My Linguistic Laziness Is Finally In The Past

My school’s dusty, disinfectant scented corridors don’t invoke positive memories. Neither does the Tricolore text book, with its bent corners and cheesy photographs that I was tortured with for three years. It belonged in Marquis De Sade’s novels.

School also felt like a production line, robots programmed to insert knowledge. That strategy may have worked if I was studios, but I wasn’t; indolence was my default behaviour. Combine that attitude with a teacher who could have put NYC to sleep, and you’ll understand why I dropped French. I regret it now, but I wasn’t inspired by tales of Paris’ literary scene and the authors’ life experiences while living there. Instead, the teachers blathered on about a piece of paper and how wonderful the letter ‘A’ was.

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