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.

he teacher proceeded to belittle everyone from German Eva, who hated laziness, to Japanese Yukari, who lovedpaintbrushes and soap. Italian, Thai, Dutch, Korean, Chinese--we all left class foolishly believing that the worstwas over. We didn't know it then, but the coming months would teach us what it is like to spend time in thepresence of a wild animal. We soon learned to dodge chalk and to cover our heads and stomachs whenever sheapproached us with a question. She hadn't yet punched anyone, but it seemed wise to prepare ourselves againstthe inevitable.

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.

I remind myself that I am now a full-grown man. No one will ever again card me for a drink or demand that Iweave a oor mat out of newspapers. At my age, a reasonable person should have completed his sentence in theprison of the nervous and the insecure--isn't that the great promise of adulthood? I can't help but think that,somewhere along the way, I made a wrong turn. My fears have not vanished. Rather, they have seasoned andmultiplied with age. I am now twice as frightened as I was when, at the age of twenty, I allowed a failed nursingstudent to inject me with a horse tranquilizer, and eight times more anxious than I was the day my kindergartenteacher pried my ngers off my mother's ankle and led me screaming toward my desk. "You'll get used to it," thewoman had said.

At the age of forty-one, I am returning to school and having to think of myself as what my French textbook calls"a true debutant." After paying my tuition, I was issued a student ID, which allows me a discounted entry fee atmovie theaters, puppet shows, and Festyland, a far-ung amusement park that advertises with billboardspicturing a cartoon stegosaurus sitting in a canoe and eating what appears to be a ham sandwich

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.

The second Anna learned from the rst and claimed to love sunshine and detest lies. It sounded like a translationof one of those Playmate of the Month data sheets, the answers always written in the same loopy handwriting:"Turn-ons: Mom's famous ve-alarm chili! Turnoffs: Insincerity and guys who come on too strong!!!

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

Do Quick ResearchDo Quick ResearchAsyouread,youmightrunintoideas,words,orphrasesyoudon’tunderstand,orthetextmightrefertopeople,places,oreventsyou’reunfamiliarwith

Conclusions

Thebody:

Themainideaorthesis

titles always give you a clue to the authors’topic.

The main idea comes at the beginning, the bodyparagraphs support the main idea, and the conclusion wraps up the whole thing

WriterGoodwritingbeginswithgoodreading