Second Language

I remember walking into my third grade classroom for the first time.  We had just moved to a Northern Ontario mining town, well after the school year had already started. This was not unusual, even at this early age, and we would continue moving every year or so until I was in high school.

My mother worked through the paperwork at the office and I went to my new class, which was already in progress. The teacher walked towards the door, gave me a huge friendly smile, and said a few sentences of total gibberish. I had walked in on the French lesson.

I remember the feeling of terror.  What was happening? What was wrong with me? Was I in the wrong place? I had moved there from Vancouver, whose entire Francophone population back then could probably have fit on a bus. I honestly don't think I realized that there were other languages.

It has been over fifty years since that moment and I still feel that panic every time I don't understand someone speaking. Over the years I have tried to grind that terror down by learning other languages: French, Spanish, German, Swahili, even Mandarin. My teachers and fellow students tell me I have a gift for languages, but all I feel is incompetent.

I recently took a French Pronunciation course at the CEGEP (what we call a combination prep school/community college here in Quebec) and told the instructor about my grade three experience. She said that things like that can have a profound effect on a person, even many years later.

Once what she had said sunk in, I got furious with myself. Have I really been walking around trying to fix some childish embarrassment for fifty-some years, without even acknowledging it? This one moment is the only thing I remember from that school year.

What a waste. I am still not fluent, because I panic whenever I don't understand or can't find a word. I seize up like a computer trying to process bad data, and everyone stares at me wondering what is wrong.