Third grade offered the opportunity to take a cassette-based language course. (The school made the quantum leap from reel tapes – Oh, yes, this was the 70s.) My parents insisted on Spanish because it would be more useful in southern Arizona. I wanted to take something more exotic like Latin or French. At eight years old, I was torn between rebelling against my parents’ wishes – hoping they’d capitulate – or remaining an overachiever.
The first year of rote memorization and recitation was painful, but my report cards notes evolved from “Jim is doing acceptable, but [has a negative attitude problem]” to ending with “Jim is doing well in the [name of curriculum], but hates the cassettes.” Recommendation: continue with the program.
Summer came, and I was glad to be out of that part of school. While camping, my folks ran into the Gonzalez’s, a family we met in a previous year’s camping. Hector and I shared the same birthday, so we played most of the day. My dad mentioned to his dad that I’d been taking Spanish. Perhaps to encourage me further, it was suggested I try speaking to Hector’s dad. Perhaps it was performance anxiety, but the only thing I could recall was the phrase drilled into me in the last lesson we had before break: “El burro sabe mas que tu.”
After some silence, and my chagrin at realizing I had unintentionally insulted Hector’s dad, his dad complimented me on my accent.
I have no idea why anyone would have thought that would be a good thing to included in a curriculum.
