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.

When called upon, I delivered an effortless list of things I detest: blood sausage, intestinal pâté, brain pudding.I'd learned these words the hard way. Having given it some thought, I then declared my love for IBM typewriters,the French word for "bruise," and my electric oor waxer. It was a short list, but still I managed to mispronounceIBM and afford the wrong gender to both the oor waxer and the typewriter. Her reaction led me to believe thatthese mistakes were capital crimes in the country of France.

While the optimist struggled to defend herself, I scrambled to think of an answer to what had obviously becomea trick question. How often are you asked what you love in this world? More important, how often are you askedand then publicly ridiculed for your answer? I recalled my mother, ushed with wine, pounding the table lateone night, saying, "Love? I love a good steak cooked rare. I love my cat, and I love . . ." My sisters and I leanedforward, waiting to hear our names. "Tums," our mother said. "I love Tums.

Oh, really," the teacher said. "How very interesting. I thought that everyone loved the mosquito, but here, infront of all the world, you claim to detest him. How is it that we've been blessed with someone as unique andoriginal as you? Tell us, please."

've moved to Paris in order to learn the language. My school is the Alliance Française, and on the rst day ofclass, I arrived early, watching as the returning students greeted one another in the school lobby. Vacations wererecounted, and questions were raised concerning mutual friends with names like Kang and Vlatnya. Regardlessof their nationalities, everyone spoke what sounded to me like excellent French. Some accents were better thanothers, but the students exhibited an ease and condence I found intimidating. As an added discomfort, theywere all young, attractive, and well dressed, causing me to feel not unlike Pa Kettle trapped backstage after afashion show