When standing out was a nightmare.
A memory keeps coming back to me: The first time I was truly terrorized of standing out was when I was fifteen years old and joined a class of university students in Geneva, Switzerland.
I can see now that I was only about three or four years younger, but at fifteen—deep in the existential torture of who-am-I angst—their College Cool wasn’t just icy.
It was unreachable.
For a dragon stood in my way.
This is no fairytale
I am only in Geneva for four months. That fall my dad is leading an abroad program for the college where he’s an economics professor. Twenty-five students. While he oversees their internships and teaches a class, my cheerful mom adds a little American touch to group meetings by baking dozens of chocolate-chip cookies.
Meanwhile, my younger sister and brother and I—we tag along. When a snafu with the Genevan educational system means we cannot attend regular school, my parents industriously acquire learning plans and textbooks from back home for us to study on our own. Since both are educators (groan), they decide we could still use a typical school routine and enroll us in a French language institute in the mornings. We will DIY our assignments from the U.S. in the afternoons.
Only trouble is, I’ve taken some French in school already, so the institute places me in an intermediate class, while my siblings join a beginner one.
I have to go it alone.
The first day I hesitate just outside the doorway and peer into my new classroom. I’d been told the intermediate class was full of young people intent on sufficiently mastering French in order to enroll in the International University in Geneva. I just hadn’t put 2+2 together.
This is a mini–United Nations.
Over time I would learn our class had two German women, a Swede, an Iranian girl, three guys from Greece, a young dad from Turkey and more. Twenty of us altogether. But on this morning, the sea of eyes staring at me feels like hundreds. Tentatively, I step in.
Instantly, a set of blue piercing eyes is in front of me. Narrowed. Unfriendly. I am pinned by the stare.
In horror, I realize this is my teacher.
“Speaking in any language other than French is strictly forbidden,” the woman rebukes in crisp, enunciated English, and then like a stream of fire, she lets loose a violent torrent of French.
Americans are stupid and spoiled and hopeless and you don’t belong here.
OK, I don’t know if she is actually saying that. But I feel like she is. And when she finally steps aside, I am sweaty and paralyzed by being yelled at in front of all these Cool College Kids. Any French words I knew are long gone. My brain is frozen. I am acutely embarrassed.
And so, it goes. Day after agonizing day blends into a week and then another. Mentally, I name my teacher Madame Dragon for her daily fiery torrent of incomprehensible language. The intermediate classes meet mornings and afternoons. Every day I return to our apartment and sob desperate tears the entire two-hour lunch break, only to despondently return for more punishment.
Alone. My sibs don’t have the afternoon class. I’m pretty sure they’re playing Crazy Eights after I leave.
It isn’t that I don’t know the material. Every night I complete the homework, study the vocabulary, fill out little 3x5 cards to conjugate verbs. But when I’m in the class, slumped between the Iranian and Swedish girls, I am timid and silent and trying to disappear.
Yet, each day I am singled out. When Madame Dragon turns on me, Mademoiselle Joan, I panic. My ears ring. I can’t hear her question. My cheeks flush hot. My throat goes dry. Painfully, the seconds seem to stretch into interminable minutes, until inevitably, Dragon turns away with disgust and fires a question out to someone else whose response is always flawless, easy.
I want to die.
For I am not a fraud, but I can’t seem to prove it. I am doing the work, but there’s no proof. I am sure this entire class thinks I am a failure.
There are glimmers though, for on occasions when the teacher momentarily leaves, the classroom instantly relaxes. I catch little asides. A quick comment and laugh. All in French and while I don’t participate, I find that I’ve begun to understand and so smile. Sometimes I even think of a small remark but by the time I’ve formulated the sentence the conversation has moved on.
I’m not a part of the group, but I am on the periphery.
Then, one day, Madame Dragon seems to be especially annoyed. She barks at one student after another as though attempting to trip each one up. But the Cool Kids are ready and respond quickly. Frustrated, she glances around, and her eyes lock on mine. My heartbeat triples.
“Fisotntheosjwwhaph???”
I’m frozen.
“Hgieytouancd rheougheo hjejcgoyck??”
I have no idea. . . and then like a cool breeze I hear a whisper, “Vous appartenez et vous comptez.” It’s the Iranian girl next to me. She’s holding up her notebook. Casually covering her mouth, she is breathing out the answer unseen.
“Vous appartenez et vous comptez*,” I repeat dumbly. I have no idea what I’m saying.
For one beat, two, Dragon stares at me, then abruptly turns away.
“Merci beaucoup,” I breathe back gratefully.
The terror ebbs.
Happy ending
You can imagine the end of my story, right? That overture of friendship broke my mental impasse, and it took a while, but I gained confidence and stopped freezing up whenever Dragon looked at me. Eventually, I did learn French with enough fluency to joke around. At the end of four months, we all went out to one of the Cool Kid’s apartments (where I tasted my first tequila) to toast their admissions into the university and my return to the States.
And yes, my recollection of Madame Dragon has softened over the years.
So why has this memory returned to me now?
Standing out is a double-edged sword. On the one hand, I want to be valued as an individual with a unique creative vision. But, on the other, I’m scared of ridicule. In our cancel-culture climate, scorn seems more vicious than ever. Frankly, there’s a part of that fifteen-year-old in me that still wants to slump in her seat and stay out of sight.
But that’s not what writers sign up for, do they?
I suppose one reason the memory of that French class is resurfacing is that the publication date for my book is marching closer. On October 15 I pass the six-month mark until pub day on April 15, 2025.
It feels like both forever and frighteningly around the corner.
Another reason for the memory recall: A few weeks ago, I changed the dedication of my book. The new inscription reads: For the dissidents and rebels and dreamers who challenge the status quo.
So many things going on today can feel frightening and intimidating. There’s something about knowing that others have stood by their convictions in the past that gives me courage today. The heroine of my biographical novel, Jo van Gogh, does that for me. This stronger dedication feels fitting.
May you dream big and slay the dragons on your path,
*Vous appartenez et vous comptez means “You belong, and you matter.”
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