I joined French class with the enthusiasm of a child entering a candy store. All I could see was possibility—money, travel, and prestige. I imagined myself correcting people’s accents, landing a French translator gig at the UN, or hosting chic soirées in Senegal. “Bonjour! Je m’appelle Future Millionaire.” I was so ready. I didn’t just want to learn French—I wanted to be French!
Enter Teacher A.
Now, I came into class hot. I was that student—hand always up, questions flying, eyebrows furrowed with intensity. My curiosity was unfiltered. I’d ask questions with the innocence and volume of a toddler in a quiet church. Everyone knew me. I was loud, I was eager, and I was (I thought) charmingly clueless.
Then, one day, boom! Teacher A snapped. A full-on rant. I can’t remember the words, but I do remember the silence that followed. My ego limped into a corner and sulked for two full weeks. I didn’t ask questions. I didn’t engage. I became… low-key. One of my classmates, clearly sensing my bruised aura, whispered, “French can really humble you.” I wasn’t sure if it was a philosophical musing or a targeted jab, but either way, I felt seen.
Eventually, I called myself into a meeting. Yes—just me, myself, and I. I decided to rejoin class life, although not with the same gusto. Teacher A noticed. He gently inquired why I’d gone quiet, but the damage was done. I had started relying on AI to do my homework—because let’s be honest, Siri doesn’t laugh at your pronunciation.
Now, Fridays were their own soap opera. Teacher A often didn’t show up and would send substitute teachers. Some were lovely. Others? Let’s just say they treated mistakes like crimes and had the patience of a pop quiz. One Friday, I finally asked why Teacher A kept ghosting us. Maybe my tone had some bass in it, because from then on, he never missed a Friday. We celebrated silently.
Just as we had gotten used to his teaching rhythm—plot twist—Teacher A left permanently. We were orphaned! But like any good series, a replacement came in: Teacher B.
At first, I liked him. He had a new energy. But then the laughter started—at us, not with us. Every mispronunciation became a joke. “Did you just say ‘pain’ like actual pain?” he chuckled once. My laughter was nervous. My confidence began shrinking like wet jeans in a hot dryer.
The “joke” sessions turned into mini lectures and force-fed grammar rules. Assignments? I completed them using AI and vibes. Sometimes I’d join Zoom with “Connecting to audio” proudly displayed—for the entire session. A digital invisibility cloak.
I stopped looking forward to class. And that was a big deal because I had sacrificed a lot to be there. I paid my fees out of pocket. I never used to miss class. But there I was—muted, emotionally and literally. I began showing up only to observe, copy notes, and cry internally when I heard, “Répétez après moi.”
But here’s what puzzles me: in all the A1 and A2 courses, not once were we given a feedback form. Nothing to evaluate the teacher. No exit survey. No “Was your ego crushed in this class?” checkbox. I honestly wonder—how does the institution assess the instructors? Is there a secret panel? A language learning Hunger Games?
Because here’s the thing—learning a new language is vulnerable. You’re tongue-tied, clumsy, unsure. You need a safe space to mispronounce “beaucoup” without being roasted. A good teacher nurtures that vulnerability, doesn’t mock it.
Now, don’t get me wrong—I still want to master French. I still see the vision: Paris, West Africa, bilingual job offers. But I’ve learned something even bigger than the passé composé: humility. French didn’t just teach me a language. It taught me resilience, grace, and the art of switching off your mic when your heart needs a moment.
So, if you see me silently mouthing “Comment ça va?” in the corner of a Zoom window, just know—I’m healing. And still dreaming, in French.
