Yet another poor choice

When deciding what language courses to take in college, I briefly flirted with the idea of rekindling my relationship with Spanish. I took three years in high school, so I thought that I ought to be able to jump right back in. I was thinking about how easy it would be, when I remembered a key fact: two years into high school Spanish, I was transferred into the remedial class after demonstrating reading and comprehension skills similar to those of a house plant. I walked away knowing just as much Spanish as one gets from reading a Taco Bell menu (Gordita!).

Thus, based on my past experience, I decided that Hebrew would be a mighty fine change of pace. A chance to start anew and embrace the language of my forefathers! I was enrolled in Hebrew school as a child, spending far too many years learning the alphabet from Mrs. Eidelman (a woman whose scent can only be described as the love child of death and fruit candy). "Hey self," I thought, "you are a Jew. You will be great at Hebrew. Manischewitz! Bagel! Woody Allen!" Only now do I see the flaws in my reasoning.

1st semester: I learned about colors and foods, animals and movies. I ate delicious candy. What a fun time for me!

2nd semester: A bit harder, but still tolerable. It was toward the end of this class that I realized that while everyone seemed to be learning more, my progress had come to an abrupt halt months ago. I could say my name and a few words relating to the post office, but that's about it. My professor pointed out that my stock answer, "I like books," no longer applied to our conversation (and furthermore, could I please stop sighing so loudly?). On the rare occasion I tried to speak, I sounded remarkably like a cross between Fran Drescher and Keanu Reeves. If it wasn't for my stupid requirement, I would have quit right there and then.

3rd semester: Shalom fun, Shalom pain and suffering. New professor, new class, same learning deficit. I should have known it was going to be a total shitshow when I noticed that my book had decidedly fewer pictures than the first one. All hope was officially lost when the professor asked me what my name was, and my response was "good." My classmates no longer attempted to hide their disdain for my presence and mocked me to my face using a funny tongue so I couldn't understand (later learned they were, in fact, speaking Hebrew).

4th semester: Although I have just begun the final installment of my Great Language Adventure, I know that this will be the worst four months yet. I had finally learned to muffle the sounds of my sobbing in class, only to go on winter break and forget how to sob quietly in shame. The SuperJews in the class dominate the conversation, relating all stories in the workbook back to stories in the Big Book. I have relegated myself to a back corner, and intend to stay there, mute and stupid, until May.

Lesson learned: Having a bat mitzvah seven years ago does not guarantee success in a language class.