Cheesy is a Word I Taught Don Julio

I’m surrounded by a lot of smart people in my life. When most of us read articles or engage others in discussion, we switch into an analytic mindset; we question the assumptions and biases of the author, we sift through persuasive phrases and compelling prose, and using all manner of methods, root out whether the statement or thesis of person is not only supported, but fundamentally valid. We might do this in highfalutin academic vocabulary, or we might just tell someone they’re full of shit. Mostly we pick one or the other depending on how drunk we are. Regardless, we all expect that we’ll reject certain opinions as incomplete or even totally unfounded.

I’m baffled by my inability to do this in my social life. I can attack a novel or a treatise or a politician like a pro, but how is it that I’ve never trusted myself to do the same when navigating social bullshit? I know…I can hear that James Lipton voice telling me something corny like ‘Life isn’t a syllogism.’ It’s not that I want social situations to be logical. In some ways they already do have their own logic and their own generalized rules, or at least that’s what the magazines tell us. It’s confusing and complicated and while I think most of us follow some semblance of social protocol, we only do so until we feel safe enough with someone to totally forget about it and get our weird on.

The logic or illogic of it all overwhelms all of us; we all feel awkward, we all feel lame, and we all feel devastatingly charming at least once in our lives. In particular, my social interactions perplex me because I seem to lack any kind of protective filter whatsoever. I take seriously the remarks that other people make about me, even ones from people I don’t know or don’t particularly care about. I can tell myself that most of these people couldn't know what they were talking about, but some part of my brain nettles me if I try to ignore them. I’m certain these semi-strangers observe something that I don’t, that there’s some kind of objective view validating even the most offhand of comments.

The same is true of what people say about themselves – particularly regarding achievements. (Obviously, totally insecure people who drop their credentials at every opportunity, or who pompously recite lists of why they’re the most awesome human being alive are mostly excluded.) While I detect subtle airs of superiority or arrogance, while I see when people are trying to manipulate or control a situation, while I’ll say to myself that they certainly can’t be as qualified as they believe themselves to be, I still generally come to the conclusion that they’re more capable than I am. They might not be as accomplished as they say – that’s obvious – but they’re certainly more accomplished than me. I become overwhelmed by some perceived gap between me and others.

K talked about how infuriating it was for her to make the same mistakes over and over again; well here, I’m reliving the same fatal one. And something’s gotta be done.

There is no gap. There’s never been a gap, save for the one I’ve created and flagellated myself over for most of my life. The catalyst isn’t important, but I’ve finally become aware that of a serious disconnect between what I do and what I think about what I do. It’s not that I don’t accomplish anything; it’s that I refuse to acknowledge my accomplishments. Instead of commending myself for winning a prize or getting through a tough spot, I tell myself I don’t deserve it - that it was luck and not merit, that others could have done it better. That what I did wasn’t in fact important. As a result of this way of thinking, I’ve spent most of this year rating myself against absurd standards, and comparing myself to people – mostly previous assistants- I’ve never met.

I’ve been getting angry at myself because it’s hard for me at times to maintain control over my classes, or because sometimes my lessons totally bomb. I berate myself for not having conducted my classes efficiently, even though I’ve never taught before, even though most of the kids I work with are classified as ZEP (meaning they’re at risk: low parental support and high incidences of behavioral misconduct), even though I’m trying to do it in a foreign language. Yesterday, as I watched a student teacher unsuccessfully fight keep her class from screaming and running in the hallways, as I watched her fail to get her kids to enter the room without pushing and shoving and whooping and hollering, as I watched her struggle to make her voice heard over their chatter, I realized that what I’m doing is pretty damn hard. And I felt damn proud of myself when I walked to the front of that same class, and within a minute got them to clear their desks, quiet down, and face the blackboard at attention. Small victories.

It kills me, though, because usually I think about the few classes that make fun of me and find me annoying, rather than the vast majority, who gleefully sing my name when I arrive or run up and try to overwhelm me with hugs. I chastise myself for doing so little, forgetting that I spend hours on my lesson plans or brainstorming with my neighbor, or have succeeded at setting up pen pal exchanges with American schools. I ignore this, when many assistants don’t bother to come to class with materials, or even show up at all. (That’s why, in fact, they haven’t had an assistant in my area the last three years)

I still waffle a little when English speakers ask me if I speak French well. I think of all the grammatical mistakes I make daily, of how often I lose my flow when I’m stressed out in front of a class, and of how often I have to describe around what I’m talking about, or am unable to make a apt joke because I lack the vocabulary. I think of all that, and I have to say, ‘No, not really.’ Then I remember…Oh hey, there’s that part where you’re teaching in French. And oh yeah, you’re also going through all the steps of a serious relationship in French. You’re going to concerts and speaking socially with people and yes, pulling off jokes in French. Most people, in that case, would probably say they’re pretty good at French. I mean, hell, a lot of people say they’re pretty good at French when they can order at a restaurant and ask for directions from a stranger. Like I said before, maybe I'm not a native speaker, but I can communicate meaninfully, if not elegantly.

All of this was difficult for me to arrive at, and I know it will be even more difficult to effect the changes I need implement in my thinking and in my life. I don’t think, either, that I would have figured this out so soon had I not come here. I fought against coming back; it was a few good friends who convinced me that I ought to try again, that it would be worth the anxiety of confronting everything I felt I failed at as an au-pair. Now, I feel bit by bit like I’m remembering this person I’m supposed to be, this person that I had some idea of and buried somewhere out of a misplaced fear. For this, and for that person who has come into my life, I’m so incredibly grateful I came.