So, when I was in high school, I took a year and a half of Spanish. I was actually quite good at it, and I enjoyed it, but I only took a year and half because I couldn’t stand the class itself. My teacher, Señora Kopper, was a pretty good teacher (and certainly much better than the French teacher at my school…French being the only other language option offered), but the real problem with the class was the other students. Now, lest I haven’t adequately described this before, I HATED my high school. Active, passionate loathing. I hated most of the teachers, I hated the building, but most of all, I hated the students.
<rant>It seems that I am destined to constantly be thrust into situations in my life where I am surrounded by people who are not only okay with mediocrity, but they actually work to hinder the progress of those who, unlike themselves, actually want to accomplish something of value, and to accomplish it fully, with more than a minimum of effort. I grew up in a town where mediocrity was not only expected, but required. I was taught by a faculty that went out of their way not to actually teach the students. (Mr. Spanninga, Mr Grey, I’m talking to you. WORD SEARCHES ARE NOT APPROPRIATE TEACHING MATERIAL FOR HIGH SCHOOL!) I studied a major in college where students actually worked at not coming to class, where the teachers were always willing to let things slide, and where MUSICAL theater students were allowed to graduate from the program without being able to read music! I now work in a place where all people care about is “good enough” rather than “good” or “great.” I’m not wired to wallow in mediocrity. I find great pleasure in doing something and doing it well. I’m always striving to improve myself. IS IT REALLY THAT DIFFICULT?</rant>
Anyway, my Spanish class was a joke. We rarely made it through the week without some loud-mouthed jack-ass screaming at the teacher, getting sent to the principle’s office, and/or getting in a knock-down drag-out fist fight in the middle of the classroom. The class was full of people who didn’t even try. It was like being in the class of slow students Brian had to teach on Family Guy. (“Sure. Go ahead. Be the best damn prostitute you can be.”) It was filled with people who, a year and a half into the class, couldn’t say “My Name is Concepción,” hilarious in its own right because the girl who couldn’t even pronounce “Me Llamo Concepción” was, in fact, pregnant. (This was also the girl who once asked in Biology Class, “And what about yeast infections? Does yeast cause those too?”). (Seriously. I wish I was making that up.) One girl, in the second year actually asked me in our practice discussions: Yo Qwee-ero una quarderno. (Yo quiero uno cuaderno).
So, in the middle of my second year of Spanish, I dropped the class and became a teacher’s aid in the computer class, since I actually knew how to use computers and the teacher didn’t have a clue. And since then, my Spanish has been little more than a distant memory.
I decided, however, that I wanted to try and learn Spanish again. (I’ve decided this at least six times in the last decade). Now that I’m not in school, I figured it was as good a time as any to start trying to relearn a new language, so I procured a copy of Rosetta Stone (the computer program not the stone) and installed it on my computer. I even got one of those nifty little gamer headsets that in no way makes me look like a total dweeb.
HAWT!
Actually, now that I look at it, I look like that evil book from the Care Bear Movie if she had become an operator at Time-Life:
Just add a headset mic, and we could be twinners…except she’s got way better eyebrows than I do. (They were drawn on. HA!)
Anyway, every night starting at about 11:30, once I’m done working on whatever audiobook I’m reading (got a new one coming out in a couple of weeks just in time for Halloween!), watching whatever TV Shows Tivo was good enough to record for me, and eat a bunch of late night junk food in my never-ending quest to hasten my death by heart attack and/or diabetes, I sit down at my computer for 30-45 minutes and go through my latest lesson in Rosetta stone.
I’m only a few lessons into it, but thus far, I have to say, I’m not making much progress. I now know how to tell someone that “The man eats rice,” but that’s hardly Pulitzer winning prose. The other problem is that I accidentally got the Spain Spanish version of Rosetta stone, not the Latin American Spanish version…ergo all the C and Z sounds are pronounced with as a TH…a pronunciation which makes an entire country sound like they’ve got a speech impediment. So, now, not only am I trying to pronounce these words that I have completely forgotten correctly enough that the computer can recognize them, but I’m also trying to do it without sounding like a) I’ve had a stroke or b) I’m making fun of people with speech disorders.
The sad thing is, I’m not really even sure why I’m going to all this effort to learn Spanish. I don’t foresee myself going anywhere where I would have to speak the language fluently (or at all) any time in the near future. I suppose it will be useful some day when the SEC discovers the massive pyramid scheme I’ve been running and I have to flee the country and wind up in Costa Rica. If Boy Scouts taught me anything (and it didn’t), It’s be prepared.
Until that day, however, Yo soy un estudiante de Espanol. Or something.
-
Camille
