “film” rather than “movie,” constantly favoring the Latinate over the Germanic.

But despite my lofty ideals, after 10 years of study, I could barely speak the stuff; I had no one to speak with. My classes became exclusively writing papers and reading books far above my speaking level; the one time I had to speak in class, I attempted to say what page number I was on (86) and was corrected by the professor. I pretended to call non-existent amis in France, gabbing on my cell phone with no one on the other end, until my suitemates caught me and never let me live it down. Language tables were too stressful; everyone who would willingly put themselves through a meal in another language would inevitably be better than I was. I had to put myself in a situation I couldn’t get out of. So I’m going abroad.