Meeting the American

June 24, 2013 § Leave a comment

Thursday and Friday the Polish teacher was, of course, not actually in school, and I therefore had to decide if I wanted to go to German class for a bunch of extra periods or go home.

SPOILER ALERT: I went home.

I know. I know. I’m irresponsible.Please see literally any other entry on this entire site for a list of reasons why no human being should ever go to this school and why it should probably be burned to the ground.

It’s not that bad, I’ve learned a lot there. But still, the place is an abomination on this earth.

So yeah, I went home early both days, but I did go to my regularly scheduled German classes, although every single one of them was a substituted period, with the exception of one lonely period in which the teacher brought in cake and let us eat and listen to music and do absolutely no work of any shape or form.

As much as this might sound like heaven on earth, it’s still really stressful, because this means that all we do is be social. And being social at this point for me involves speaking German and if we’re all being totally truthful here, that is not exactly my cup of tea.

So it was actually still extremely painful. I did, however, pretty depressingly notice that teachers are basically me when they’re in the classroom but not actually teaching. I realize that they spend a very small fraction of their time doing this, but when it happens, for the most part they just sit and stare out the window or at the class. This is basically my life.

Especially the window part, since sometimes when I stare at my class a little part of my soul tries to jump off a cliff.

But anyhow, that was about what I got out of those two days, so let’s move on to today!

Today was just the most bizarre day.

Well, no. It really wasn’t. Because I feel like that every day. But today was really odd and one monumental thing happened that I am really excited to talk about.


First of all, there is a Polish boy in my (you guessed it) Polish class who hasn’t been coming to class for the past couple weeks. The teacher finally told us what was going on.

His dad died, apparently very suddenly.

Now, I’m going to try to explain this in a way that isn’t cold or unfeeling.

Germans (in general, of course. There are exceptions. I’ve never met one, but they’re out there. Somewhere) are very . . . no-nonsense and exact. They don’t tend to mince their words and they tell things the way they are.

I feel so stupid.

They’re abrupt and often come across (at least to Americans such as myself) as tactless.

OK, that was so much more accurate.

Now, it can be a good thing, because they won’t hesitate to give you their honest opinion, but often it’s simply irritating.

So basically, what I’m awkwardly trying to say here, is that the way the teacher delivered the news was not exactly warm or kind, although she is a very nice lady. I was glad the Polish boy wasn’t there to hear it.

We can move on.

At break, I was roaming through the school during break with my friend from England, when we came upon the American guy that I’ve been casually stalking since about September. We’ve seen him around before, and actually purposely raised our voices to try to get him to hear us speaking English.

Unfortunately, it’s never worked and we’ve long since given up. We always sort of just chalked it up to him not really caring.

However, today, he heard us and looked at us with an extremely curious expression on his face, “Hey, are you guys American!”

When I replied with, “Well, I am. She’s English,” he said, “I’m American too!”

It was so incredibly difficult to resist the urge to say, “I know, I’ve been stalking you since early fall.”

But I did!

Probably one of my largest exhibits of self-control to date.

He then asked the question that delivered the death blow: “What grade are you in?”

Listen now. I am not obsessed with being older than I actually am. Going to college is one of my biggest fears and grocery shopping on my own will probably reduce me to tears. Let’s not even talk about my own laundry or taxes. I’m going to completely fail at adulthood and I’m horrified at the thought of leaving home. I am going to be the failure child in the family who ends up living with my parents until they die and then mooches off my siblings for the rest of my life. I can just feel it.

So don’t even start.

But it’s times like these where I wish I could just add three or four years and save the embarrassment.

So yep, once he heard that single digit number (my grade, not my age. Let’s make that clear. I’m not 9) he literally turned around and walked away with a group of friends. He didn’t even say goodbye.

I have absolutely no hope of exchanging even one word with him again.

Now I’m just scared that the American family that apparently lives on our street turns out to be him.

That would actually be really atrocious.


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