  Would You Like Freedom Fries With That? I majored in French without the slightest intention of becoming a French teacher, translator, or interpreter. So what on earth was I thinking? That's what a lot of people asked me at the time, especially folks who were pursuing far more practical degrees in business or computers, who were doing job interviews before their senior year, and who, in fact, had just one senior year before they graduated. And that was the same question my friends and I would ask ourselves as the beer ran out and the smoke cleared - English/Anthropology/French/Philosophy/(not to mention French Philosophy), what were we thinking? Sure, there was graduate school, but in our moments of clarity, we could picture the charm of the "eternal student" lifestyle wearing thin some years down the road. We knew even then that it's one thing to live in a basement, subsist on ramen noodles, and call yourself an existentialist when you're like 22, and a far less attractive thing altogether when you're in your 30s. But in spite of a gnawing anxiety that we should perhaps be more practical, changing majors after three or four years is actually a highly impractical undertaking.
So, like most of my friends on graduation day, I went home with the date that brung me to the party: a B.A. in French. And the thing is now, 15 years later, I’m sure that French was the best of all possible majors for me - and not just because I got to read that ever optimistic Candide. One thing it did for me was to show me an aspect of my personality that I’d lost all confidence in - the ability to speak to a room full of people.
In my other classes, even the smallest seminars, I was a silent participant, too afraid of messing up my words and sounding stupid to take the risk of speaking up, let alone making an argument. But in French class, the first time I opened my mouth, I realized I didn’t have to be perfect because I was speaking a foreign language . How liberating! Nobody in French 101 sounded all that smart or articulate, asking each other the time of day or if they’ve seen Michel or Francoise. And in fact, adults never learn a foreign language perfectly; it’s just not possible except for maybe 0.03 percent of the population, and those are all, I think, living in Belgium. So, released from the burden of perfection, I felt quite free to speak up in class. Now I speak to a class every day; I tell them it’s okay not to be perfect, and I relax in the knowledge that they’re also not picking apart my words to judge them.
If I make them understand me, then I’ve spoken very well. The study of French not only opened my mouth, it opened my mind as well, awakening a profound interest in other cultures that I hadn’t really been able to pursue in my hometown (where the only non-white members of my graduating class of 400 were a Korean and a Vietnamese - the valedictorian and salutatorian, respectively, I believe). The study of French gave me an opportunity to live in another country for a little while (see yesterday’s post) and for the first time understand that I am really an American. It’s amazing how little meaning such a concept can have until you’ve tested it. I mean, every time the cars crowded two per lane on the freeway, I would cringe against the passenger door and think, "I’m an American. " And every time the teenagers I was hanging out with extended their impassioned political argument into its third hour, I would yawn and say to myself, "I’m really an American. " And when I was both shocked and fascinated to see naked breasts on tv commercials for things like shoes and furniture polish, I had to realize, "It’s because I’m an American that I have this disconcerting feeling.
" So, through those and similar experiences, I really began to understand the word American as a description of me - but not as a limitation, I would say to myself later, snail butter dribbling down my chin. Even though it wasn't in a direct line, my French major led me to my current career as an English teacher. And although I'm never going to be earning the impressive salary of a well-placed systems engineer, for instance, I pay my bills. And more importantly, I'm doing something I like that I think I'm pretty good at. All because I majored in something I liked and was good at. So, twenty years or so from now, when my son announces that he's majoring in art history or comparative religion, I promise to bite my tongue before asking, "What kind of job do you think you're going to get with a degree in THAT ?
" 
