What better motivation than mortification?

Way back in the fall of 2002, I decided at the last moment that I would apply for the Marshall Scholarship so that I could study literature in England for a year or two. Like so many goals I had that year, this one was hazy at best, and my application essay was fueled by the usual heady blend of caffeine and sheer panic. Nonetheless, I got called for an on-campus interview with a panel of five professors.

My preparation for the interview consisted of taking a nap, wearing eyeshadow, and making sure I didn't tuck my skirt into my underwear. In some ways, I'm glad I didn't spend too much time getting ready for what turned out to be THE WORST INTERVIEW OF MY LIFE.

Sometimes, situations are so overwhelming or horrifying that your instincts kick in, leading you to fight or flee. Sadly, my instincts are defunct, and I opted for giving the most inane, nonsensical, and borderline offensive answers to each of the friendly, yet penetrating questions asked by the panel. It's all a blur now, but as I think about it, I still feel queasy with shame.

The only part I remember clearly is being asked if I thought learning a foreign language was an important part of a liberal arts education. And I said, "No," which was perhaps the worst answer I've ever given. Regret instantly set in as I watched every professor scribble madly on his or her notepad (probably something along the lines of: "This girl is a waste of financial aid."). Needless to say, I was not a Marshall Scholar that year.

The silver lining of this story is that guilt and shame are tremendously motivating, as is that old desire to be at the top of my class. Which means that I have started to take my weekly Spanish class way too seriously, and am worried beyond reason about the fact that I cannot understand the grammar of indirect objects. Sadly, this is pretty much all I can think about, when I'm not thinking about food, sex, work, or that elusive five-year plan. I'm starting to feel a little conspicuous among my coworker classmates, all of whom are attorneys and/or engaged, and therefore too busy to think too much about their Spanish skills. So I find myself raising my hand too stridently, leaping a little too fast to answer the question, as though by getting it right, I could erase the mortification of THE WORST INTERVIEW EVER five years after the fact.

Or maybe I am just an incurable brown-noser. Hard to tell.


Listening to: "Poor Aim: Love Songs," The Blow.

Reading: The Labyrinth of Solitude, Octavio Paz; The Book of Disquiet (albeit very slowly), Fernando Pessoa (as Bernardo Soares); and Windflower, Nick Bantock.

Recently cooking: bean and cheese quesadillas on corn tortillas.

Incompetente

Today, I woke up feeling great, ready to face the day. I made my train on time, guzzled a giant iced coffee from Intelligentsia, and got to work. Sometimes I amaze myself with my productivity and my pseudo-lawyerly skillz.

My Spanish class starts in half an hour, so I suppose I should be writing this en espanol para practicar antes de la clase. Yes, only thirty minutes stands between me and awesome fluency! I wish. It's great to be in this class with my coworkers, though, because we present our cases to each other in Spanish, to the occasional befuddlement of our instructor, Felix (not his real nombre!). Take for instance, this exchange regarding a domestic violence case:

Coworker:"Okay, so yo tengo un caso en que el esposo de mi cliente...um...?como se dice 'hit her with a wrench?'"
Felix: "No se. ?Que es un 'wrench'?"
Class: Spends 15 minutes explaining the concept of "wrench" until someone has the genius idea of drawing a picture.

Similarly, legal phrases and concepts that are common in the U.S. are not necessarily common in Felix's homeland of Mexico. Sometimes I pity poor Felix, who must be alternately fascinated and bored by our legal tales. Although, thanks to me, he now has a rudimentary understanding of the U.S. pension system, such as it is. Public service, hurrah!

I feel about 50% incompetent in Spanish class. Sometimes, I'm rattling away con fluidez, and then things are suddenly blanco en la cabeza. Como se dice, "durr" en espanol? My clients don't seem to mind my occasional difficulties with their language, and I've even laughed about the language barrier with a few of them who don't speak English at all. Others, however, end up speaking more English than they initially let on. I've had people call and ask if I speak Spanish, only to launch into elaborate stories en ingles. It works so far, amigo.