McElveen 1

Devan McElveen
Malcolm Campbell
English 1101
September 29, 2014
French
It was the summer before my 9th grade year. I was sitting in front of my computer
in the dining room with my mom standing next to me. It was time to pick out classes for
my first year of high school. My mom was holding a piece of paper that listed the
requirements I needed to graduate. I remember the list being quite simple and what stuck
out to me the most was that I needed to pass two consecutive language classes. I knew a
bunch of my friends were going to choose to take Spanish because thats what we were
taught in middle school. But I wanted to learn something different. So I chose to learn the
language French.
The first and second French classes were fairly easy for me. It mostly consisted of
a lot of memorization and conjugation of verbs. A few of my fellow classmates found the
classes to be difficult and were struggling to pass the daily quizzes, so I offered a hand. I
helped tutor the people who were willing to be tutored. In the process, I found that
tutoring my classmates helped me study as well and I continued to excel in the classes.
By my sophomore year, I had taken and passed my two required language classes
(French I and French II), but I wanted to learn more.
I signed up to take French III my junior year of high school and then French IV
my senior year. By that time, I had become very familiar with my French teacher, Mme.
Dukes. I really encourage you to major in French, she would always say to me. I found

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that French III was just about as easy as the first two basic classes. It consisted of more
memorization and a bit more grammar. However, French IV was just a little bit
different...
I walked into my class the first day of senior year, ready to expand my French
knowledge. The classroom looked the same as always: posters of French monuments
hung up all around the room, a huge French flag hung across the back wall and multiple
beautiful handmade Mardi Gras masks plastered everywhere you looked. I felt like I had
spent my entire high school career in that room; it was home to me. Bonjour! Welcome
to French four, Mme. Dukes said to the class. Because this is a higher level class, we
will be focusing more than usual on our oral skills. Uh oh.
Speaking French was my weakness. The reason I did so well in the first three
levels was because it focused mainly on writing out the language, not speaking it out
loud. I was nervous. The only other time I was nervous walking into that classroom was
the very first day of French I. I sat down at my usual desk, directly in the middle of the
classroom, and listened to Mme. Dukes explain the rest of the curriculum that we would
be going over for the rest of the school year. She also explained that we would have a
major assignment at the end of the year that involved writing our own poem in French
and speaking it out loud to the rest of the class. The assignment would be heavily graded
on the way in which we spoke the language. My nerves were increasing by the second. I
began to think to myself that this could possibly be the first French class that I wouldnt
get an A in, which only made me more nervous.
Throughout the course of the school year, I found that this French class had
become my hardest class of the year. I always spent twice as much time studying as I did

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in my other classes. I would sit at my desk in my bedroom for hours upon hours, staring
out the window in front of me, thinking to myself, Why did I ever take this class? I
continued to push myself through the torture and finally it became time for that very
threatening end-of-the-year major assignment. The stress was piling on. Writing a poem
would be easy. Translating it in French wouldnt be hard. But reading it out to the class in
a perfect French accent? No way.
I remember sitting back at the desk in my bedroom a few nights before it was time
for me to present my poem to the class. In front of me, I had my perfectly translated
poem neatly written on a piece of lined paper. The easy part of the assignment was
finished; all I had to do was practice reading it out loud. So I recited it to myself over and
over again until I became comfortable with the words I had written, and once I was
comfortable enough, I was ready to recite it to my mom. As I walked downstairs to find
them, I could smell what seemed to be spicy chili and I knew my mom was in the kitchen
cooking dinner. Can I read you my short story for French? I asked her. Of course,
honey! She replied excitedly. And so I began to read.
That was beautiful! You did a wonderful job, my mom said to me once I
finished my poem, which made me feel really good inside. But then I began to realize
that my mom doesnt even know French, so how would she know if I actually did a
wonderful job or not? She wouldnt know if I had pronounced any of the words right or if
I had just the right accent. My nerves were back.
I walked into the classroom and went straight to my desk the day of my
presentation, more anxious and nervous than I had ever been before. I had this feeling
that I was going to completely bomb the entire presentation and I knew that if I failed this

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assignment, I would fail the class. I really dont do well under pressure! As a few of my
classmates stood up one by one to recite their poems, I tried to take mental notes on how
each of them spoke the language. Devan! Youre up next, Mme. Dukes said, snapping
me out of my nervous thoughts. As I rose from my desk, I felt every single pair of eyes in
the room on me, watching me in silence as I made my way to the front of the classroom.
It was so quiet that I could hear my own heartbeat racing in my chest. Oh, the pressure! I
turned to face the class and Mme. Dukes and began to read. It was over before I knew it
and as I walked back to my desk, I noticed Mme. Dukes taking notes on a piece of paper.
Crap. Was it really that bad?
The next two days felt like eternity as I waited for my grade. I was constantly
checking online to see if she had posted any of the grades. Finally, I saw my grade; it was
a 91. I thought it was a mistake. Did I really get a 91? I couldnt believe my eyes. My
stomach leaped with joy and I immediately ran downstairs to tell my mom the wonderful
news. She was so proud of me; I was proud of myself. As I walked into class the next
day, Mme. Dukes pulled me to the side and began to tell me how much she has loved
seeing me progress in all four of the classes I had taken with her as my teacher. I
remember this conversation more than almost any other conversation I had in high
school. It was then that I realized that I had a true calling for French and from then on I
was set on making it my minor in college.