dans la poubelle

I started a new school in grade seven. I was pretty nervous about it. New classmates, new teachers, new expectations, new social situation. Things were going okay for the most part in the first few weeks and my nerves started to settle. I could feel my confidence building bit by bit.

Except for one class: French. Oh, my lord! I was so far behind in French. I struggled with everything - my vocabulary, my verb conjugation, my pronunciation … basically French was a disaster for me. But I kept plugging away. I would spend an inordinate amount of time on my homework with little progress. I had been taught some French in my previous school but it was clearly not at the level I was being expected to keep up to now.

My French teacher was not helpful either. She was a very strict Parisian, only spoke French in the classroom and had no tolerance for “stupide”. In fact, she often made a huffing noise when someone asked her a question. It came out as a snort but with her nose tilted up and eyes semi-rolled. One day, after about two weeks in her class, two weeks of struggling to understand, struggling to get my homework done and terrified to speak up I tentatively raised my hand to ask her a question. “Oui”, she said. I spoke a sort of ‘Franglais’ and haltingly asked to clarify the exercises we had been asked to do for homework. She asked to see my workbook.

As I walked to the front of the class, I could feel a sense of dread building. Standing out and making myself noticed had never been something I was comfortable with. Here I stood at the front of a class that terrified me waiting to hear what the “French dictator” had to say. She slowly looked at the pages in my book. There were some snorts. Then she paused. Looked at me and said: “Ca c’est horrible!! Dans la poubelle!”. And promptly threw my workbook in the garbage beside her desk.

I was horrified. It was all I could do not to burst into tears at the front of the class. As I walked back to my desk, I thought there was no way I could continue in the class. But in that moment, I realized that I had never asked for help. I had struggled silently. I didn’t tell anyone how hard it was. And, while Madame was intimidating if I had asked for help, she would have given some. Instead, I had let my struggle go on and instead of figuring it out things got worse. In the end she did have me come in for extra help after school and I did sort of get caught up in French but it was a terrible start to the school year.

I have found myself struggling over the years. I have never been good at asking for help. I have never been good at telling people I trust that I am having a hard time. And I have never been good at articulating out loud how I am feeling. I haven’t thought about this story for a long time but it is a lesson to remember to ask for help. And that it is okay to need help, be vulnerable and share your struggles.

Before it all goes “dans la poubelle”.

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