Personal Piece Rewrite

Host Mom’s Grade School Classroom

I sat uncomfortably on the sole wooden chair in the kitchen—my back straight, my legs pasted together, my hands in my lap. Nodding continuously, I stared at the white wall in between my host mother and the digital clock that told me how long she had been talking to me. I mumbled “oui” every once in awhile to make sure that she thought I was paying attention. I was trapped in an elementary school classroom.
From September first to January 18th, I studied abroad in Strasbourg, France. The eleven of us in the group were placed with separate host families, and within the first few hours in the city, students were driven away to their new home. I was the last one standing. Instead of a welcoming pick-up, I boarded a taxi that navigated me to my apartment where my host mother stood in front of the building—a 50-year old, single mother with graying hair and cigarette-stained teeth.
“Je m’appelle Marina.”
“Simone,” she said with no hello, nice to meet you, or welcome.
She grabbed one of my overweight suitcases and started to drag it to the elevator. She muttered in French. Seeing her discontent with my overabundance of luggage, I tried to say something to lighten the mood.
“Désolée. J’ai beaucoup de choses. C’est très...” I paused.
“I’m sorry. I have a lot of things. It is very…what is the word for heavy,” I thought to myself, “An easy word.”
I asked her what the word for “heavy” was. Her snappy response shaped the rest of my home-stay experience: I don’t speak a lick of English. I can’t help you.
I knew that my time abroad would be centered on the French language and culture. I tried my hardest to speak to my host mother, but I was always laughed at or yelled at for my mistakes—I dreaded communication with her. My goal became to converse with her as if I were her friend, not a child in her nursery school program that she ran from home.
Venturing through Strasbourg, I picked up on more of the language—chit-chatting with market vendors, buying new phone credit, discussing colors at a clothing store—I knew it wasn’t my skill that was the problem, it was my host mother. After thriving through hours of flourishing flower shops, scent-filled patisseries, and trendy Fashion stores, I would return to my host mother’s classroom, surrounded by crying babies and lectures. She even made me fill out a schedule board; apples and pencils drawn around the border. She made me repeat aloud.
“Be back by 7 o’clock every night for dinner. If you are not going to be home, call me,” she spat as she pointed at the schedule.
“Okay, I understand. 7 o’clock,” I said.
“Non, non. Répèter!” she screamed.
I repeated word-for-word what she had just explained to me. She waited for me to make a mistake; then when I did, she snickered and belittled me, saying she knew I didn’t understand.
I tolerated her attacks. I would lock myself into my room, keeping back tears just in case she entered with another one-sided battle. For months, I let her treat me like one of her nursery children—allowing her to give me curfews, and adolescent rules—all things forbidden by the program.
One night, I sat in my room, minding my own business, when she stormed in with a trashcan in her hand.
“You use too much toilet paper and tissues!” she screamed at me.
“Okay, I understand. I will not use so much anymore.”
She continued screaming. She stuck her hand deep into the trashcan and pulled out used pieces of tissue and waved it in my face.
“Trop, trop!” I saw her white, curly-q covered dog whimpering in the corner. The dog and I related to each other.
I started to fall into my usual method—staring back at that white wall, watching the clock tick, waiting for class time to be over.
“Pourquoi ne tu comprends pas!?” she yelled, “Why don’t you understand!?”
I screamed back. I raised my voice to her level. I retaliated for all of the times she had lectured me—“You treat me like a child. When I say I understand, I understand. I do as I please. You have no right to treat me this way.”
She walked out of the room to put the trashcan away. I slammed the door behind her.
“Don’t close the door when I’m talking to you,” she stormed in.
“I will respect you when you respect me…I am waiting,” I sneered back, closing the door again.
After this screaming match, my host mother gave me more space and started to take my word; I think mostly because she was stunned that I defended myself. We did not like each other, but we did not dislike each other either. I finally got her respect. I felt that I could communicate.
The battle finally ended. My host mother thought she won—she made me walk my two 50-pound suitcases (luggage that started this whole mess) to the bus station by myself at five in the morning before my flight back to America. Guess what, Simone…I’m not a child and I made it by myself, with 15 minutes to spare.