As I finished washing my hands, the bathroom door swung open, revealing a group of ten-year-old boys, speaking a language I had no way of understanding, asking me questions I could not answer. The only sentence I knew was “Je ne parle pas Français'' (I do not speak French), but I found my mind blank and chose instead to flee from the unpleasant confrontation. Halfway to the door, one of the boys wrapped his hand around my wrist, clearly trying to meet the new kid at school. However, the puddles beneath my feet paired with my resolve to escape the suffocating space would not allow for such an exchange, with my head crashing into the grimy tile floor moments later.
I returned to my feet and even in my dazed state could understand by the boys’ expressions that they were apologizing profusely. However, their unintelligible stream of words did little to comfort me, and as the purple bulge on my forehead grew, so did my distaste for all things French. What I truly resented about my situation was not the soreness of my head, but rather my inability to communicate in this foreign tongue. I felt like a toddler, stumbling over the simplest phrases. At the age of ten, however, this was a state of helplessness that I could not accept.
The following morning, my mother dragged me through the streets of Paris until we were once again met by a pair of menacing steel doors that read “L'école Jenner.” As I stepped through the opening, all daylight vanished, and I began to climb the stairs to my classroom, debating at every step whether I should turn back. Despite this, I soon found myself facing the classroom door. As I reached for the doorknob, I felt my body being torn in two, with my courage and apprehension pulling in opposite directions. Ultimately, my determination prevailed, and I swung the door open, immediately walking into a wall of French words: “Bonjour Max, comment ça va?” (Good morning Max, how are you?). However, instead of struggling to understand my teacher, I responded “Ça va bien” (I’m doing well) without a second thought. As I sat at my desk, my nervousness faded, and I realized the gravity of what I had just accomplished: my first successful exchange of words in French.
Pushing through mistakes in spoken French has directly carried over to how I approach other challenges. During my audition for the State Honor Band on tuba, I cracked a high note, but there was no time for stopping. I focused solely on the following beat, internally acknowledging my mistake but not regretting it for an instant. Despite the frustration of missing a note during a performance, pausing after every mistake only draws more attention to it and takes the focus away from what is played well. One of the basic principles of auditioning that I have learned is to never stop playing, regardless of the circumstances. Although my bandmates struggled with the idea of leaving mistakes uncorrected, this process came easy to me through my experience of learning French. If I had paused after every mistake I made while learning spoken French, I likely would have never finished a sentence and my ability to speak would not have improved to the same degree. Therefore, my experience learning a new language has been the greatest driving force in my life because of the valuable lessons this process taught me.