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Memory: End of French class in high school. Teacher cried when I told her I wouldn’t be taking French the following year.
Prompt: Write a personal story from the perspective of the other person (not your own).
The story:
Okay, so I’m retired now. After thirty years of teaching high school French I suppose I’ll be bored out of my skull from now on. Maybe I can still do some tutoring to keep myself busy. I do have fond memories of teaching. The way their eyes brighten when the students finally pronounce those difficult words just right brings a smile to my own eyes. So many wonderful students I’ve had the privilege of teaching. And some of them probably even can still speak French.
Ah, but there was that Mr. Kent. Such a promising student. I remember clearly the day he handed in his final exam at the end of the sophomore year. I couldn’t help smiling at him. Such an affinity for language, and always the first to finish. “Merci beaucoup, Monsieur Kent. Vous êtes toujours le premier à terminer.“
So quiet he was. And yet he shocked me with his reply to what I thought was a mere confirmation of his expected enrollment in my third year class.
“No, Miss Cochran. I won’t be signing up for your next class,” he said sadly. “I just can’t take it anymore.”
I remember being stunned into silence as I heard these words. The third year class wasn’t mandatory, only the first two were prerequisite for meeting the college entrance requirements. But he was one of my best students. At the time my mind couldn’t grasp the possibility that he would forsake me. Yes, I took it personally. After all, I was young myself – only 25 at the time – and still exhilarated with the promise of teaching young minds. The sixteen year old Mr. Kent seemed to like me well enough. In fact, it was clear he had a high school crush on me. So what did I do wrong? Why was he telling me he ‘couldn’t take it anymore?’
“But Mr. Kent, why? There is so much more to learn. And you seem to love the language.”
He stared at me for what seemed eons, but in reality was probably less than a second. Reading his eyes gave no clue to his thinking. He seemed angry; no, sad. Or was it confused? Or something completely different?
“I’m sorry, Miss Cochran. I simply can’t. Have a nice summer.”
I remember my own eyes tearing up. My idealism was shattered. I wasn’t the superhero that would stimulate youthful desires of world travel, the search for cultural knowledge, the multilingual fluency of a cadre of French-speaking adults. I was a failure. One of my best students was rejecting me and everything I hoped to be.
It took me years to understand. I still taught – thank goodness I didn’t let this incident distract me from my the profession I loved – and I achieved great satisfaction in knowing that many others went on to live the lives I idealized in my youthful goals. It helped that a few years later, after he graduated, a fellow student of his explained the problem with Miss Ridley, the student teacher that took over my class for the third semester that year. How Mr. Kent was disgusted with the way the two brightest students in the class manipulated and tormented the inexperienced substitute. How the lack of respect in that one semester soured him so completely on the idea of learning French that he couldn’t take it anymore. It explained why he became quieter, more withdrawn, more reticent in his last semester with me. I only wish I knew then of what had happened. Rather than take it as a personal affront to me I could have seen it as a sign that he needed someone to step in to help. I was young; too young then to see his needs.
I understand that he never quite learned French, even while living there for several years, but that he nevertheless became successful and happy. I take great solace in that thought.
Ah, but so many memories of my years teaching high school French. This one, bittersweet, stays with me even as I move off into retirement. Yes, tutoring it is. Only I won’t focus merely on correct pronunciation. I’ll delve into what makes each student live for learning. It’s time to make those goals more than just an ideal. And those tears from so long ago, I treasure them for the memory they have become, and the smile they bring to my face again.
David J. Kent is a science traveler and the author of Lincoln: The Man Who Saved America, in Barnes and Noble stores now. His previous books include Tesla: The Wizard of Electricity (2013) and Edison: The Inventor of the Modern World (2016) and two e-books: Nikola Tesla: Renewable Energy Ahead of Its Time and Abraham Lincoln and Nikola Tesla: Connected by Fate.
Check out my Goodreads author page. While you’re at it, “Like” my Facebook author page for more updates!
Hot White Snow 
In my experience, teachers always remember certain kids, and for a wide variety of reasons 🙂
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Agreed. Some good, some bad. 🙂
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Je suis impressionné. Dans mon cas, le français symbolisait la restriction culturelle féminine. Les garçons ont appris l’allemand ou le latin. Les amis locaux parlaient espagnol. Mon père parlait japonais. En rébellion, je ne parlerais qu’en anglais.
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You shouldn’t be impressed. I tried German in college after they cancelled the Russian class I had signed up for (because I was trying to avoid French). Turned out my attention span made that a lost cause so I switched back to French to meet the “two-years of foreign language” requirement for the BA. After three years working in Brussels, my French got worse instead of better (but hey, now my French has both American and Flemish accents). These days I can barely speak English.
Votre mère est-elle américaine?
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I left out that my father was fairly fluent and literate (as far as I know) in German. He explained to me that at the time he went to medical school in Japan, that was apparently the language of science. I believe my mother’s father (my Grandfather) also spoke German… metallurgy was his thing. So maybe that extended to the US?
Yes, my mother was American (through Canada). That side of the family traces back to 1736, the family name from a German entrepreneur married into a British family. During the American Revolution, however, they identified as Loyalists (Tories). There is a museum piece in Pennsylvania, a whiskey flask that holds a lead ball fired by an ancestor as they fled their home. He was killed by return fire from the owner of the flask… a Loyalist casualty of the economics of the American Revolution.
The family and its property at the time was well-recorded in a Tory-claim. They had been quite wealthy, and hence caught up in the Revolution despite never having taken up arms. At the urging of Guy Carleton, 1st Baron Dorchester, Governor of the Province of Quebec, the family resettled into south-western Quebec (thus starts the French), in a region that would later become part of Ontario. Eventually, the family married into some other families of historical significance in Canada, and some moved farther west.
Many generations later, near the end of the Civil War, my great grandfather traveled from Canada to the general area in which I now live in the US. (There is apparently a somewhat mysterious under-story to this which involved the death of his sister.) The family ran lumber mills, and my great-grandfather started a mill to supply the transcontinental railroad construction. He made a great deal of money, and then relocated to the Arizona Territory where he proceeded to make a fortune growing, believe it or not, cotton… and then died suddenly in his forties.
Probably more than you wanted to know. 😉
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Cotton in Arizona? Interesting. A quick Google says it’s still being grown there, but 1) it’s a major contributor to water depletion because it requires substantial irrigation, and 2) it’s apparently illegal to grow it in your backyard (presumably because of the same water needs issue).
You certainly have an interesting history. Mine is more mundane – English, Irish, Portuguese. But we do have some connection to the royalty of Kent (although it seems like only as servants since there is no money in the family).
And always good to know more about you.
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