Considering I'm a confused freshman who only a few months ago didn't know what a "JumboCash" was, my transition to college has been relatively seamless. There have been few significant speed bumps and only manageable unexpected swerves. It's like I'm channeling Jimmie Johnson or something.
Despite my out-of-character NASCAR metaphor, I'd be lying if I said there hasn't been a single pothole. There has, and in areas of my road (if you're sick of the allegory, sorry) I couldn't have predicted. Namely, in certain teacher-student relationships.
Professors in college are supposed to be (and usually are) friendly, personal, erudite and easygoing, even if they can't seem to schedule office hours when you're available. They're omniscient like mothers and easy to talk to like significant others. But what happens when you can't talk with your professor and you can't really understand her thoughts? What happens when both processes are in French?
This is a problem I'm sure only I'm whiny - and lousy at foreign languages - enough to mull over in French 1. Whenever the opportunity to build a relationship in the French classroom presents itself, I feel unworthy and outstandingly awkward. Whether it's after class, in emails or out club-hopping in Davis, I feel like language professors would rather I speak in their native (or taught) tongue. Instead of disappointing the direct dictator of my GPA, I don't say anything at all. I'd rather my silence be judged than my lackluster understanding of a few French nouns and verbs.
The most awkward moments come after class. Often this is when there's the most opportunity to build the sound foundation of comforting, academic friendship. But, caught in ambivalence between English and French, I speak neither. A mute language of head bobs and self-conscious smiles has become my primary method of communication, utterly useless for relationship building - pretty useless for communication, too.
As is natural for most with a sensitive theory of mind, I decided I wanted to ask others if their experiences had been at all similar to mine. Had they been as awkward? As silly? As arbitrary and over-thoughtful? From what I gleaned the answer is largely no, and that's a good thing. For others, even the "umm, like potentially a little bit..." response I received wasn't particularly reassuring. "I mean, we're only in French 1," mused another. She's right. I'm doomed.
Channeling a mixture of my inner Mr. Phil and inner Aristotle, there are three likely solutions to this dilemma. One: I learn French (let's see what the next one is...). Two: I become less sensitive and simply speak in English (sounds easy enough, I guess). Three: I stop thinking about it because, honestly, it's probably not that awkward anyway (...). Not thinking about mundane irrelevances never occurred to me.
It's true that desensitizing myself to the presumed judgment of my professor might lead to the more fluid construction of a relationship, but it's also true that I could just as easily learn to accept what I'm comfortable with naturally. Though both solutions (I've officially abandoned learning French at this point) result in a sort of contentedness, only one results in the formation of a professor-student relationship, and that's what counts.
The term's almost finished and my time's running out, but that means there's still time. Even if in this instance the academic partnership hasn't come easily, I know it can be just as friendly, personal and powerful with some confidence and some English. All I need is Jimmie to take the wheel again.
