[continued from previous entry]
Next morning: more of the same. Like the day before, I found myself sitting between the Turkish architect -- Emry, I think his name was -- and the sweet Mexican woman. The gulf between those who had some foundation with the language and those who didn't became clearer, more apparent, with each passing hour. I, one of those who didn't, continued scrambling to keep up, cracking my dictionary every couple of minutes with the vain hope of picking up enough words to be able to cobble together an actual sentence, pose an actual question.
The teacher, Sana: a hard-working, good-humored individual. Maybe 5'6" tall; shortish black curly hair; either olive-complexioned or well-tanned, I couldn't tell which; with the teeniest bit of pudge and a nice smile. There were moments during the morning, pauses between exercises, when everyone fell silent and I could see Sana regrouping before pushing ahead, turning away to take a breath and collect herself -- dealing with a group that hardly spoke her language and often didn't understand everything she said. I liked her and admired her. But I didn't always understand everything she said. Sometimes I didn't understand anything she said. There were times when we students would look at each other, sharing a moment of dismay before shifting attention back to her.
I'd gotten in the habit of getting myself to a coffee-pusher before school hours, taking a little time to fuel up before squaring shoulders and heading into class. By the second day, the owner had my preferences down and began getting my order ready when he saw me stumble in the door. I quickly developed the habit of returning at the mid-morning break to re-fortify my sad-ass self. This day, Wednesday, I went with a young American woman I knew from the very first day -- tall, slender, bespectacled, w/ long blond hair. Smart, seeming a bit awkward, some might say kinda nerdy. The process of drifting there, ordering, getting her stuff took long enough that when I looked at my cell and saw time had grown so short we needed to return to school immediately -- before the goddamn 11:20 bell rang -- she hadn't even come close to finishing coffee/muffin, had to pitch food (no chow allowed in class), grabbed coffee, made the trip back without protest. Me feeling like a fascist, silently cursing the school's policymakers.
The Mexican woman began grabbing my dictionary more and more frequently as class wore on, and began whispering questions, checking on exercises or homework. I answered when I could, but if I was having trouble keeping up with the onslaught of French I could only answer with an apologetic shrug, needing all my attention for the wave after wave of material coming at us. My last memory of her is one of those moments, me not being able to answer a quiet question from her, flashing her a fast apology, turning my focus immediately back to scribbling notes. Her eyes lingered on me briefly, her expression showing what I now think was desperation tinged with resignation. Next morning -- Thursday -- she was gone, along with Emry, the Turkish architect. Leaving me feeling the teeniest bit sad (and guilty) with respect to her and surprised at his disappearance. He was bright, funny, outgoing -- it never occurred to me he might be part of the attrition as time whittled the group down. On the other hand, he hadn't managed to line up a flat or homeshare, was staying at the Y or a hostel, may have been feeling overwhelmed at the combo of trying to keep up with classwork and finding a place to live (a process probably made more difficult with the return of local college folk).
I'd put in quite a bit of studying time Wed. night, found myself feeling like it made no real difference. The disappearance of two students overnight left me the only one of the remaining group who really didn't seem to be making headway, and I could see the gap between me and the rest of the class widening as Thursday's class wore on. At some point I realized that I just was not going to get anywhere in this class, at this school, under these conditions. I need some kind of minimal foundation, maybe in classes moving a whole lot slower and using clearly organized reference materials -- charts of stuff, hand-outs explaining stuff clearly. This class was not going to give me that and it seemed starkly obvious that beating my head against that particular wall would only result in a massive headache with nothing much to show for it.
I picked up a good French-Spanish dictionary, that helped more than my dog-eared French-English dictionary did. That evening I got together with a friend and pondered all this out loud. She brought me to a bookstore, we tracked down two simple, clear reference books, one on verb conjugations, one on basic grammar. (They were on the third floor –- we took the elevator up. When the doors slid open, we were met with the spectacle of two 20-something women sprawled out on the floor together in front of us laughing hysterically. I burst into laughter, which got them snorting with embarrassed glee. A great scene.)
[continued in following entry]
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Graffiti parking lot -- Montreal:
España, te echo de menos
rws 7:23 PM [+]
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