The world opened up, and it was with great joy that I responded, "I know the thing what you speak exact now.Talk me more, plus, please, plus."

You exhaust me with your foolishness and reward my efforts with nothing but pain, do you understand me?"

Over time, it became impossible to believe that any of us would ever improve. Fall arrived, and it rained everyday. It was mid-October when the teacher singled me out, saying, "Every day spent with you is like having acesarean section." And it struck me that, for the rst time since arriving in France, I could understand every wordthat someone was saying

My only comfort was the knowledge that I was not alone. Huddled in the smoky hallways and making the mostof our pathetic French, my fellow students and I engaged in the sort of conversation commonly overheard inrefugee camps

Refusing to stand convicted on the teacher's charges of laziness, I'd spend four hours a night on my homework,working even longer whenever we were assigned an essay. I suppose I could have gotten by with less, but I wasdetermined to create some sort of an identity for myself. We'd have one of those "complete the sentence"exercises, and I'd fool with the thing for hours, invariably settling on something like, "A quick run around thelake? I'd love to. Just give me a minute to strap on my wooden leg." The teacher, through word and action,conveyed the message that, if this was my idea of an identity, she wanted nothing to do with it.