Growing Pains

Studies show that we learn language best as young children. (Now, don't ask me which studies because I don't have any in particular in mind, but I could find one if need be.) Maybe it's a good thing then that lately, I've been feeling more and more like a child as I wander through the neighborhoods of Nantes.

When we're born, we don't know how to speak, how to ask for the things we need, how to interact, or where to use the bathroom. Some times it's the same way with me here.

I find myself consistently sticking out in some way or another. There's something I'm missing. Is it in my posture, my expression, the length of my pants? I don't know yet. But something about me, or maybe everything about me, makes me stick out as a foreigner.  

Today, in salsa class, I couldn't speak two sentences, without dance partner asking, "Where are you from?" or rather, "Where is your accent from?". I'll admit an accent's not that bad when it comes to charm and individuality, but at this point, I miss interacting with people who are interested in me, and not so much my country.

Back to the child part. Although I know the words, I'm beginning to find that my powers of French speaking aren't always too strong. Fear can weaken them, and anxiety. Both of which I've started to encounter in meeting French students and teachers alone. 

Take my jazz dance class the other night: after bumbling back and forth across the wooden dance floor for an hour and a half, I plucked up the nerve to talk to the instructor, who had poked fun at me and my apparently odd approach to jumping, after the session had ended. I stammered out an explanation of my foreignness and below-average understanding of French, and of course, the instructor laughed at me. Brazenly. When I asked her for information about the class, she laughed again and told me I was asking for something that was my responsibility to find out. Why would she give me any information or help whatsoever?, she said.

And back I went to the first grade, when I had knocked over a glass of apple juice, and the Sunday school teacher and class laughed with abandon at the puddle at my feet oh-so-resembling pee. Needless to say, I was pretty crushed.

There are so many social procedures and magic passwords that I have yet to learn. My homestay family is continually correcting the way I help them with chores. I don't dry my hands off fast enough. Or I don't cut the bread from the right side. Or I don't wrap the leftover cheese properly. Little, little things.

Yet when not done properly, a big red warning light goes off in the heads of all the natives: FOREIGNER.  BE CAREFUL.

So that's where I am right now. Baby steps. Lots and lots of baby steps. But that's the only way to learn, right?