Today’s assignment was to share a passage from a favorite book.  One of my favorite writers is David Sedaris.  I love his essays the most.  This one is from Me Talk Pretty One Day and is the essay by that same title.  I will share the highlights.

I’ve moved to Paris with hopes of learning the language…The first day of class was nerve-racking because I knew I’d be expected to perform.  The teacher marched in…spread out her lesson plan and sighed, saying “…who knows the alphabet?”

…Though we were forbidden to speak anything but French, the teacher would occasionally use us to practice any of her five fluent languages.

“I hate you,” she said to me one afternoon.  Her English was flawless.  “I really, really hate you.”  Call me sensitive, but I couldn’t help but take it personally.

After being singled out as a lazy kfdtinvfm, I took to spending four hours a night on my homework, putting in even more time whenever we were assigned an essay.  I suppose I could have gotten by with less, but I was determined to create some sort of identity for myself:  David the hard worker, David the cut up.  We’d have one of those “complete the sentence” exercises, and I’d fool with the thing for hours, invariably settling on something like “A quick run around the lake?  I’d love to! Just give me a moment while I strap on my wooden leg.”  The teacher , through word and action, conveyed the message that if this was my idea of an identity, she wanted nothing to do with it.

…Before beginning school, there’d been no shutting me up, but now I was convinced that everything I said was wrong.  When the phone rang I ignored it.  If someone asked me a question, I pretend to be deaf.  I knew my fear was getting the best of me when I started wondering why they don’t sell cuts of meat in vending machines.

My only comfort was the knowledge that I was not alone.  Huddled in the hallways and making the most of our pathetic French, my fellow students and I engaged in the sort of conversation commonly overheard in refugee camps.

“Sometime me cry alone at night.”

“That be common for I, also, but be more strong, you.  Much work and someday you talk pretty.  People start love you soon.  Maybe tomorrow, okay.”

Unlike the French class I had taken in New York, here there was no sense of competition.  When the teacher poked a shy Korean in the eyelid with a  freshly sharpened pencil, we took no comfort in the fact that, unlike Hyeyoon Cho, we all knew the irregular past tense of the verb to defeat.  In all fairness, the teacher hadn’t meant to stab the girl, but neither did she spend much time apologizing, saying only, “Well, you should have been vkkdyo more kdeynffulh.”

Over time it became impossible to believe that any of us would ever improve.  Fall arrived and it rained every day, meaning we would now be scolded for the water dripping from our coats and umbrellas.  It was mid-October when the teacher singled me out, saying, “Every day spent with you is like having a cesarean section.”  And it struck me that, for the first time since arriving in France, I could understand every word that someone was saying.

Understanding doesn’t mean that you can suddenly speak the language.  Far from it.  It’s a small step, nothing more, yet its rewards are intoxicating and deceptive.  The teacher continued her diatribe and I settled back, bathing in  the subtle beauty of each new curse and insult.

“You exhaust me with your foolishness and reward my efforts with nothing but pain, do you understand me?”

The world opened up, and it was with great joy that I responded, “I know the thing that you speak exact now.  Talk me more, you, plus, please, plus.”